Session 3:
I remember waking up groggily, the faint sound of the door unlocking pulling me from sleep. She was late, much later than usual. Her steps were soft, careful not to disturb me, but I was already sitting up, rubbing the remnants of sleep from my eyes.
“Kitna kaam karvate hai yaar tumse ye log,” I teased, my voice still heavy with sleep. She chuckled, her tired eyes lighting up for a moment. I wrapped her in a tight hug, holding her as if my arms could absorb her exhaustion. “But I’m proud of you, you know that, right?”
She nodded, her face buried in my chest. I carried her to the bedroom, where she disappeared into the bathroom for a quick shower. Meanwhile, I busied myself in the kitchen, rolling out dough and heating the wok. The faint aroma of spices filled the air as I prepared dinner.
When she called out to me from the bedroom, I walked in, one hand holding the wok and the other smeared with dough.
“Cuddle time,” she declared, her arms open wide, a playful pout on her face.
“But I’m cooking,” I protested weakly.
She puffed her cheeks in mock annoyance, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Setting the wok aside, I gave in, wrapping my arms around her. She clung to my neck like a child, her legs wrapped around my waist.
“You’re impossible,” I muttered, carrying her back to the kitchen.
She giggled, planting soft kisses on my neck and cheeks as I resumed cooking. It was chaotic and endearing—her clinging to me while I managed to prepare dinner. By the time we sat down to eat, the exhaustion of her day seemed to have melted away.
After dinner, we danced slowly in the dim candlelight to the soft melody of 'Chura Liya Hai Tumne Jo Dil Ko', our movements unhurried, savoring the moment. As the song faded, I pretended to slip, falling to the floor dramatically.
“Drama mat karo,” she said, laughing as she helped me up.
But I surprised her, pulling out a ring I had hidden in my pocket. “Will you be my forever?” I asked, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.
She snatched the ring from my hand, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I dare you to say those words to anyone else ever,” she teased, sticking out her tongue like a child.
She bolted toward the bedroom, and I chased after her, laughter filling the air. When I caught her, I kissed her deeply, whispering, “I love you.”
“I know, bakayaro,” she replied, calling me an idiot in Japanese.
Just as I leaned in to kiss her again, her phone buzzed—a call from the hospital. Some emergency. She apologized, guilt heavy in her voice, but I shook my head.
“You save lives,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “That’s a lot cooler than anything I could plan.” She smiled, and in that moment, I knew I’d do anything to see that smile again.
While she was gone, I cleaned up the kitchen, did the dishes, and finished the household chores. She returned hours later, her steps slow, her body drained.
“I saved them,” she said softly, collapsing into my arms. “You always do,” I replied, carrying her back to the bedroom. She took another warm bath while I prepared for my lecture the next day.
When I finally joined her in bed, she was curled up with a novel, her hair falling messily across her face. “You look tired,” I said, pressing her legs gently.
“Don’t,” she protested, but I silenced her with a playful shove. “Let me be a good husband for once,” I teased. She laughed, her head sinking into the pillow as I continued.
I didn’t realize when I drifted off, my head resting on her legs because I woke up to the sound of my alarm. She was still asleep, her face serene. I kissed her forehead softly. “Good morning,” I whispered before heading to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
As we started our day, everything felt right—ordinary, yet extraordinary in its simplicity.
x
The psychologist’s voice brought me back to the present.
“You still can’t remember her face, can you?” she asked gently.
I shook my head, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “No. I remember everything else—her laughter, her voice, the way she held me—but her face is a blur.”
She nodded, jotting something down. “You mentioned preparing for a lecture. Were you a teacher?”
“Yes,” I replied, my voice steadier now.
“That’s good. We now know you were a teacher. Or, more specifically, a lecturer?”
I nodded again. “Yes, I was a lecturer of Management. I remember that vividly.”
She smiled, closing her notebook. “We’ll continue day after tomorrow.”
I nodded once more. The session ended, and she left the room.