Amit moved in with Leela the summer her mother fell ill. The hospital was cold and white, the air perpetually thick with worry. Leela stood shoulder to shoulder with her mother as she whispered memories: the orchard on summer mornings, the scent of mangoes, the ache of abandoned dreams.The nurses saw Leela every day, her eyes dull with sleeplessness, her voice steady for her mother. They didn't see how she flinched when a machine beeped or had panic attacks in the bathroom. Amit tried to help—cooking, reading aloud, holding her when the world closed in. In those moments, Leela realized trauma wasn't always loud; sometimes, it was the hush of resignation, the stillness that claimed a house after grief.When her mother died, Leela felt her world contract. The city outside kept moving, unbothered by her private disaster. At the funeral, relatives offered platitudes, but Leela heard only the sharp crackle of old wounds reopened—arguments about money, bitter reminders of who failed whom.Nights grew long and formless. Amit sometimes found Leela sitting under the banyan, tracing its bark with trembling fingers. "Does it ever get better?" she whispered.Amit, with all his longing, didn't know how to answer. Together, they sat beneath the tangled tree, knowing some questions didn't need answers—only companionship in the darkness
