Yellow in the Cracks

The family laughing made the moment feel harmless for one stupid second. Then Sanjay’s hand lingered, and I became painfully aware that I was still smiling like the performance had not changed. That is what frightens me about being good at this: the audience can touch the disguise and praise the blush.

I keep seeing his face when I reread his words. I wanted to shove him away, but I also hated how quickly I went quiet. I wanted him to fear being exposed, even for a minute. Instead, I probably looked graceful. That secret wish is uglier than the haldi.

Under the bathroom light, the yellow looked almost beautiful on my kurta. On my hands, it looked like evidence I could neither explain nor wash away properly. I scrubbed until my skin felt raw, then found another thin line beneath my nails. I wanted Mum’s kitchen, her food, and one person who would tell me to stop before my face learned something cruel.

The close-up selfie I took felt like another job. I smiled because I could, not because I felt safe. When someone asks where I am, even in my own head, the honest answer becomes difficult: I am here, but I have been everywhere except my own life.

I saved Priya Sharma’s complaint twice and checked every timestamp until the signal disappeared. More than the accusations, I fear being believed easily. I have built too much of myself around knowing what convincing people feels like.