The days following the café revelation stretched into a fragile limbo, Ishani's world narrowed to the paying-guest room's confines and the subtle changes in her body—the tender swell of her breasts, the faint nausea she attributed to heartbreak, the protective curl of her hand over her abdomen when alone. At 23, she navigated college in a daze, friends' concerned glances met with forced smiles, her loose kurtas hiding the life blooming within, unknown yet instinctive. Virat's calls became her unspoken lifeline—morning, afternoon, evening, night, and twice more in between, six times daily like clockwork. "Jaan, did you eat? The dal and roti? Medicines on time?" His voice, gravel velvet laced with desperation, filled the silence, talking endlessly: about the weather, her classes, silly jokes to coax a laugh, reminders to rest. Opposite their early marriage—her chatter filling the air, his quiet listening—now he poured words like offerings, her replies monosyllables: "Yes." "Fine." "Ate." Reserved, guarded, but she waited for each ring, phone clutched like a talisman before and after, pressing it to her heart post-call, the soothing hurt a bittersweet balm—his care piercing the betrayal's armor, tears silent as she whispered to the empty room, Why do I still need you?