Swarna's POV
The last time someone cried like that in front of me…
I was twelve.
It was my sister.
She had locked herself in the bathroom and turned the tap on so no one could hear, but I did. I always did.
The sound of her sobs, muffled by water, tile, and pride.
I sat outside the door for an hour, back against the cold wall, knees to my chest, whispering stories through the gap at the bottom. Made-up ones about a lion who lost his roar, about a girl who swallowed the sun just to feel warm again.
She never opened the door.
Not until much later.
Not until she looked like nothing had happened.
But I remember.
I always remember.
That feeling of wanting to fix something with your hands, but only having words.
And those too—failing.
So last night, when Kaha's eyes turned glassy and her voice disappeared under tears—
I didn't panic.
I didn't ask.
Didn't push.
I did what I wish someone had done for my sister.
I stayed.
I wrapped the blanket.
I held the silence, so she wouldn't have to.
Because sometimes…
That's all you can do.
And sometimes, it's enough.