The rain tapped against the window like it was trying to get in. Arjun sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty side where Meera used to sleep. Two months since she left—nothing dramatic, just "I need space," and then silence. The house felt too big, too quiet.
Riya and Arnav were in the next room, pretending to play. He could hear their whispers—Riya saying, "Mama will come back, right?" and Arnav mumbling, "Maybe tomorrow."
Arjun rubbed his face. He hadn't shaved in days. The kids didn't ask why he looked tired anymore; they just stopped looking.
He stood up, walked to the kitchen. The fridge was half-empty—leftover dal, a bruised apple. He opened a packet of instant noodles, then closed it again. No point.
Outside, the rain slowed. A knock.
Meera.
She stood there, soaked, holding a small paper bag. No umbrella. "I forgot my keys," she said, voice small.
Arjun didn't move. "You didn't forget. You left them."
She looked down. "I... I missed them. And you."
He wanted to slam the door. Instead he stepped aside.
Inside, Riya ran out first—arms wide, "Mama!"—then Arnav, slower, like he wasn't sure if it was real. Meera knelt, hugged them both, tears mixing with rain.
Arjun watched from the doorway. Something cracked inside him—not anger, just... relief.
She looked up. "I was wrong. I thought space would fix me. It didn't."
He sighed. "You left us with burnt toast and empty chairs."
Meera laughed—soft, shaky. "I know. But I brought cinnamon rolls. From that bakery you like."
Riya grabbed the bag. "Papa, she brought the good ones!"
Arjun tried not to smile. Failed.
They sat at the table—wet clothes, soggy paper, kids laughing like nothing happened. Meera reached for his hand under the table. He let her.
Later, when the kids were asleep, Arjun stood by the window. Rain had stopped. Meera came up behind him, chin on his shoulder.
"You still