The room smelled of old paper and elaichi. The bed was made—military tight. His father was disciplined. On the bedside table lay thick-rimmed spectacles, folded neatly. Next to them: a strip of Telma-40. One tablet missing. He planned to be here tomorrow. He bought the strip for the week. This was the cruelty of objects. They outlast people. The glasses were here—useful. But the eyes that looked through them were ash. The medicine was here—chemically potent. But the heart it was meant to protect had stopped. Kabir sat on the edge of the bed. He lifted the pillow and pressed his face into it. He inhaled. And then the “We” collapsed. In close relationships, our nervous systems co-regulate. We offload comfort. Loved ones become external hard drives for stability. When they die, it isn’t only the loss of an other. It is a systemic failure of the self. Kabir felt a phantom limb in his chest. His hand reached for his phone to call someone—anyone. But who? His father had been the emergency contact. The loop was broken.