Whole life passed like that, Farah thought—waiting for an improved version, ignoring the present one. Then came the Tuesday. A Tuesday like any other. Farah yelled because the electricity bill wasn’t paid on time. “You are so irresponsible, Rohan!” she screamed, checking her watch. “When will you grow up?” Rohan smiled—sad, patient. “I’m sorry, Fara. I was watching the rain. It was beautiful.” “The rain won’t keep the lights on,” she snapped. She grabbed her keys and stormed out. She didn’t kiss him goodbye. That was her punishment. Two hours later, Rohan’s heart stopped. Massive cardiac arrest. He died on the kitchen floor, surrounded by the smell of dal he was making for her. The “suddenly” poets write about is not exaggeration. It is a guillotine. When Farah came home, the lights were still on. The bill had been paid. The dal was burnt. And Rohan was gone. In the following weeks, the if-then logic collapsed. She missed the very things she used to criticize. His slowness. His balcony “waste.” His humming. She realized his “lack of ambition” had a different name: Contentment.