“The hand was warm. The warm-hand on the knee being the moment — the moment that cracked the surface. Ananya cried. Not the onion-tears from Nikhil's kitchen. The real tears. The tears that two years of not-crying had stored and that the storing had compressed and that the compressing had made dense and that the density meant: when the tears finally came, they came with everything. The redundancy. The divorce. The children. The paneer bhurji on her birthday. The 3 AM insomnia. The balcony sunsets that she couldn't enjoy. The everything coming out through the eyes because the eyes were the only exit.”