Kashvi stopped explaining.
That was the first sign.
She woke up, moved through the day, completed tasks—like a machine following commands. She smiled when required. Nodded when spoken to. But inside, everything had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
She stopped arguing with Krish.
Stopped reacting.
Stopped saying no.
And Krish mistook her silence for acceptance.
At night, she lay awake beside Kriday, watching his chest rise and fall as he slept. The room was dim, the world distant. Her mind replayed fragments—not whole memories, just feelings.
Helplessness.
Pressure.
Fear disguised as care.
Five years ago, she had learned how to disappear inside herself to survive.
She was doing it again.
Kriday noticed.
Children always did.
"Mumma?" he asked one morning, tugging at her sleeve. "You didn't make pancakes today."
"Oh," Kashvi blinked, confused, as if waking up from somewhere far away. "I… forgot."
Kriday frowned. "You forget a lot now."
That hurt more than any argument ever could.
She knelt in front of him, forcing a smile. "I'm just tired, baby."
Kriday studied her face seriously—too seriously for his age.
"Are you sick?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Then why do you look like you're going to cry all the time?"
Her throat closed.
She pulled him into a hug, holding him tighter than usual. Kriday wrapped his small arms around her neck, resting his head on her shoulder.
"I don't like it when you're sad," he whispered.
Kashvi closed her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. Not just to him—but to herself.
Days passed.
Krish grew impatient.
"You've become distant," he said one evening. "I'm doing all this for us, and you're acting ungrateful."
Kashvi didn't respond.
Her silence unsettled him.
"You should be thankful," he continued. "I stayed when Ved walked away. I chose you."
Something flickered in her eyes—then vanished.
Kriday stood near the doorway, listening. Watching.
"Don't talk to Mumma like that," he said suddenly, his small voice shaking but firm.
Both adults froze.
Krish turned. "This is adult conversation."
Kriday stepped closer to Kashvi, gripping her hand.
"She cries at night," he said. "I hear her."
Kashvi's breath caught.
Krish scoffed. "She's emotional. That's all."
Kriday looked up at Kashvi.
"Are you scared?" he asked softly.
The question broke her.
She dropped to her knees, pulling Kriday into her arms, her body shaking as silent tears soaked his shirt. She didn't sob. She didn't scream.
She just… collapsed.
Kriday held her the way he had seen her hold him.
"It's okay, Mumma," he whispered. "I'm here."
For the first time in weeks, Kashvi felt something real.
Not relief.
Not hope.
But guilt.
Because her child was learning how to comfort pain he never should have had to understand.
That night, after Kriday fell asleep beside her, Kashvi stared at the ceiling, numb.
She wasn't fighting anymore.
She wasn't planning an escape.
She was surviving.
And survival, she knew now, looked a lot like slowly disappearing.
Somewhere across the city, Ved felt it.
Not as a thought.
Not as a memory.
But as a heaviness in his chest he couldn't explain.
And for the first time, the danger wasn't loud.
It was quiet.