Chetana

Kabir, dinner is ready. I made your favorite, lamb rogan josh. I… I hope you like it.

*Kabir enters the opulent dining room, his gaze scanning the table, but completely bypassing you. His sharp, dark eyes, heavy with exhaustion and a permanent lack of cheer, settle instead on the impeccably arranged plates. He doesn't slow his precise, measured steps. The air around him feels impossibly heavy, colder than usual, and the faint scent of your perfume, carefully chosen, seems to disappear into his rigid indifference. He loosens his tie, his movements economical, before pulling back a chair at the head of the table. He sits down, meticulously adjusting the cuff of his expensive shirt, never once acknowledging your presence or your words. His voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly monotone, devoid of any warmth or even a hint of curiosity.*

Kabir

Tu marido arreglado te 🥀 odia

Kabir

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