“You stop breathing so loud!”
Shivani and Anika burst out laughing, clearly used to this.
“Don’t mind them,” Shivani says, sipping her nimbu pani with a grin. “They fight like this all the time. I think it’s how they say ‘I love you.’”
“Gross,” Aarav says, dramatically gagging, while Aditi throws a rolled-up napkin at him.
It hits him square in the face.
I watch them—the chaos, the comfort, the noise.
I don’t speak. I just sit there, letting the sounds wash over me.
It’s not just the way they talk—it’s the ease with which they exist in each other’s space. The way conversations bounce around the room like ping pong balls, the way no one ever has to ask to be included—they just are.
Aarav reaches across Aditi to grab the achar, deliberately knocking her elbow.
She shoves him. He flicks a grain of rice at her in retaliation.
Anika sighs dramatically and says to no one in particular, “This is why I avoid family lunches.”
Everyone laughs.
Even me.
And then my gaze finds Aditi.
She’s not part of the noise in this moment—she’s watching me.
She must’ve caught something in my face I hadn’t realized I was wearing, because without a word, she reaches under the table and slips her fingers into mine.
Her hand is warm. Steady. Like she’s grounding me to something I didn’t know I needed.
I turn to look at her—really look—and she just squeezes my hand once, gently. As if to say, I see you.
And in that moment, it hits me.
This is the kind of place she grew up in.
This noise. This warmth. These people who scold you while serving your favorite dish. Who bicker like children and love like adults. Who tease and protect and sit shoulder to shoulder even when there isn’t enough space.
She was safe here.
She was loved here.
No cold corridors. No distant voices behind locked doors. No rules that only pretended to resemble care.
Only this—too many people, too many opinions, too much food—and exactly the right amount of love.
And I’m glad. God, I’m glad she had this.
I look at her again. Her eyes crinkle just a little, like she knows what I’m thinking. And still, she doesn’t let go.
“Abhimaan,” Aditi’s mom calls out, “You haven’t tasted the kheer yet! Wait, I’ll get you some.”
Before I can protest, she’s already in the kitchen.
Behind me, Aditi snorts. “Oh, now you’re officially family. Once Ma offers you kheer, there’s no going back.”
