I wake before dawn, as I always do. The rooster crows, the well creaks, the fields await. Meera sleeps on the charpoy outside our room, wrapped in her blue saree. She used to stir when I rose. Now she doesn’t move.

We married last winter. Her father agreed; mine paid. She wore red, smiled for photos, said 'yes' when asked. But never looked at me like I mattered.

Then Ethan came. Three months ago. Said he was filming 'vanishing traditions.' Took pictures of cows, weddings, old temples. Stayed with the temple priest. Spoke slowly, laughed easily.

I didn’t think much—until I saw her standing by the gate yesterday, handing him water. Her hair loose. Smiling. Not the polite curve of duty—but real joy.

This morning, I found his sunglasses near the kitchen. She said she picked them up.

But I know. I see the way she watches the road.

And now, I stand at the edge of my field, staring at the horizon. He was supposed to leave today, but suddenly changed his mind to stay a bit longer.