Morning light filtered through the lace curtains of our old Chandigarh bungalow, carrying the familiar scent of agarbatti from the home temple. The house felt so normal. So warm. So painfully home.

I stood in the kitchen wearing a simple yellow salwar kameez, stirring dal for lunch like the dutiful daughter I was raised to be. Arav was laughing at something on his phone at the dining table, his school bag slung over one chair. Rohan bhaiya sat across from him, sipping chai in a white vest, his hair still damp from the shower. The same hand that had been knuckle-deep inside me last night was casually scrolling through his laptop.