Dr. Farah Naqvi sat in her leather swivel chair, the air conditioner’s hum the only sound in her cabin. On her desk lay Kabir’s file. Diagnosis: Acute Grief Reaction. Anxiety Disorder. Somatic Symptom Disorder. She lifted her pen to write a prescription—Clonazepam 0.5mg SOS. Sertraline 50mg. She stopped. The ink bled into the paper, a small dark Rorschach. The pills would help Kabir sleep, lower cortisol, blunt the panic. But they wouldn’t fix the hole in his universe. She knew this because she was taking the same pills. Seven years ago, Farah had been a different person. Not just a psychiatrist—she was a project manager. Her project was her husband, Rohan. Rohan was soft. An artist who painted landscapes nobody bought. He could sit on a balcony for hours, drinking chai gone cold, watching pigeons. He was kind. Present. And maddeningly unambitious. Farah loved him—conditionally. Her love ran on an if-then algorithm: If Rohan sells a painting, then I admire him. If he loses five kilos, then I’m more affectionate. If he stops humming while cooking, then I’ll sit with him. For twelve years she edited him like a draft.