Ipshita

They say the silence is deafening. And all my life, I'd only found this statement contradictory.

How can silence be deafening? Something so still, so void of sound that not even a whisper dares to slip between, how can it roar louder than words ever could? How can an absence, this stretch of nothingness where no voice rises, no ear listens, be so overwhelming that it feels as though it drowns out everything else? How can silence, in all its quiet, strike so forcefully that it leaves you unable to hear anything at all?

But it wasn't until I sat amidst the people I'd learned to call family, and heard my husband explain how his company could be in trouble because of a mere breach, a breach which I'd caused, that I finally understood why the stillness of silence is more dangerous than any resonating words.

The house had been too quiet these days. Void of any banters, just full of spaces which were filled with grief, confusion, misunderstandings and denial.

Grief of a mother, confusion of a son, misunderstandings between two sisters, and denial of a wife.

The mansion, which was full of laughter and teasing the day I'd entered it, had now become a haunted house of unspoken fears and constant pressure.

The day my father-in-law collapsed, I'd given in to my fate. I'd accepted that within a few hours, I myself would go to my husband and confess the sins I'd committed while all he'd given me was unconditional love. I was ready to fall on my knees for the first time in my life and lose all my respect and dignity if it would've meant that Kanishk give me.

Yet all it took was a simple threat of "You'll be sent away if this mission doesn't meet its end" from my father to have me spiralling back into my seat.

Even tonight, the clatter of plates in the kitchen feels sharper than it should, every sound striking too loudly against the silence. A week has passed since the incident, and though Kanishk's father is home, safe and resting, the house itself still feels unsettled, like something within it has shifted out of place and refuses to return.

My husband has gotten quieter, more careful, like he refuses to miss even the smallest clue he might find to help him solve the mystery of finding out the culprit behind his demise.

At times, I beg for him to find something, anything, that might lead him to me, that might strip away this mask I'm forced to wear and finally put an end to my misery. Just so I can let go of these obstacles and love him. Love him wholly, without restraint. Because I'm so very tired of denying myself that simple, aching pleasure.

I hear someone clear their throat, and when I glance over my shoulder, I find Kanishk standing at the kitchen entrance. He leans against the doorframe, arms casually folded, his gaze fixed on me. But it isn't the way he used to look at me, no warmth, no quiet affection. Instead, his eyes are hollow, edged with the suspicion that now lingers in everything he does.

I pass him a soft smile, before looking back at the pot, stirring the contents it holds.

"You've got to let go of this obscene habit of breaking eye contact, Mrs. Rajvanshi," He says, quietly approaching me from behind.

Kanishk places a hand around my waist, firm yet careful, before turning me swiftly away from the open flame and sizzling dish. A startled gasp escapes my lips, my breath catching as I stumble into the steady wall of his chest. My eyes lift to meet his, expecting annoyance, maybe even reproach, but instead I find something else flickering there, concern, protectiveness, and a shadow of the tenderness I thought had long vanished. For a fleeting moment, the world narrows to the heat of his touch at my waist and the quiet thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm.

"I.." My breath hitches. I take a long pause before continuing, "I wasn't breaking eye contact on purpose. Dinner is just running late." I explain.

Kanishk's eyes glimmer, just faintly, and his lips tug into a smile I rarely get to see these days.

"I wouldn't mind if dinner runs a little late... personally, ma'am," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. He leans in, so close that his breath brushes against the shell of my ear. "In fact..." his words drop into a whisper, rich and deliberate, "...I'd much prefer you for dinner, if you don't mind."

My cheeks flush a vivid red at his words, my breath hitching at the sudden shift in his behaviour. Instinctively, my hands press lightly against his chest, the warmth of him seeping through my fingertips. I can't bring myself to meet his heated gaze, so I turn my eyes away, though the weight of it still burns against my skin. My thoughts spiral, unsteady, racing with the dangerous question of what might happen if I were to give in.

The faint scent of something burning snaps me out of my spiralling thoughts. It takes a moment for me to place it, and then my eyes widen, the dish on the stove. I slip from Kanishk's hold in an instant, rushing to salvage what's left of tonight's dinner. But one glance at the charred edges tells me it's already too late.

Kanishk is by my side in two heavy steps, and the tch of his tongue tells me he's scolding himself for distracting me while cooking food.

"It's fine," I murmur, turning off the stove as I gather the burnt scraps to throw away. "I'll cook something else, it'll just take a little longer..." I glance at him, offering an apologetic smile.

But Kanishk steps closer, his expression shifting, shadows of guilt softening into something gentler.

"No," he says quietly, his voice lower now, almost hesitant. "This is my fault. I distracted you. Let me make it up to you."

Before I can argue, he takes the pan from my hands, his fingers brushing mine just long enough to send a shiver down my spine. Setting it aside, he turns back to me, one hand coming to rest lightly against my arm as though he's afraid I'll protest too hard.

"You've done enough for tonight," he murmurs, though this time the words aren't dismissive; they're tender, carrying an almost protective weight. "Go on. Sit down, rest. Let me take care of this."

When I hesitate, his lips quirk into the faintest smile, and he gently nudges me toward the doorway with the steady pressure of his palm at my back.

"Tonight," he adds, his tone softening into something that almost sounds like a promise, "I'm the one cooking."

"Are you sure? What about the others? Can you cook for everyone?" I ask, not in a way to insult him, but with genuine concern.

He nods, "Kyra and Kaynaaz aren't home, and Mom already took something for her and Dad to eat. It's only us left for the night," He softly nudges me to the door again, "Ab aap please jaake rest kariye mohtrama, aur ye kaam aapne pati pe chor dijiye." He urges, before winking at me.

I watch him turn back to the kitchen, and the faint smile he'd given me just moments ago slips away. In its place settles the same sombre expression he's worn so often lately, heavy, unreadable.

I'm not the only one with a mask. The only difference is, mine is more rigid than his.

I take one last glance at him before leaving the kitchen, the heaviness of his expression lingering in my mind. At the dining table, my laptop waits, the screen still open as though accusing me of neglecting it. I settle down in front of it and quickly unlock it, only for my breath to catch at the sight of a new message from my father:

I need details by tonight. Get it done, Ipshita.

A shiver coils down my spine as the words blur in my vision, dread curling tight in my chest. Was there any way to escape this? To defy him, just once? To allow myself the luxury of rest without betraying the very home I was meant to protect?

My fingers hover above the keys, trembling, unable to move. The cursor blinks back at me, merciless in its rhythm, reminding me that time is slipping away. My father's voice echoes in my head, sharp and commanding, as if he were standing right behind me.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, but the air feels heavy, tainted with the weight of the choice before me. Every word I type, every file I open, feels like another crack in the foundation of this house, this fragile place that, for the first time in years, has begun to feel like home.

Kanishk's smile flashes in my memory, rare and fleeting, and guilt twists painfully in my chest. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve me, sitting here with secrets I can't confess.

My hands finally move, hesitantly brushing across the keyboard. But even as I begin, a question claws at me: how long before he realises? How long before everything I'm hiding comes crashing down around us both?

Before I can force myself to do anything, the sound of the front door opening echoes through the house. My heart lurches. Instinct takes over, and I snap the laptop shut, the click far too loud in the silence. For a moment, I just sit there, pulse racing, staring at the closed screen as though it might betray me anyway.

Footsteps follow, steady and familiar, drawing closer. I push the laptop a little farther away on the table, trying to look casual, though my palms are damp and my throat feels unbearably tight.

A moment later, Kyra appears, her arms weighed down by a stack of books, headphones looped around her ears, and a tote bag slipping off one shoulder. She nudges the door shut with her hip, oblivious to the way my pulse is hammering in my throat.

Relief floods me, but only briefly. I straighten in my chair, forcing a smile as she crosses the room, her presence so easy and unguarded that it almost makes me ache. Kyra doesn't notice the dread still clawing at the edges of my chest as she sets the books in front of me on the dinner table, her chest heaving as she takes heavy breaths.

"Hi bhabhi," she says between breaths.

I look at her, concerned, hoping out of my chair as I round the table to approach her and pull out a chair for her to sit on.

"Are you okay, Kyra? Did u come running home?" I question.

She simply shakes her head. "No, No. It's just," she points to her books, "These monstrous things, I had to carry from the car all the way in, that too in one go. It's raining like hell outside. That's why." She explains, leaning back into her chair.

My mouth parts into a small 'O' as I nod, trying to keep up with her words. It takes me a second to process, and then I pause.

Car...?

"But you don't have a car..." I say hesitantly, looking at her with slight suspicion.

Kyra freezes under my stare, as though she's been caught in something she shouldn't have said. For a beat too long, she says nothing, then a small, nervous laugh escapes her lips.

"Oh, that—" she waves her free hand dismissively, her smile a shade too quick, too practised. "I just... came with a friend. Someone I ran into at the library."

Her tone is light, casual, but I can see the flicker in her eyes, the way she's trying too hard to smooth over the slip.

Before I can question her further, the sound of heavy footsteps approaches. I glance toward the kitchen just as my husband emerges, carrying two plates of food.

"Friend who?" Kanishk asks, his tone casual but edged with curiosity. Before Kyra can answer, he follows it up with another, "Did you eat yet?"

Kyra stiffens, clutching her pile of books on the table. "Just a friend, bhaiya," she blurts, her voice too quick, too light. She nods rapidly, slipping out of her and taking a step backwards toward the stairs. "Yes, I, uh, I ate too much at lunch, so I'm not hungry. You two enjoy your dinner, okay? Bye, goodnight!"

The words tumble out in a rush, and before either of us can respond, she's already darting up the stairs, her footsteps fading as the silence she leaves behind settles heavily in the room.

Kanishk watches her retreat with a puzzled look, his brows pulling together. "At least she's not coming home with puffy eyes," he mutters, half to himself, before letting out a quiet sigh. Turning back to me, he sets the plates down on the table with a careful clink, sliding one in front of me as though nothing had happened.

"Bon appétit," Kanishk says softly.

I glance down and find a steaming bowl of pasta penne coated in a creamy white sauce, dotted with flecks of fresh herbs. The scent of garlic and butter rises with the steam, warm and inviting, and the sauce glistens under the soft light, clinging to the pasta with just the right richness. A sprinkle of Parmesan melts into the heat, leaving a delicate layer that makes my mouth water.

I shift the chair back and lower myself into it, the wooden legs scraping faintly against the floor. Taking the fork he's set beside the plate, I twirl a few pieces of pasta, lifting them slowly before bringing them to my mouth. The flavours burst against my tongue, velvety cream, the sharp bite of cheese, and the comfort of something that feels almost... home-cooked, despite the awkward silence hanging between us.

We eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the clink of cutlery against ceramic and the faint hum of the ceiling fan above us. Every so often, I catch Kanishk's gaze flickering up, only for him to quickly lower it back to his plate.

The silence grows heavier with each passing second, pressing against my chest until I can't bear it anymore. Setting my fork down gently, I clear my throat.

"So..." I begin, my voice soft, almost hesitant. "How's work been going?"

xKanishk stills, his fork resting against the edge of his plate. His eyes lift to mine, narrowing ever so slightly, studying me as though searching for something I'm trying to hide.

"You should know that already," he says slowly, the accusation threading through his tone, "shouldn't you?"

The weight of his words slams into me. The fork in my hand suddenly feels unbearably heavy, my fingers trembling against the metal. Even the pasta, rich and creamy only moments ago, turns to ash on my tongue. His gaze doesn't waver, sharp and probing, and I feel stripped bare under it, as though he can see every secret I've been trying to keep buried.

I don't answer. My lips part as if to speak, then close again, the silence stretching between us. For a moment, I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, heavy and searching, and it makes my chest tighten.

Then, slowly, his expression shifts. The hard edge in his eyes softens, and a smile tugs at his lips—not mocking, not sharp, but genuine, almost relieved. It's as though my silence has reassured him, as though in that quiet he's found something he was hoping to see.

"Relax," he murmurs, his voice carrying a gentleness I haven't heard in days. He leans back slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he adds, "I was only asking," he says gently, his tone careful this time. "I like knowing you're aware of what's happening with me."

There's no accusation in his tone now, only a quiet sincerity, a trace of longing even. And for a moment, the heaviness in the room lightens, just enough for me to breathe again.

I force down another bite of pasta, the flavours blurring on my tongue. He doesn't look away, and for once, I don't feel the usual sharpness of his gaze.

"You don't talk about it much," I murmur, setting the fork down gently, "but... I can tell things haven't been easy. With the breach and everything with your dad."

Something flickers in his eyes, surprise, then a slow exhale, as though he's been holding his breath for weeks. He leans back in his chair, shoulders sagging under a weight I suddenly see clearly.

"It hasn't," he admits quietly. "The last few months... it feels like I've been running without stopping, and still not getting anywhere. I was still thinking I could outrun all this mess, but then dad happened. As much as I want to hate him, I'm still his son. I still fear that he might suddenly leave without any of us getting the chance to sort out our differences."

I nod, unsure if I should say more, but the silence between us no longer feels suffocating; it feels open, like space made for honesty.

"He'll be okay, I'm sure of it. You're a good person, Kanishk. A good son, a good brother." The words tumble out softer than I mean them to, but true all the same. Then, before I can bite it back, another slips free, unguarded. "And... you're a good husband."

I almost choke on the last word. My pulse spikes, cheeks warming.

Husband.

Why did I say that? Why now?

Kanishk's fork stills halfway to his mouth. His eyes lift to mine, startled, as if I've just spoken a language he wasn't expecting me to know. For a long second, he doesn't move, just studies me like he's trying to be sure I really said it.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, unsteady. "Ipshita..." He swallows, setting the fork down as though it's suddenly too heavy. "I-" His breath shakes, and he lets out a small, almost disbelieving laugh.

The vulnerability in his eyes undoes me; it's raw, unmasked. "Thank you," he says at last, softer, steadier now. "For saying that. And for being here. If it wasn't for you, I don't think I'd hold myself together right now."

His words should comfort me, but instead, they carve into me like a blade pressed too deeply. I can feel the weight of them sinking beneath my skin, finding the place where I've been hiding the truth. My throat tightens, a knot I can't swallow past, and all I can do is force a smile, shallow and brittle, before giving the smallest nod.

He looks at me with such quiet faith, as though my presence alone steadies him, as though I am the anchor he can cling to. And yet, I know better.

He trusts me enough to lean on me, to let me see the cracks he hides from the rest of the world,
And I am the one cutting away the ground from under his feet.