Her pov,
It had been three days since I returned from Aaryagarh, and yet the feeling had not left me. I had thought it would. The thought of being around him. That once I stepped back into the familiarity of my own palace, into the rhythm of my own world, whatever had unsettled me there would fade, or at least settle into something quieter, something easier to ignore.
But it had not.
If anything, it had remained—persistent in ways I had not expected, returning at the most inconvenient moments, refusing to be dismissed as something fleeting or imagined.
And with it came another thought. The letter. The last one I had written.
By now, it must have reached him.
The realization lingered longer than I intended, drawing my thoughts into places I had not meant to revisit so soon. Had he read it? Of course, he had. And when he did—what would he think of it?
Would he understand?
Or would he find it… unnecessary?
A faint warmth rose to my face despite myself, and I looked away, as though the thought alone might betray more than I wished to show.
Would he feel the same?
The question surfaced quietly, but once it did, it refused to leave.
I was still lost in that thought, lingering somewhere between memory and speculation, when the soft sound of approaching footsteps drifted into the room. I recognized them before I even looked up.
It was Rudra.
He came toward me with the earnestness only children possessed, his eyes bright with curiosity as he stood beside me and asked in his sweet, unguarded voice, "Show me your henna."
The corners of my lips curved involuntarily as I extended my hand toward him. He leaned closer at once, studying the intricate patterns as though they concealed some secret only he was clever enough to discover. His small fingers lifted instinctively, reaching toward my palm, but before they could touch the fresh paste, a familiar voice interrupted him.
"Stop. Don't touch it."
Bhabhi—Surekha Bhabhi—had spoken.
Rudra froze immediately and withdrew his hand. He looked at me first, then turned toward his mother with an expression that was equal parts disappointment and confusion.
"It hasn't dried properly yet," she explained gently.
I couldn't help smiling at his obvious curiosity.
"It's alright," I said softly, lifting my arm a little higher and pointing toward the very edge of the design near my elbow. "Touch here. This part is dry."
Rudra glanced at his mother as if seeking permission for an important mission. Surekha Bhabhi smiled and nodded ever so slightly.
That was all the approval he needed.
He reached forward with astonishing caution, touching the indicated spot with the tips of his fingers as though my henna were made of glass and might shatter beneath the slightest pressure. The seriousness on his face made me laugh quietly.
At the very moment, Gauri gently pulled my other hand toward herself, adjusting my wrist over her lap as she prepared the cone.
"What kind of design do you want on this hand?" she asked, already testing the flow of the paste against a scrap of tissue.
I looked at her, my mind unexpectedly blank. I had not thought about it at all, and before I could even consider an answer, a word slipped out of my mouth with alarming ease.
"A sun."
Gauri paused and looked up at me.
"A sun?" she repeated, a hint of curiosity in her voice.
I opened my mouth to explain and found that I couldn't. I did not know why I had said it. The thought had arrived uninvited, settling on my tongue before I had the chance to stop it. Perhaps it was because of Aditya. Or perhaps I was merely trying to assign meaning where there was none.
"Oh," Bhabhi said, drawing out the sound teasingly. "A sun. Interesting."
I lowered my gaze immediately, pretending to inspect the henna already drying on my arm as though it demanded my complete attention.
Gauri only smiled to herself and resumed her work. And when she was somewhere on my palm making patterns around the sun, she started the design with. Just then, Rudra straightened where he stood beside the sofa and announced with sudden determination, "I also want something on my hand."
All of us turned toward him.
"What?" his mother asked, unable to hide her amusement.
He nodded vigorously.
"Please."
Surekha Bhabhi laughed softly, affection warming her expression.
Gauri hesitated.
"Prince, it's... It's not..." she began, clearly searching for a polite way to refuse. It was still unusual, after all, to have a little boy ask for henna simply because he wanted it. Yet strangely, the request pleased me. There was something freeing about watching a child desire something beautiful without pausing to wonder whether it belonged to boys or girls. He had seen henna, thought it looked beautiful, and wanted some for himself. There were no rules in his mind about what boys were supposed to like and what they weren't—no invisible lines dividing things into categories.
Just simple curiosity.
"It's okay," I interrupted gently.
Gauri looked at me.
I glanced toward Surekha Bhabhi. Ultimately, it was her decision that mattered.
She met my eyes for a moment, then looked at Rudra, whose hopeful expression had not changed in the slightest. A smile spread across her face, and she gave a small nod.
Gauri sighed in surrender.
"At least let me finish your hand first."
"It's okay," I said. "Do his hand first."
There was no occasion to justify priorities. It was not a festival, nor a wedding ritual. Surekha Bhabhi had wanted henna that evening, and after much insistence, had persuaded me to let Gauri decorate my hands as well.
By the time Gauri began tracing tiny lines over Rudra's little palm, his excitement had already begun to fade beneath the weight of sleep. He tried valiantly to keep his eyes open, watching every movement of the cone with solemn fascination, but children eventually surrender to exhaustion without ceremony.
A little while later, I looked up to find him asleep on the sofa, his unfinished design drying awkwardly on his hand.
We all laughed softly at the sight.
Of course, it was quite late for him. The sun had disappeared behind the horizon some time ago, and the evening had settled fully into night.
As if disturbed by a dream, Rudra shifted in his sleep, turning restlessly against the cushions. Surekha Bhabhi instinctively moved to adjust him, only to stop halfway when she remembered the fresh henna coating both of her hands.
Before she could struggle further, Gauri leaned over and carefully lifted the sleeping child, helping settle him more comfortably against the armrest. Rudra blinked his heavy eyes open just enough to look at his mother.
"Maa..." he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, "let's go... and sleep."
Surekha Bhabhi's expression softened immediately.
"Yes, Rudra," she said gently. "We'll go in a little while."
I looked at him, fighting the urge to smile at the stubbornness with which children tried to stay awake long after their bodies had surrendered.
"It's okay, Bhabhi," I said. "You should go and let him sleep."
Then, turning toward Gauri, I added, "Help them."
Gauri nodded.
"I'll come back soon and finish your henna."
I shook my head lightly.
"It's alright. It's just my fingers and a little more on the palm. I'll get it done once the other hand dries. You stay with Bhabhi in case she needs help with Rudra."
She hesitated for a moment before nodding in agreement.
"Okay. I'll be back if needed."
Within moments, the room had grown quieter. Their departing footsteps faded into the corridor, leaving behind only the faint fragrance of henna and the lingering warmth of an evening spent in easy company.
I remained seated for a while, absentmindedly studying the designs winding across my arms. My gaze drifted to the sun Gauri had drawn at my insistence, its curved rays stretching delicately across my skin.
A small smile tugged at my lips.
The thought of carrying a sun on my hand felt oddly comforting, though I still couldn't explain why I had wanted it so desperately. Perhaps it was foolish to attach meanings to such things. Perhaps it was because of Aditya. Or perhaps my mind had found a symbol before I had managed to understand the feeling behind it.
I sat there for several more minutes, allowing the cool evening air to brush against the damp henna before finally looking down at my unfinished hand. The fingers remained bare, and a portion of my palm still awaited Gauri's careful work.
Since I could do nothing about it until the other hand dried completely, I decided resting for a little while wouldn't hurt.
Slowly, I pushed myself up and began walking toward the bed.
I had barely taken two steps when I felt a familiar looseness around my ankle. On the next step, there was a soft metallic chime, followed by the delicate sound of silver striking the floor.
I stopped and looked down.
My anklet lay near my feet, its tiny bells catching the warm light spilling from the lamp.
I glanced at it, then at my hands.
Even though my left hand still had unfinished henna only on the fingers and a part of the palm, there was no practical way for me to fasten the clasp properly without smudging the designs altogether.
After considering it for a moment, I merely shrugged to myself.
It could stay there for now.
I would fix it later.
With that thought, I stepped around the fallen anklet. I continued toward the bed, leaving the silver ornament resting quietly on the floor, forgotten for the moment beneath the lingering scent of drying henna.
I had barely taken two steps toward the bed when a soft metallic sound reached my ears. It was faint, almost swallowed by the quietness of the room, but distinct enough to make me stop. Turning around, I looked toward the spot where the anklet had fallen.
And my breath caught.
He was there.
Seated on one knee, his head slightly bowed as he picked up the anklet from the floor, the silver bells gathered carefully in his fingers. For a moment, he merely looked at it, almost absentmindedly, before lifting his gaze toward me. Then there it was—that infuriatingly effortless smile, the one that never seemed rehearsed and yet somehow always appeared flawless, as though smiling was simply the easiest thing in the world for him.
No.
That wasn't possible.
He wasn't here.
I knew he wasn't.
Perhaps I had been thinking about him too much that evening. Perhaps it was the sun etched onto my palm, a symbol I had chosen without understanding why, that had led my mind down roads I had no intention of walking. Whatever it was, I was certain this was merely another trick of an overworked imagination.
Yet before I could make sense of it, he had already risen to his feet, the anklet hanging loosely from his hand as he began walking toward me.
Instinctively, I stepped backward.
He continued forward.
I stepped back again.
"Stop," I said, trying to sound firmer than I felt.
He didn't.
His pace remained unhurried, almost patient, as though my protest had been nothing more than a passing breeze.
"Aditya, stop."
He merely looked at me, amusement flickering in his eyes. By now, I had nearly reached the dressing table.
"Sit," he said.
I frowned.
"What?"
Tilting his head slightly, he gestured toward the stool placed before the mirror.
"Sit."
I followed the direction of his gaze and immediately shook my head.
"No."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"I said sit."
"I said no."
The confidence in my voice was entirely fabricated, and judging by the way his smile widened ever so slightly, he knew it too.
He exhaled dramatically, as though I were testing the limits of his patience, and before I could move away again, his hands had settled lightly around my upper arms. He was careful, almost annoyingly so, making sure his fingers avoided the fresh henna winding over my skin, and in one swift motion, he guided me down onto the stool.
The suddenness of it startled me enough that my dupatta slipped from one shoulder, gathering untidily near my elbow.
I looked up at him with what I hoped was convincing irritation.
"What exactly are you doing here?"
He had already lowered himself to the floor in front of me, sitting cross-legged as though this was the most natural place in the world for him to be. The anklet was still resting in his hand. The teasing ease that had accompanied him moments ago softened as he looked up at me, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried a sincerity that made my annoyance falter despite myself.
"I wanted to meet you," he said.
"Why?"
He looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"I want to know."
I straightened a little, gathering whatever arrogance I could summon.
"What?"
His eyes lingered on my face for longer than necessary, as though he were deciding whether I genuinely didn't understand or was merely pretending.
"I want to know if you've decided."
I knew exactly what he meant.
Of course I did.
But admitting that would mean acknowledging that I had thought about it, that I had revisited every conversation, every glance, every moment that should not have occupied so much space in my mind.
So I chose ignorance.
"Decided what?"
For a moment, he merely looked at me, his eyes searching mine with an attentiveness that made me want to look away. Then, with the same unhurried ease that seemed to belong only to him, he lifted a finger and gestured vaguely between us.
"This."
I followed the movement of his hand.
"This what?" I asked.
He exhaled softly, the sound carrying equal parts amusement and resignation.
"This," he repeated patiently, gesturing once more between us. "Whatever it is that we have."
I remained silent.
He leaned back slightly on one knee and continued, his tone gentler now.
"You said you would write to me once you understood it completely."
At that, I adjusted my posture, crossing one leg over the other and sitting up straighter on the stool as though physical composure could somehow strengthen my argument. Meanwhile, he remained seated on the floor before me, entirely unbothered by the disparity.
"Exactly," I said, nodding once as though I had just presented an irrefutable point. "I will write once I understand."
A laugh escaped him.
It wasn't mocking. If anything, it sounded suspiciously fond.
"So," he said, lifting an eyebrow, "you haven't decided yet."
I shrugged dramatically, lifting my hands as much as my drying henna allowed.
"I think so."
Unfortunately, the theatrical gesture had consequences.
His gaze drifted downward. I followed it. Straight to my hand. Straight to the unfinished henna. Straight to the sun.
And then he smiled.
Not fully.
Just enough for the corner of his mouth to curve upward in quiet triumph.
I mentally cursed myself for being incapable of behaving like a sensible person for more than five consecutive minutes and instinctively tried to pull my arm back.
He was faster.
His hand closed lightly around my forearm, his fingers settling in almost the exact same place they had earlier when he had made me sit down, careful once again not to touch the damp henna.
"It's a sun," he observed, his voice carrying an unmistakable hint of amusement.
I avoided looking at him.
"Yes."
"A sun."
"Yes."
I tried shrugging his hold off, though without much conviction.
"So?"
His eyes remained fixed on the henna.
"So why is it here?" he asked, his thumb hovering just above my wrist, careful not to brush against the fresh paste. "On your hand?"
I tugged at my arm again.
"Because I wanted it in my hand."
That finally made him look up.
"I've never seen someone have a sun in their henna."
Something in me stirred immediately.
"Oh," I said, lifting an eyebrow. "So you keep looking at women's hands? You remember their henna patterns, too?"
"I don't mean—"
He stopped abruptly.
I watched the exact moment his expression shifted, his lips caught somewhere between suppressing a laugh and indulging a smirk, as though he had suddenly stumbled upon something infinitely entertaining.
"Oh," he said, drawing out the sound. "There we go again."
I frowned.
"What?"
He leaned back slightly, still kneeling before me as though he intended to stay there forever.
"First, you don't want me to share my robe."
I opened my mouth to protest.
"And now," he continued, amusement warming his voice, "you're jealous about this too."
I stared at him.
Not because I was offended.
Mostly because I was horrified.
At myself.
Why would I even say that?
Why had that been my immediate conclusion?
I straightened my shoulders, determined to reclaim whatever dignity I had left.
"I am not jealous," I declared. "It's just a henna pattern. I could have anything in it. A sun. A moon. Flowers. Stars. Anything."
"Exactly."
He nodded thoughtfully.
"Then why don't you have a moon?"
I blinked.
"What?"
"Why a sun?" he asked softly, his gaze dropping back to my hand. "Why not a moon?"
I opened my mouth.
And nothing came out.
Because somewhere beneath all my carefully constructed arguments, beneath the indifference I kept insisting upon, beneath the endless explanations I was forever ready to provide, I already knew the answer.
Surekha bhabhi had asked Gauri to weave my brother's name into her henna.
And I—
I had chosen a sun.
Not because I particularly liked suns.
And before I could gather enough courage to offer even a poorly constructed excuse, he said aloud the very thought I had desperately hoped would remain buried inside my own head.
"Because the sun somehow represents Aadtiya."
I almost nodded.
The motion had barely begun before I caught myself and shook my head rather aggressively.
"No."
One of his eyebrows lifted.
"No?"
"No," I repeated firmly. "I chose a sun because it represents me."
His expression shifted into one of unmistakable curiosity.
"And how exactly does a sun represent you?"
"It's my name."
He adjusted his posture slightly, moving just enough to be closer, his elbow resting lazily against his bent knee as he looked up at me.
"Barkha."
I hummed in response.
"That's your name."
"So?"
"How," he asked patiently, "does the sun represent Barkha?"
I stared at him.
And suddenly I felt trapped. Caged by my own words.
How does a sun represent Barkha?
Think.
Think.
Think.
And then salvation arrived.
Science. And then suddenly, like divine intervention granted exclusively to stubborn people unwilling to admit defeat, an answer appeared.
"Because Barkha means rain," I said quickly, the words tumbling out before I had the chance to reconsider them, "and the sun plays a very important role in rain. It evaporates water from rivers, lakes and oceans; then the water rises, forms clouds and eventually those clouds become rain, which is me. Barkha. So technically, the sun is responsible for rain."
The entire explanation escaped me in one breath, spoken with such conviction that anyone listening would have assumed I had spent years researching meteorology rather than desperately trying to conceal my own heart.
He stared at me.
I could practically see him processing the absurdly detailed science lesson I had just delivered.
Encouraged by his silence, I continued.
"Without the sun, there would be no evaporation; without evaporation, there would be no condensation; without condensation, there would be no clouds, and without clouds there would be no rainfall, so if you think about it properly, the sun and rain are fundamentally interconnected."
For a moment, he remained silent.
Then he laughed.
Not the small, amused chuckle he usually reserved for my theatrics. Not the slight upward curve of his lips that often accompanied his teasing remarks.
A genuine laugh.
The kind of laugh that made his eyes soften and his entire face seem younger.
I narrowed my eyes.
He knew.
Of course, he knew.
He knew perfectly well that I had gathered every fragment of information I possessed about the water cycle and presented it as evidence simply because admitting the real reason felt infinitely more terrifying.
And yet, despite my embarrassment, there was a tiny, stubborn part of me that refused to surrender.
Because I wasn't entirely wrong.
The universe itself had linked sun and rain long before I had ever known Aditya.
Eventually, he managed to compose himself enough to speak.
"Oh, I agree completely."
I folded my arms as much as my incomplete henna allowed.
"You do?"
"Absolutely."
He nodded solemnly, although the amusement had not quite disappeared from his eyes.
"The sun and rain are deeply connected."
There was something in the way he said it, a slight emphasis that made me suspicious.
For a moment, I wondered whether he was truly speaking about weather patterns or whether he had shifted the conversation somewhere else entirely.
Whether he was talking about celestial bodies.
Or about Aditya and Barkha.
"Shut up," I muttered.
"I didn't say anything."
"You implied enough."
He pressed his lips together, making a valiant effort to suppress another laugh, but it was a losing battle. A small grin escaped despite his best attempts, though fortunately for me, his attention was soon diverted.
His eyes drifted downward.
Toward his other hand.
Toward the silver anklet that he had been absentmindedly holding throughout our entire conversation.
"Oh," he said softly. "This belongs to you."
I instinctively leaned forward.
"Give it back."
I reached for it with my partially decorated hand, but his fingers closed around it before I could take it.
"No."
Before I could protest further, he adjusted his position, moving slightly backward while remaining seated on the floor. Then, with the same calm confidence that seemed to accompany everything he did, he reached forward and carefully gathered the edge of my lehenga near my ankle, his movements measured and considerate, almost annoyingly gentle.
I immediately tried pulling my foot back.
"Aditya."
But his grip only tightened slightly, steady enough to stop me and gentle enough to remind me that he was fully aware of his own strength. The sudden tug lifted my foot a little higher than I had anticipated, and I instinctively leaned backward, losing my balance on the stool.
My first instinct was to grab his shoulders for support, my hands already moving toward him before the horrifying realization struck me.
Henna.
I stopped mid-motion, awkwardly suspended somewhere between falling backward and preserving the painstaking designs on my hands. For a brief second, I considered accepting my fate and toppling dramatically onto the floor, but survival apparently outweighed dignity. I finally settled my left hand on his shoulder, allowing only the fingertips untouched by henna to make contact, using them just enough to steady myself.
He, on the other hand, remained entirely unbothered by my little performance.
There was not the slightest trace of amusement, impatience, or surprise on his face, as though women nearly falling off stools while trying to save their henna was an inconvenience he dealt with every day.
I felt the movement of fabric before I fully understood what he was doing.
With infuriating calmness, he gathered the edge of my lehenga and slowly glided it upward, his movements deliberate and unhurried, carrying the kind of ease that suggested he genuinely believed nothing in this world required haste. The embroidered fabric brushed lightly against my skin as he adjusted it just enough to expose my ankle, and once the hem reached my knee, he carefully folded it over my thigh, arranging it there so it would not slip back down.
Only then did he look up.
His eyes met mine briefly, and I hated how difficult they always were to read. There was a softness in them, almost velvet-like, warm enough to invite trust, and yet beneath that softness lurked something sharper, something capable of seeing through every excuse I had ever constructed.
Then his attention returned to my ankle.
I felt the gentle pressure of his fingers circling it, steadying my foot as he brought the anklet closer, and before I could stop myself, the question escaped my mouth.
"Why do you keep appearing in my thoughts?"
The words hung between us for a moment.
I watched the faintest smile touch his lips, though his gaze remained fixed on the clasp in his hands.
"You summoned me."
I frowned.
"I did not."
"You did."
"I absolutely did not."
He secured one end of the anklet around my ankle, the cool metal brushing against my skin.
"You wrote letters."
I hesitated for a moment before replying. "Those are not summons."
"No," he said, his fingers pausing briefly as he examined the clasp with exaggerated concentration, "but they reach me."
I could not help smiling at that.
"Unfortunate."
A chuckle escaped him. He turned my ankle slightly, studying the tiny hook as though it were some intricate mechanism devised solely to challenge him. I watched him, chin resting lightly upon my knee, amused by the seriousness with which he approached the task. There was something strangely endearing about seeing a man who carried himself with such confidence being momentarily defeated by a delicate piece of jewellery.
Eventually, his expression shifted.
There.
He had managed it.
He exhaled dramatically, the kind of sigh one releases after accomplishing something absurdly difficult, and then lifted his head to look at me.
There was mischief in his eyes, certainly, but beneath it lingered a sincerity so unguarded that I found myself wondering how a person could possess both at once without either diminishing the other.
He lowered his head in an exaggerated bow toward my ankle.
"I did it."
"Congratulations," I replied, fighting back a smile.
He glanced down at the anklet once more.
"It is beautiful."
I nodded. "I chose it after looking through so many others. It was surprisingly difficult to find one like this. I wanted a particular design, and these tiny flowers are rare to find carved into anklets."
His interest appeared entirely genuine. He leaned forward to examine the flowers more closely, his dark gaze tracing the delicate silver petals. Then he bent a little further. And then further still.
At first, I thought nothing of it.
Until I realized he no longer needed to lean that close to admire the design.
Understanding arrived a heartbeat too late.
His lips had barely brushed against my foot when I closed my eyes, startled by the sensation more than the gesture itself. For a fleeting moment, I felt an absurd urge to reach for him, to rest my hands against his shoulders and pull him closer simply because he looked so impossibly at ease sitting there before me. But then I remembered the fresh henna darkening my palms, and the impulse dissolved into a quiet ache of restraint.
He remained where he was for another moment, as though unwilling to disturb the silence that had settled between us. One hand rested lightly near my ankle, absentmindedly turning the silver flowers of the anklet so that they caught the light.
"Why are you quiet?" he asked at last.
I lowered my gaze to him. "I'm thinking."
He merely hummed in response, patient enough to let me wander through my own thoughts.
"If a girl misses someone," I began cautiously, "would she dream about him?"
His mouth curved slightly.
"Possibly."
"And if she dreams about him often?"
"Likely."
I hesitated.
"And if she dreams about him every night?"
This time, he looked up at me properly, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Then," he said after a thoughtful pause, "she should probably marry him."
I stared at him.
"How can you say something like that so easily?"
"Because someone has to."
I shook my head, half embarrassed, half annoyed by his certainty.
He smiled wider, entirely unbothered by my expression, and adjusted the folds of my lehenga where they had gathered awkwardly around my feet.
Then, with a small tilt of his head and a silent invitation in his eyes, he gestured toward the floor beside him.
Strangely enough, I did not argue.
I simply slid down from the stool and settled onto the floor near him.
He remained seated cross-legged, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who had done nothing more than fasten an anklet and answer questions I had no business asking in the first place. And yet, sitting there beside him, I could not deny that some part of me had wanted exactly this—not answers, not certainty, but merely his presence lingering beside me for a little while longer.
He remained where he was, legs crossed, looking far too comfortable for someone who had just cornered me into confronting feelings I wasn't even sure existed.
Then he said it.
"So she finally stops pretending she hasn't decided yet."
I went quiet.
Silence settled between us.
"I'm not pretending," I said quietly. "I genuinely don't know what I feel."
A smile tugged at his lips, annoyingly patient, annoyingly knowing.
His hand moved to my waist, fingers curling around it before he pulled me a little closer. Not enough to trap me. Just enough to make me acutely aware of the distance that disappeared between us.
My hands immediately became a problem.
I held them awkwardly in the air, uncertain where they were supposed to go. On my lap? Against the floor? Push him away? Hold onto his shoulders?
And then my traitorous mind supplied another thought.
Maybe it was the henna.
Maybe the lingering scent of it was clouding my judgment.
Or maybe...
Maybe I just wasn't bothered by him being this close anymore. After all, the henna was nearly dry by now. He leaned in.
Dangerously close.
So close that I instinctively forgot how to breathe.
But instead of stopping in front of me, his face drifted past mine until his lips hovered near my ear.
"Liar," he murmured.
My eyes widened.
I immediately shook my head in protest, almost bumping into him in the process.
"I'm not lying."
"Hmm?"
His hold on my waist loosened.
Worse.
Much worse.
Because now I could feel his thumb moving lazily against my skin, tracing absent circles that made me suddenly aware of every inch of exposed waist beneath his hand.
Heat crawled up my neck. And to every part of my body. I could feel a throbbing sensation in my abdomen.
He rested his chin lightly on my shoulder. I closed my eyes because looking at him suddenly felt impossible, and partly because I needed a second to gather whatever dignity I still possessed.
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