The next morning, Anushri awoke to the sound of plates clinking in the kitchen. Her brow furrowed in confusion; Amey rarely left his bed before she did. She shuffled out of her room, still groggy, and froze at the sight before her.
Amey stood by the counter, his sleeves rolled up, awkwardly flipping a dosa that was refusing to cooperate. The batter splattered as he struggled, muttering under his breath.
“Amey?” she asked, her voice tinged with surprise.
He turned, startled. “Oh, good morning. I, uh, thought I’d try to help out. You’re always juggling everything. Figured I should contribute for a change.”
She stared at him, unsure how to respond. This was… new. “You didn’t have to,” she said softly, her tone devoid of its usual defensiveness.
He shrugged, flashing a lopsided grin. “Well, I might have to rethink my decision. This dosa is actively resisting me.”
Despite herself, Anushri laughed—a sound that felt foreign after weeks of tension. “You’re flipping it wrong. Here, let me.”
She stepped beside him, reaching for the spatula. Their hands brushed briefly, and she felt a jolt she wasn’t prepared for. Ignoring it, she guided his hand to flatten the edges before flipping the dosa.
“See? Easy,” she said, trying to focus on the task.
“Yeah, sure,” he replied, mock serious. “Master chef in the making.”
---
Later that afternoon, as Anushri sat surrounded by her notes, preparing for an upcoming test, Amey appeared again.
“Need any help?” he asked, leaning against the doorway.
She looked up, startled. “Help? From you? I thought you were more of a ‘silent observer.’”
He smirked. “True. But I’m also great at math and analytics. What’s this?” He picked up a sheet filled with complex formulas.
“Economics,” she replied hesitantly. “But I don’t think—”
“Let me see.” He grabbed a chair and sat beside her. Before she could protest, he was explaining the formulas with an ease that left her impressed. His patience surprised her, as did the way he seemed genuinely invested in helping her understand.
For the first time, Anushri noticed the quiet intelligence in his eyes, the way his brow furrowed slightly when he concentrated. She realized how little she truly knew about him beyond the guarded exterior he usually wore.
---
As the day progressed, the house chaos continued—laundry, grocery planning, and other chores that had piled up during her absence. To her surprise, Amey pitched in without being asked.
“You’re not bad at this,” she commented as he carried a basket of folded clothes.
“Not bad?” he said, feigning offense. “I deserve at least a ‘remarkable.’”
She rolled her eyes. “Let’s not get carried away.”
When they sat down for tea later, Amey leaned back in his chair and grinned. “So, three days at your parents’ place, huh? What did they feed you? The ‘Runaway Wife’s Special’?”
Anushri’s mouth fell open, scandalized. “Amey! That’s not funny!”
“Oh, it’s hilarious,” he countered, his eyes twinkling. “What were you thinking? That I’d be on my knees, begging you to come back?”
Her face turned red, both with embarrassment and anger. “I didn’t even expect anything from you!”
“Good,” he replied, chuckling. “Because you’d have been disappointed. I like my knees intact.”
She huffed, crossing her arms, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. Despite his teasing, she found herself appreciating his effort to lighten the mood.
---
By evening, Anushri found herself replaying the events of the day. For the first time, she began to see Amey in a different light—not just as the aloof, guarded man she had married, but as someone who could be funny.
Yet, every time her heart began to soften, his words from before echoed in her mind: “Just friends.”
She sighed, shaking her head. “Friends,” she whispered to herself. “That’s all he wants.”
Still, as she fell asleep that night, she couldn’t help but wonder if “jus
t friends” could ever be enough.
---
