The morning arrives with the scent of damp pavement and the low, rhythmic hum of a city waking up. Asha lies still, watching the dust motes dance in the amber light slanting through the sash window. Beside her, Daniel is a familiar weight, his breath steady and warm against her shoulder. It is 6:30 AM on a Tuesday, and the world feels perfectly, dangerously ordinary.
He’s still here, she thinks, her thumb tracing the hem of the bone-cream duvet. Everything is in its place: the chipped blue mug on the nightstand, the turmeric stain on her fingertip from last night’s curry, and the calendar on the wall where tomorrow is still a blank square. She wants to reach out and anchor him to the mattress, to hold the moment before the routine of the day pulls them apart.
On the nightstand, a vibration cuts through the quiet. The phone rattles against the wood, a bright rectangular intrusion in the soft dawn. Daniel’s hand reaches for the buzzing phone, turning it face-down before the screen fully illuminates.
