The Weight of Belonging

Maya's alarm never had a chance to ring. She always woke five minutes before six, her body attuned to some internal rhythm that had nothing to do with schedules. The apartment was still dark, the air thick with the smell of last night's curry and Vishal's aftershave lingering on the pillow beside her.

His side of the bed was already cold.

For a moment, just a heartbeat, panic fluttered in her chest. What if he hadn't come home? What if the indent beside her was all that remained? She pressed her face into the fabric, breathing him in like an anchor, then rolled over to check her phone. A text from twenty minutes ago: Early meeting moved to 7. Coffee's in the pot. Love you.

The relief felt heavier than it should have.

Maya padded to the kitchen, her bare feet sticking slightly to the tiles. The coffee was bitter; he always made it too strong, but she drank it anyway, standing by the window and watching the street sweeper make his methodical way down their block. Ordinary Tuesday morning. Ordinary life.

Except for how incomplete it felt without him.

"You're making a mistake," her mother said for the third time that month. They were sitting in the parlour of Maya's childhood home, surrounded by the familiar weight of sandalwood incense and the sound of her father's evening news program filtering through the walls.

"Ma, please..."

"He's a good boy, I'm not saying he isn't. But this love-marriage business..." Her mother's bangles clinked as she gestured dismissively. "It never lasts. What happens when the excitement fades? When real life starts?"

Maya set down her tea cup harder than necessary. "This is real life. We've been together for two years. We live together, we handle bills and groceries and his terrible morning breath. It doesn't get more real than that."

"Don't be smart with me." But her mother's voice was gentler now, tinged with something that might have been fear. "I just don't want you to wake up one day and realise you've built your whole life around another person. What happens then? What happens when that becomes too much to carry?"

The question followed Maya home, settling in her stomach like a stone.

She found herself studying Vishal differently over the next few weeks. The way he always left exactly three sips of coffee in his mug. How he hummed tunelessly while shaving, the same three bars of a song she'd never been able to identify. The particular expression he got when he was pretending to listen to her work stories but was actually thinking about cricket scores.

"You're quiet tonight," he said one evening while doing dishes. She washed, he dried, their established rhythm that felt as natural as breathing.

"Just tired."

But that wasn't it, exactly. She was trying to imagine the weight of this routine, this life they'd built together, and whether she was strong enough to carry it. The exercise made her feel hollow and heavy at the same time.

"Maya." He turned her to face him, his hands damp from the dish towel. "What's wrong?"

She wanted to explain about her mother's words, about the sudden vertigo she felt when she tried to picture the shape of her days without him. Instead, she kissed him, tasting mint and the faint bitterness of evening tea.

"Nothing's wrong," she said against his mouth. "I'm just happy."

It wasn't a lie, exactly. But it wasn't the whole truth either.

The realisation came during one of his work trips. Three days in Mumbai, routine meetings he'd done dozens of times before. Maya had planned to catch up on reading, maybe call some friends she'd been neglecting.

Instead, she discovered the true weight of his absence.

She stopped making coffee altogether; what was the point of half a pot? The morning ritual felt incomplete, like trying to clap with one hand. She avoided the terrace where they usually sat in the evenings, the space too vast and echoing without his voice to fill it. Even conversations felt unfinished; she'd catch herself starting to tell him something, only to realise she was speaking to empty air.

By the second night, she was eating dinner standing at the counter, unwilling to sit at their table for one.

"I think something's wrong with me," she said when she called her sister.

"Hello to you too. What's wrong?"

"Vishal's been gone two days, and I feel like I'm walking around with a missing limb. Like the whole apartment is off-balance."

Her sister was quiet for a moment. "That's not necessarily bad, you know. Some people are just meant to be tethered to someone else. The weight of loving someone that much, it's not a burden if you're strong enough to carry it."

"But what if I'm not?"

"Maya, you've been carrying it for two years. You're not built for lightness; some people are designed to hold depth. The weight of loving someone that much isn't a flaw in your foundation, it's what you're made for."

After they hung up, Maya sat in the darkened living room, letting her sister's words settle. Outside, she could hear the familiar sounds of their neighbourhood, the late bus, someone's television, and a dog barking three apartments over. Normal life, continuing while she learned the true shape of her own heart.

When Vishal's key turned in the lock the next evening, the relief that flooded through her was so intense she felt her knees go weak. The apartment suddenly felt right-sized again, the air lighter, her own weight properly distributed.

"Miss me?" he asked, dropping his suitcase and opening his arms.

She stepped into them without hesitation, feeling the familiar anchor of his presence settle her back into herself.

"Terribly," she admitted into his shoulder. "More than I knew I could."

Months later, as they sat on their terrace watching the sun disappear behind the city's jagged skyline, Maya breathed in the evening air: curry spices from downstairs, jasmine from the neighbour's balcony, and underneath it all, the faint trace of sandalwood that always seemed to cling to her clothes after visiting her mother.

"What are you thinking about?" Vishal asked, following her gaze to the darkening sky.

She was quiet for a long moment, considering whether to voice the thought that had been circling her mind.

"My mother asked me once what happens when loving someone becomes too heavy to carry," she said, turning to face him. "I think I have an answer now."

He was quiet, waiting.

"It's not about the weight," she said finally. "It's about whether you're willing to grow strong enough to bear it. And whether the person you love is willing to help you carry it."

He reached for her hand, his palm warm and slightly rough from weekend gardening, completely familiar. "Some weights are worth growing stronger for," he said.

Maya squeezed his fingers, understanding perfectly. This love they'd built wasn't weightless; it had gravity, consequence, the power to reshape everything around it. But that wasn't something to fear. It was something to honour. Even if, someday, her arms might grow tired, even if the weight might become too much, for now, in this moment, she was strong enough.

In the distance, the evening call to prayer began, joined by the sounds of families settling in for the night. Normal Tuesday evening. Ordinary life.

Except for the extraordinary gravity that held them in orbit around each other, strong enough to last.