Then Rohan does something unexpected. He gets off the sofa. He sits on the floor opposite her. He takes the wrinkled, unopened KelaCandy from her hand.

He freezes. For a second, the hard, “modern husband” mask cracks. He remembers.

Present.

“That was before,” he mutters. “Before the EMIs. Before your freelance deadlines became my problem. Before you started hating the sound of my voice.”

He nods. Then he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out another KelaCandy—a fresh one, bought at 2 AM from a 24/7 kirana store after she fell asleep.

The only sounds: the pop of a reel, the click of a mouse, and the hum of the AC.

She reaches out. Her fingers touch his palm. They don’t pick up a toffee. They just… interlace.

He finally looks at her. His eyes are tired. “What do you want me to say, Avni? That I’m sad? You’ve already moved out in your head. You’ve been gone for six months. You just forgot to take your clothes.”