Work increased after that.

Not openly. Quietly.

She was asked to do more. Stay longer. Redo things already done.

"Achhe se karo," someone would say. "Galti nahi chahiye."

She stopped responding verbally.

"Yes" became a nod.

A nod became movement.

At breakfast, she served without looking up.

Viraj sat at the table, scrolling through his phone.

She placed his plate in front of him.

He looked at it. Then at her.

"You didn't eat?" he asked.

The question startled her.

"I'll eat later," she said quickly.

"When?" he asked, tone flat.

She hesitated. "After everyone."

He said nothing.

He finished eating, stood up, and left.

The plate she had kept aside for herself was taken away before she reached it.

Later that day, she dropped a folded shirt while carrying laundry.

"Dhyaan nahi hai?" an aunt snapped.

"I'm sorry," Meenakshi whispered.

Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her own ears—thin, unused.

That evening, Viraj returned to the room briefly. She was sitting on the floor, folding clothes.

He paused.

"You didn't buy anything," he said.

It wasn't a question.

"No," she replied.

"Why?"

Her fingers stilled. "I didn't have—"

She stopped.

"I didn't need anything," she corrected quickly.

He watched her for a moment, expression unreadable.

Then he turned away.

Meenakshi resumed folding.

She did not feel embarrassed anymore.

She felt tired.

Talking required energy. Explaining required hope.

She had neither.

By night, the house moved around her like she was part of the furniture—useful, silent, replaceable.

And Meenakshi, once afraid of saying the wrong thing, learned something new:

Saying nothing at all hurt less.