He watches her. It is not an extraordinary scene, she is just sitting at the small tea table, writing down notes, occassionally speaking on the phone or to the people crowding around in the living room, like any ordinary woman of the house. And yet he can see that she isn't comfortable with it. She smiles at people and greets them cordially, yet the tense set of her shoulders and the way her smiles never completely reach her eyes, give away her unease.
She is different now, he thinks. Not in the outward appearance, though she has changed her wardrobe, but in the way she always seems to be on guard, hiding her feelings, with a shifty look in her eyes, which never seem to look you straight in the eyes.
Least of all his eyes, he huffs, ruefully.
And yet, be can see the old her sometimes, glimmers of the past leaking out, in the way she is now talking so dedicatedly with the workers, animatedly gesturing with her hands towards the kitchen and how she would like them to proceed, while asking them if they would like to have anything to eat or drink, in the same breath. He can almost imagine her, and them, to be back in their home, back in time, as he watches her.
And then he enters the scene, walking up towards her and the workers, casually looping an arm around her. Two things happen at once. Her face immediately assumes that carefully guarded, neutral mask, even as her shoulders become tense, screaming out her discomfort. And there is a quick splintering, crushing sound somewhere near him. Rudraksh watches Preesha with him, even as his heart races, his breath stops and he has to clench his hands, to stop himself from punching something or someone and bodily flinging him away from her, his face, a tapestry of frozen rage.
Perhaps she senses something of it, because she glances back at him. Time stops. Again.
