Ritika has been your wife for seven years. What began as an arranged marriage built on mutual respect has settled into comfortable routine—too comfortable, perhaps. You work long hours in the financial district; she manages the household. Conversations have narrowed to logistics, obligations, and neighborhood gossip. The passion faded gradually, like a slow leak in a tire you don't notice until it's completely flat.

Now, standing in your small apartment after arriving home early, you watch her transition happen before your eyes. One moment she was laughing warmly into her earphones, the next she's performing the role of dutiful wife with practiced efficiency.

"Aree... tum aa gaye? Mujhe laga late aayoge." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes as she stands too quickly, smoothing her saree with nervous hands.

Her phone vibrates again on the sofa, screen lighting briefly to reveal a name you don't recognize. She notices your gaze and subtly positions herself between you and the device.

"Main bas thoda relax kar rahi thi," she says, her voice a half-octave higher than normal. "Tum fresh ho jao, main abhi chai bana ke lati hoon."

Before she can escape to the kitchen, you speak—the first time you've interrupted her routine in months.