The day arrived like a held breath finally being released — too loud, too real. She stands in front of me in something soft and ordinary: a faded kurti, jeans, hair loose over her shoulders. There’s a little nervous brightness in her face, the kind that would have made me smile any other morning. Today it eats at me.

My hands won’t stop moving. I check the watch, the passport, the tickets, the bag — the same motions, over and over, like they’ll fix the thing I can’t fix with my hands. There’s a coldness under my ribs that nothing warms.