The evening air hung soft and golden, the kind of light that glistens like honey over the city’s edges—warm, but fleeting. Surya leaned back in the plush leather seat of their sedan, eyes half-closed, fingers loosely intertwined with Shivani’s. She sat beside him, one hand holding his, the other gently stroking his temple with her thumb—slow, rhythmic, deliberate. Her touch was a balm, a quiet promise whispered without words: I’m here. You’re safe. Rest now.
The root of doubt—that gnarled, persistent thing that had coiled itself in the hollow beneath his ribs for weeks—had finally loosened its grip. Not vanished, no. But subsided. Like a tide drawing back, revealing damp, uncertain sand. He trusted her. Or perhaps, in his exhaustion, he simply needed to.
Shivani had changed.
Not in ways anyone could point to outright—a haircut, a new perfume, a shifted tone of voice. No. This was subtler. A quiet recalibration of her inner compass. A softening in her gaze when she looked at him, yes—but beneath that, something else: a new vigilance, a watchfulness that flickered like a distant signal fire. She moved with more purpose, spoke with more care. And yet—here was the strange truth—she herself did not know it. The change had seeped into her like groundwater into cracked stone: silent, inevitable, invisible until the structure trembled.
“Pull over at the PharmaCare on Patel Road,” she instructed the driver, her voice calm, precise. “It’s closest to home—and they stock everything.”
The driver nodded. Surya stirred slightly. “You don’t have to—” he began, voice thick with fatigue.
“I want to,” she said, squeezing his hand. A smile. Warm. Reassuring. But her knuckles were white where she gripped the prescription paper.
Inside the shop, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile sheen over rows of gleaming shelves. Antiseptics, vitamins, cough syrups—neatly labeled, clinically arranged. Shivani approached the counter, the paper held out like a fragile treaty. The young assistant took it without a word, scanned the list, then turned to a tall glass cabinet and began selecting boxes and vials with practiced efficiency.
Then he appeared.
The owner.
He emerged from a back room, wiping his hands on a cloth that had seen better decades. Middle-aged, salt-and-pepper hair combed fastidiously, rimless glasses perched low on his nose. His eyes—dark, intelligent, unreadable—landed on Shivani the moment he saw the prescription.
He didn’t greet her.
Instead, he took the paper from the assistant, held it close, and read. Slowly. Twice.
He didn’t look away.
His gaze didn’t leer. It didn’t leer in the crude, vulgar sense. No—it penetrated. Not her body, but something deeper: her intention. Her history. Her silence. His eyes traced the curve of her jaw, the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers trembled—just once—before she tucked them into her pocket.
A cold coil tightened in Shivani’s stomach. Her throat went dry. The fluorescent hum sharpened into a buzz inside her skull. She wanted to look away—but something primal held her still, like prey caught in the gaze of something ancient and knowing.
The assistant placed the last item on the counter: a small, amber bottle of Risperidone 1mg. Shivani’s breath hitched—almost imperceptibly.
The owner finally broke his stare. With deliberate slowness, he rang up the items. The printer spat out the bill. He slid the medicines into a paper bag—PharmaCare, in neat blue script—and handed it over.
“Take care,” he said.
Two words. Neutral. Common.
But the way he said it—soft, weighted, almost mournful—sent a ripple of nausea through her. Not fear. Not exactly. But recognition. As if he’d seen this scene before. As if he knew how it ended.
Outside, the car waited like a sanctuary.
She slipped in, the bag clutched to her chest. The door shut with a soft thunk, sealing her in the familiar scent of leather, Surya’s aftershave, and her own jasmine perfume.
“Everything alright?” Surya murmured, eyes still closed.
Shivani hesitated. The nausea hadn’t passed. It had settled—a dull, metallic weight behind her sternum.
“He… stared at me,” she said, voice quieter than she intended. “The shop owner. He kept asking about the hospital. About the doctor. Twice. Just… looked at me.”
Surya stirred, trying to lift his head. The sedative in his system, the one he’d taken just an hour ago pulled him back down. His brow furrowed, but his thoughts were slow, syrupy. “Probably just… verifying. Fraud’s common. Don’t… overthink.”
She nodded, but her reflection in the side mirror showed a woman whose eyes were wide—too wide. Searching.
The drive home was silent.
Their house stood at the end of a quiet lane, bougainvillea spilling over the compound wall in bursts of magenta. Familiar. Safe.
Inside, Surya shuffled straight to his room without another word, the medicines left on the dining table. The door clicked shut behind him.
Shivani stood in the hallway, listening.
No sound. Then—the soft sigh of mattress springs. The rustle of sheets. Sleep, or its mimic.
Was Shivani really changed or was it just Surya’s gut got wrong? Was the shop owner a pervert or there was some deeper meaning to those words.? To know more continue reading the episodes. Please rate and review.
