The house was too quiet when Arjun got home.

He set his keys down, loosened the top button of his shirt, and stood in the entrance hall for a moment longer than necessary. The living room light was on. His mother was waiting.

He walked in.

Mrs. Malhotra sat on the sofa with a cup of tea that had already gone cold. She did not ask him to sit. He sat anyway.

“You wanted to talk,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Then talk.”

She set the cup down with precise care. “You humiliated me in front of the Sharmas.”

“I prevented a forced conversation from becoming a forced decision.”

“You took that girl’s side.”

“I took the side of consent.”

Mrs. Malhotra’s eyes narrowed. “You have become very fond of that word.”

“It is a useful word. It keeps people from being treated like unfinished paperwork.”

A short silence.

“Your father asked about the evening,” she said. “He wanted to know if progress was made.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That the children need more time.”

“That is accurate.”

“It is also incomplete. He does not have unlimited time, Arjun.”

The sentence landed exactly where she intended.

Arjun’s voice remained even. “Do not use his health as a bargaining chip. Not with me.”

“It is not a chip. It is reality.”

“Reality does not require emotional blackmail.”

Mrs. Malhotra stood and walked to the window. “You think I enjoy this? Watching you protect a girl you barely know more carefully than the family that built everything you stand on?”

“I am not protecting her from the family. I am protecting both of us from a foundation that will crack the moment real weight is placed on it.”

She turned. “You speak as if you have already decided she matters.”

Arjun did not look away. “She matters enough that I will not let her be rushed into a life she did not choose. That is not romance. That is basic decency.”

“Decency,” his mother repeated, the word sharp. “Decency would have been closing this matter years ago so your father could rest.”

“Closing it with a forced yes is not rest. It is theatre.”

The silence that followed was long and cold.

Mrs. Malhotra folded her arms. “I am giving you one month.”

Arjun’s expression did not change. “For what?”

“For the two of you to reach a clear answer. Yes or no. No more careful language. No more ‘we need time.’ If at the end of thirty days there is still no clarity, I will sit with the Sharmas myself and end the ambiguity permanently.”

“In which direction?”

“In the direction that protects this family’s dignity.”

Arjun stood. “If you attempt to corner her parents while I am not in the room, I will make the refusal public enough that dignity will be the least of our problems.”

Mrs. Malhotra stared at him. “You would embarrass us like that?”

“I would protect the only thing that makes any of this bearable — the ability to look at myself in the morning.”

Another silence.

Finally she spoke, quieter. “You have changed.”

“I have become clearer.”

“Clarity is expensive.”

“So is silence.”

He walked out of the living room before the conversation could turn in another circle.

Upstairs, in his study, he closed the door and stood for a moment with his hands on the back of the chair. The city lights beyond the window looked the same as always. Nothing else did.

His phone buzzed.

Aarohi:

Are you home?

He stared at the message, then replied.

Arjun:

Yes.

Aarohi:

Did she talk to you?

Arjun:

Yes.

Aarohi:

Bad?

Arjun:

Predictable.

There was a pause. Then her next message arrived.

Aarohi:

Can I call?

He sat down.

Arjun:

Yes.

The phone rang almost immediately.

He answered. “Aarohi.”

Her voice came through, tired but clear. “You sound worse than this morning.”

“I am fine.”

“That’s your functional voice. I know it now.”

A faint breath left him. “You are becoming dangerous with observation.”

“I’ve had a good teacher.”

Silence settled for a second.

She spoke again. “What did she say?”

“That we have one month to reach a clear yes or no. After that she will take matters into her own hands with your parents.”

Aarohi was quiet for several seconds. “Of course she did.”

“Yes.”

“And you said?”

“That if she attempts to corner anyone while I am not present, I will make the refusal clear enough that dignity becomes irrelevant.”

A short, disbelieving sound came down the line. “You told your mother that?”

“Yes.”

“You’re either very brave or very tired.”

“Both.”

Another silence.

Aarohi’s voice softened, just slightly. “Are you okay?”

“I am managing.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It is what I have.”

She exhaled. “I hate that she’s using your father.”

“So do I.”

“Is he actually worse?”

Arjun looked toward the closed door, as if he could see through it to the other side of the house. “He is stable. Tired. The doctors say the same things they said last month. My mother hears the timeline she wants to hear.”

“That’s cruel.”

“It is effective. I told her that too.”

Aarohi was quiet for a moment. “One month.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not a lot of time to decide the shape of a life.”

“No.”

“Especially when one of us is still your student and both of us are about to be stuck in Pune with two other people who notice everything.”

“I am aware.”

She gave a short laugh that contained no humour. “This is the worst group project in history.”

“That is not an inaccurate assessment.”

A longer silence stretched between them. It was not empty. It was full of everything they were not saying.

Aarohi spoke first. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Arjun.”

“Neither do I.”

“You’re supposed to be the one with the answers.”

“I have answers for buildings. People are less precise.”

She was quiet again. Then, softer: “Don’t let her wear you down.”

“I won’t.”

“You say that like it’s simple.”

“It is not simple. It is necessary.”

Aarohi let out a long breath. “I should sleep. Or try to.”

“So should I.”

“Will you?”

“Eventually.”

“Liar.”

A very faint shift in his voice, almost a smile. “Go to sleep, Aarohi.”

“Only if you promise not to sit in the dark rehearsing arguments with your mother.”

“I make no promises.”

“Do better than try.”

This time the line landed between them with a weight that was becoming familiar.

“I will,” he said.

She hung up first.

Arjun sat with the phone in his hand for a long time after the screen went dark.

One month.

The number settled in the room like a new structural load — invisible, constant, and impossible to ignore.

He set the phone down, loosened his shirt another button, and stared at the city beyond the glass.

Across the city, Aarohi lay on her bed with the phone still warm in her hand, staring at the ceiling the same way she had the night she first learned the truth.

One month.

Enough time to make a careful decision.

Or enough time for everything to become even more complicated than it already was.

She turned onto her side, closed her eyes, and tried not to think about the fact that the person she most wanted to discuss the timeline with

was the same person standing in the centre of it.