Friday evening.
"bye bhaiya! bye bhabhi!"
priya's voice faded down the stairwell, followed by the clatter of her sandals. she was off to her friend's house in south delhi—a "rich people party" with pizza and sleepovers.
the door clicked shut. locks turned.
silence.
just them.
the flat felt suddenly bigger. empty. and yet, smaller. intimate. the air shifted, settling around them like a warm blanket.
reshma looked at him from the hallway. "so."
"so."
"no chaperone. no sister. just us."
"and my deadline," he pointed at the laptop sitting on the table like a gargoyle.
"boring," she declared. she walked to the kitchen, her dupatta trailing behind her. "i'm celebrating. tumor paused. husband turned giga chad. we are having a party."
"we are?"
"buffet. at home. i'm cooking."
"you can't cook," he said, following her to the kitchen doorway.
"excuse me? i made tea. successful tea. twice."
"tea isn't a buffet. tea is liquid."
"challenge accepted." she tied her hair back. "we're making rotis. and dal. and... whatever else is in the fridge."
8:30 pm. Kitchen.
It was a war zone.
flour coated every surface. the black counter looked like a snowy landscape. there was flour on the floor, on the spice jars, on the tip of his nose.
the kitchen smelled of burnt dough and hysterical laughter.
"you're doing it wrong!" she yelled, laughing so hard she was doubled over. "roti has to be a circle! this is... this is a map of australia! look at it!"
"it's abstract art!" he defended, holding up the misshapen, jagged piece of dough. it was sticky, clinging to his fingers. "it represents the fragmentation of modern society."
"it represents disaster." she lunged to grab the rolling pin from him.
he blocked her. moved left.
she feinted. grabbed a handful of dry flour from the bag. threw it at him.
poof.
a white cloud exploded in his face. he inhaled—tasted chalky wheat. it coated his glasses, his eyelashes.
ghost mode: literal.
"oh you are DEAD."
kitchen war initialized.
flour flying. water splashing from the open tap. the sound of steel utensils clattering. laughter echoing in the tiny flat—a sound so loud and bright it drowned out the fear. drowned out the deadlines. drowned out the word cancer.
finally, they collapsed on the kitchen floor. breathless. panting. covered in white dust like two statues that had come to life.
"we ruined dinner," he wheezed, wiping his glasses.
"we made memories," she corrected. she reached out and poked his flour-covered cheek. her finger left a clean streak on his skin.
suddenly, the laughter died down. quiet settled.
she looked at him. messy hair. glasses crooked. chest heaving.
she felt overwhelmed. a wave of affection so strong it almost knocked the wind out of her.
she shifted. crawled behind him. she wrapped her arms around him from the back, hugging his chest tight. she pressed her face between his shoulder blades, burying her nose in his shirt. it smelled of flour and him.
"shubham."
"yeah."
"i am very happy today."
her voice was wobbly. thin.
crying? he felt the wetness seep through his shirt.
"hey." he tried to turn.
"don't turn." she held him tighter. crushing him. "just... listen. i never thought i'd have this. i thought i'd die on that bridge. i thought i'd accept bad fate. but this... flour fights and burnt rotis..."
a sob escaped her. a small, broken sound.
"i love you."
the world stopped spinning. the fridge hummed. a car honked outside.
first time. said out loud. clear. unambiguous.
"i love you too," he whispered. it was terrifyingly easy to say. truth usually is.
they stayed like that. on the cold kitchen floor. surrounded by the wreckage of their cooking. heartbeats syncing.
the buffet ended up being toast and jam. crunchy, sweet, simple. the best meal of their lives.
11:45 pm. Bedroom.
lights off. the only illumination was the moonlight filtering through the balcony grill, casting barred shadows on the bedsheet.
freelance work was waiting. the client was probably raging. but he couldn't leave the bed. not after that.
they lay side by side. touching. arms touching. legs touching.
reshma shifted. restless. dragging the sheet with her.
"shubham."
"hm?" he was drifting, half-asleep.
"i'm hungry again."
"we just ate toast. four slices."
"not toast. need flavor. something sharp. sour. spicy."
"pickle?"
"YES. pickle. mango one. the spicy red one ma sent. find it."
"now? it's midnight."
"go." she pushed him with her foot. "husband duty."
he groaned. dragged himself out of the warm bed. the floor was freezing. he fumbled in the dark kitchen, found the ceramic jar. the smell of oil and mustard seeds hit him when he opened it—pungent, sharp.
he came back, jar in hand.
sat on the bed. "here."
she sat up. she didn't eat it immediately. she dipped a finger into the jar, pulled out a piece of mango coated in red oil. she licked it.
she looked at him. her eyes were dark in the shadows, glowing with something mischievous. mystic.
"you know," she said, licking the oil off her finger. "cravings. weird moods. happiness. nausea."
"yeah?" he yawned. rubbing his eyes. "reminds me of when i had food poisoning."
"reminds me you're annoying."
she rolled her eyes. she leaned forward. sudden movement.
she grabbed his bare arm.
and bit him.
hard.
teeth sinking into skin.
"OW!" he yelped, pulling his arm away. "what the hell!"
he rubbed the spot. tiny indentations of her teeth were visible. "what is wrong with you!"
"pickle wasn't enough," she murmured. she fell back onto the pillows, pulling the duvet up to her chin. "wanted to eat you instead."
"cannibalism? that's the new symptom? dr. mehta didn't mention zombies."
she sighed. frustrated. fond.
"mosshead. absolute mosshead."
"what!"
"nothing." she patted her stomach. gently. hidden under the duvet. "just... something profound. something new."
"what new?"
"figure it out, engineer." she turned away from him.
he sat there in the dark. rubbing his arm. the bite stung. the pickle smell lingered in the air.
he looked at her back. the curve of her spine under the sheet.
he looked at the pickle jar.
he looked at where her hand was resting on her stomach.
brain processing. slow. linear.
cravings. mood swings. glowing. nausea. bite.
...no.
impossible.
chemo. radiation. illness. toxicity.
impossible.
right?
the thought refused to be deleted. it sat there in his mind like a cursor blinking on a blank screen.
new.
(Speaker: user error: logic module blocking intuition. reboot required. she's dropping nukes and he's analyzing fallout patterns. but wait. chemo... pregnancy... that's not... that's complicated. that's dangerous. THAT'S the cliffhanger folks. sleep tight.)