I ask, 'Why didn't you just divorce him?'

She tilts her head, a tired kind of defiance in her eyes. 'Oh, I did.'

I blink. 'What?'

'I'm divorced,' she says simply, like it's a line from a story she's already told a hundred times. 'I couldn't stay married to someone who did that to me.'

'Then why do you—'

She cuts me off with a sigh. 'Because I had nowhere else to go. You were right.' Her voice softens, folding in on itself. 'My father practically shoved me into that marriage. The guy was... decent, for a while. Understanding, even. I finished school, which felt like a miracle at the time. But then the cracks started to show. He got frustrated, bitter. And one night, after drinking too much...' She trails off, her words dissolving into the quiet.

When she speaks next, the inanimate quality of her voice she had maintained until now begins to falter, and for a moment, she looks almost translucent, like she's about to vanish under the weight of her own words. Then she steadies herself. 'Besides,' she says quietly, 'I'm responsible. Not for what happened to me, but for what his mother had to endure because of me. If I hadn't put him behind bars, she wouldn't have lost her son. She's a single mother. He was the only breadwinner of the family.'

I stare at her incredulously. 'So, you are doing all that... for her?' The image flashes through my mind again—her stunning, intricate work hidden in that dim, cluttered thrift store. A masterpiece labeled with a name that didn't even belong to her. Petalcraft. I let out a scoff. 'Are you telling me that—that petalcraft thing,'—her eyes widen at the name—'you're not even doing it for yourself, but for a family that isn't even yours?'

'How did you know?'

I ignore her. 'Does it matter? Are you kidding me, Maithili? All this time. All this fucking time—' My breath shudders out of me. I rake my hands through my hair and force myself to meet her gaze. 'What happens when he comes back? He isn't gone forever.'

'Two years,' she says finally, and it seems like she's tasted something bitter.

'What? Just two?'

'Yes. That's the maximum sentence they could give him.' Her voice grows a notch, but her gaze drops to the floor. 'Because, apparently, in this country, if you're married and over fifteen, there's no such thing as marital rape. No such thing as abuse if it comes with vermillion streaking the hair part. You sign a piece of paper, take the seven vows around the fire, and suddenly, your body isn't yours anymore. You're his. To hurt. To take. To destroy. And the law? It just shrugs and says, "You agreed to this."' Her words drip with fury, bitter and cold.

She scoops a big chunk of prasad, handing it over without lifting her gaze. For a second, I wonder if she's finished talking, but then she continues, her voice quieter now, like she's ashamed of what she's going to say next, 'My attorney said there was one way. I could send him to jail—if I divorced him first. He refused to sign the papers, so I made sure he was drunk enough to do it...' She trails off, the words caught somewhere between her and the memory she's pulling them from.

Her hands are frozen, the ladle motionless, so I step in, taking it from her and scooping a portion for the next person in line. It feels wrong to interrupt her, but the pause stretches too long. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, more fragile, like it might shatter if either of us listens too hard.

'I didn't play fair, Romil,' she says, meeting my gaze at last. 'My father is responsible for the lives ruined in the wake of that marriage. You are responsible for what happened before. And I...' She pauses, her shoulders stiffening under the weight of her confession. 'I am responsible for what came after. For obliterating that family. I'm not guilt-free. I'm not just a victim—I'm the perpetrator, too.'

'So, you divorced him and...' The words barely make it out. They don't feel like enough. My thoughts churn, caught in a maelstrom of emotions, morals, and ethics that refuse to align into something coherent. Was she guilty? And if she was—so what? Does it even matter?

What were people, if not the sum of their choices? The ones they made, and the ones they couldn't bring themselves to make? What did guilt mean, if it could sit quietly in the corners of a heart, unnoticed yet unshakable? What did a moral compass point to when it was cracked, when every direction seemed wrong?

And what about mine? What did it say about me? If I could sit here, wanting to avenge every part of her that had been broken, even if some of those parts were broken by my own hands?

And I think that there's always a reason—circumstances alloyed with conscience and fear, forming the weight that tips our scales at the moment of choice. And at that moment, it's not a matter of right or wrong anymore. It's a matter of survival. Of doing what you can to stay afloat, to keep breathing, even if it means drowning someone else in the process. A matter of instinct overruling intention, of fear eclipsing hope.

Because when you stand at the crossroads, it's never about where the path leads—it's about which one you can take without losing the last fragile piece of yourself.

Her voice snaps me out of my reverie.

'They didn't apprehend him the first time.' The words hit like a slow-moving train. I bristle at the unspoken reality of a second.

'He didn't know about the divorce,' she continues, her voice steady in a way that feels like defiance or defeat—I can't tell which. 'I submitted every document they asked for, and since it was uncontested, the process was straightforward. On paper, at least.' She pauses, her gaze fixed somewhere far away. 'But until it was done, I cried. Every night he came to me, I cried. Not to hit me, not to leave a mark anyone else could see, but to remind me how untouchable he was. Because the law was his shield. He'd tape my mouth, tie my hands, make sure no one would believe a word of it.'

She's whispering, and at this point, everything breaks—her façade of keeping her voice as detached as possible, and mine, pretending I can listen without letting it shatter me, without each detail tearing me apart.

'I didn't tell him when it was finalized. When we were done. He didn't need to know.' Her voice falters just slightly, the edges of her composure fraying. 'And then... Then, he did it again. The next day, I went to my lawyer. He took me to a gynecologist. And then, finally it was deemed an assault. And everything just... happened.'

She shrugs, as if she hasn't just torn herself open and laid everything bare. 'I live with his mother now because my father wouldn't let me in,' she says, her voice dipping into something almost resigned. 'She needs the money. I need a roof. It works. Most of the time.'

At this moment, a man arrives, steps in, and takes over. He glances at us, probably wondering why two people are stationed where only one is needed. We step aside, leaving him to his task, and walk toward the pond. The light is dimming, shadows stretching long, and we settle on the stairs by the water. Soon, it will be time for ardas.

I stare at the ripples below, soft and steady, barely disturbing the surface. Then the ardas begins, a low hum threading through the air, and something inside me gives way. The weight I've been carrying loosens its grip. I stop treading water. I float.

'I think my mom killed my dad.' The words stumble out, thick and unwieldy, as if they've been caught in my throat for too long. I pause, reminding myself it's only her. She looks at me, and I hear the sharp intake of her breath—a sound she holds, suspended, waiting. I press on.

'And I don't blame her. Not even if she did it. Even though I've spent every waking moment hating her—for the way she took her anger out on me in her study, whiskey in one hand, whip in the other. I was never enough. If I came second, why wasn't it first? If I topped the class, why wasn't it a perfect score? I was always, always lacking.'

I let the words linger, waiting for a judgment that never comes.

'You're okay?' she asks, her voice soft, tentative, like she's afraid of the answer.

I nod, a small motion, but it's enough to make her stop. I don't want pity. Not from her. Not now. I wronged her. I know that.

'I'm fine,' I say, and the words feel hollow even to me. 'It's better this way.' I meet her gaze, and I see that she understands. 'Sometimes, we have to be selfish, use whatever we have to get through the darkness around us. It's okay if we get out alive, even if we don't get out hopeful. As long as we're still breathing...'

She frowns. 'What are you getting at, Romil?'

'It's okay if you want out,' I say.

She shakes her head, and her dupatta slips off, pooling around her neck like a forgotten scarf. 'Romil, it's not a matter of—'

'Do you want out or not?' I cut in, the words sharp. 'Yes or no. I can make it happen, and you know that.'

'I don't want your money,' she says, as if the word itself might burn her.

'Maithili,' I say, my voice quieter now, almost pleading, 'Maithili, you can say no. You can keep hating me. But if you say yes, I swear, it won't make me forget the past. It won't erase the mistakes I've made. It won't absolve me. It'll just make it easier for me. I just need a chance, a chance to live with myself again. I can't carry this weight anymore, knowing what I did to you. Please.'

The silence presses in, suffocating. I reach for her hands, gently taking them in mine, waiting, willing her to see the sincerity in my eyes.

She looks at me, confusion clouding her expression. But still, she doesn't speak.

'Yaar,' I say, my voice cracking, beseeching. 'Ho gayi galti. I made a mistake, and every day, I'm sinking under the weight of it. I never wanted this. I swear. Please, give me a chance to fix it. It'll hurt more if you don't. I don't know if I can keep living with this if you don't let me try. Please.'

I say it over and over in my head—please, please, please. It's then that I feel the wetness on my jeans, the realization that my own tears have fallen without me even noticing.

I look down at her hands, cold, limp and still in mine, and for a second, I let myself drown in the silence. But then, just when I think I can't take it anymore, I feel it—her fingers, so cold at first, but then tightening around mine, warming, forgiving.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might just survive this.