Chapter 11 – Old Habits, Open Wounds

“Why did you bring me here?”

Poornima’s voice trembled, but she still asked.

Veeresh turned to her slowly. His eyes were dark, tired, unreadable. Without answering, he reached out and caught her hand. The touch—so familiar, so wrong now—made her breath hitch.

“First cook,” he said, his tone rough, impatient. “Then we’ll speak. Don’t keep asking questions, goddamn it. Cook something.”

She stared at him, stunned.

“I’m hungry,” he added harshly. “I haven’t eaten properly for days.”

He pushed her lightly toward the kitchen—not violently, but without gentleness either—and walked away toward his room to freshen up, leaving the words hanging in the air like bruises.

Poornima stood there, frozen.

Her eyes burned. Tears spilled silently as she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Even now… even after everything… he spoke like this. Like she was still the one who would listen. The one who would stay.

“What do you want?” she asked softly, though he was already halfway down the corridor.

He paused. “My favourite. Biryani. And dessert.”

Then he disappeared into his room.

Poornima stood alone in the vast penthouse kitchen, surrounded by steel and silence. Her chest ached as she leaned against the counter for support.

Even now, she thought bitterly, he knows I’ll do it.

She tied her hair back with shaking fingers and began.

As she washed the rice, memories flooded her mind—countless evenings when she had cooked for him without being asked. When he would forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget himself. When she would scold him endlessly.

You’ll ruin your health.

Stop smoking so much.

At least eat properly.

He never listened.

But he always ate when she cooked.

Tears blurred her vision as she chopped onions, the sting in her eyes matching the ache in her heart. She was angry—furious, really—but beneath it all was the same old instinct: care.

Years of friendship don’t disappear in a day.

She cooked with precision, muscle memory guiding her hands. The biryani simmered slowly, filling the kitchen with a familiar aroma that once meant comfort, warmth, home. Dessert followed—carefully plated, just the way he liked.

She set everything on the dining table neatly.

One plate. One glass of water. One silent confession.

Then she sat down.

And waited.

Sitting there, hands folded in her lap, she felt smaller than she ever had. Not because she was weak—but because she was tired. Tired of being strong. Tired of caring for someone who had shattered her and still expected her to pick up the pieces.

You broke me, she thought quietly. And I’m still feeding you.

The clock ticked softly.

Poornima waited, carrying years of friendship, love, and pain in her chest—wondering if this was the last time she would ever do something so familiar for a man who had once been her safest place.

And somewhere deep inside, she feared the answer.