Prologue:

Janani sits in Dr. Claire Hammond's consulting room. The room is small, warm. Books on trauma line the walls.

Claire is in her early fifties. Short grey hair. Kind eyes behind rimless glasses. A softened local accent.

"I don't know if I'm imagining it," Janani says. "Or if this is what divorce looks like."

"Tell me what you're seeing."

Janani sets down her tea. "He switches. Mid-sentence. His accent changes. His whole demeanour. As if he's becoming someone else. And he doesn't notice."

"How long?"

"I noticed it during the marriage. I thought it was stress. Work pressure. Visa stuff. After we separated, it got worse."

Claire makes a note. "What else?"

"Blank stares. As if he's looking through me, not at me, through me. And his voice. Sometimes it's his voice. Sometimes it's this corporate version, perfect, polished, as if he's reading from a script."

"Does he seem aware of it?"

"No. That's the worst part. He doesn't know it's happening. I'll point it out, and he'll look confused. As if I'm making it up. Or he'll get defensive."

Claire leans forward. "What you're describing sounds like dissociation. Code-switching that's become automatic."

"Can you help him?"

"I can try. But he has to want help. He has to come here himself."

"He won't. If I suggest it, he'll refuse. He'll think I'm trying to fix him. Or control him."

"Then how do we get him here?"

Janani is quiet. "I have an idea. But it requires someone else. Someone he trusts."

Claire considers this. "You want me to see him as a favour to you."

"Yes. I know it's unorthodox. But I can't watch him disappear." Janani pauses. "I didn't know how to reach him anymore, and that frightened me."

"Even though you're separated."

"Even though." Janani's voice is firm. "He's the children's father. And I still care."

Claire is quiet. "Alright. I'll see him. If he comes. But Janani, therapy only works if the person wants to be there."

"I know. But I have to try."

Claire nods. "I'll see him. If he comes."

"Thank you."

"But Janani, this isn't your responsibility anymore. You're separated. You could walk away."

"I know." Janani stands. "But I can't. Not yet. Not until I know he's going to be okay."

She leaves the office. Walks down the stairs. Out into the side street.

The Beautiful Past and the Card

That afternoon, Janani sat in a café near Regent's Canal, grading papers between lectures.

The university had offered her a part-time teaching role. Literature. Proper books, not marketing copy. The job she'd deferred twice before. Now she needed it, needed the income, needed something beyond survival.

She'd dropped Anjali and Prem at school that morning, rushed to campus, taught two classes, done office hours. Now this: grading, planning, preparing for tomorrow, all while working to be there for her children when they came home, striving to be a good mother, a good teacher, a good person, attempting to hold it all together.

The café was quiet. Mid-afternoon lull, that particular stillness that comes between lunch and the evening rush, when the light is soft and the pace of life slows. She'd claimed a table by the window, overlooking the canal. The water was still today, its surface a perfect mirror reflecting the grey October sky, the clouds, the branches of the trees that lined the towpath. A few mallards drifted past, their green heads catching the light, their movements creating small ripples that broke the reflection. A pair of moorhens, their red and yellow beaks bright against the dark water, sat together on the opposite bank, close and comfortable, a togetherness that comes from familiarity, from shared space, from the simple act of being near each other.

She watched them move in sync, aware of each other without needing to look.

She took a sip of tea, set the cup down, returned to the papers. Her mind drifted.

She remembered Valentine's Day three years ago, before everything fell apart, before Dev disappeared.

He'd come home with flowers, pink roses, her favourite, and chocolates and a card. But more than that, he'd been fully there. He'd cooked dinner, her favourite curry, put on music, danced with her in the kitchen, silly and teenage, like he was seventeen again, making her laugh, making her feel loved.

And she had laughed, felt loved, felt seen.

She'd reciprocated: breakfast in bed the next morning, little notes around the flat, calls during lunch to say she loved him. Small gestures, kind and romantic.

Birthdays too. He'd surprise her, not with expensive gifts but with thought, attention, care. He'd plan something, a walk, a picnic, a day trip, something that said he'd been thinking about her, that she mattered, that he saw her.

Life had been beautiful then. Not perfect, but beautiful and full.

She returned her gaze to the canal. The moorhens remained there, together, close.

She remembered another day, a drive through the city outskirts. Late afternoon in autumn, the sky turning gold and orange and pink, beautiful.

They'd been in the car, talking, laughing, fully there together.

Then they'd seen it. A murmuration. Hundreds of birds, thousands, moving as one, a living cloud shifting, turning, dancing, creating shapes in the sky: a heart, then a wave, then a spiral, dissolving, reforming, always moving, always together.

Dev had pulled the car over, jumped out, stood there watching. His face lit up like a child's, like he'd seen magic, something that made everything make sense.

He'd pulled out his phone and started typing right there, standing by the car, watching the birds, typing without looking at the screen.

When he finished, he'd turned to her, his eyes bright, his smile wide, his whole body alive.

"Listen," he'd said, and he'd read it to her, the poem, his poem, about the murmuration, about them, about love.

In the hush before evening,
your hand finds mine,
a quiet, natural gesture
like a bird joining the air.
We turn toward each other,
and the world softens.
Even our silences seem to move
in the same direction.
Love isn't loud.
It gathers slowly,
a murmuration of small moments
teaching two hearts
how to move as one
without needing to lead.

He'd looked at her, his eyes bright with understanding.

"I love you," he'd said. "This is how I feel. This is what we are. A murmuration. Moving together. Without needing to lead or follow."

Tears in her eyes, not sad but happy and grateful.

They'd stood there, watching the birds until the light faded, until the birds settled, until the sky went dark.

She'd saved that poem, printed it, put it in a frame, hung it in their bedroom. It was a reminder, a promise, a memory.

It was in a box. In storage. With the rest of their life together, their memories, what they'd been.

She returned to the papers, attempted to focus, worked at grading, but she wasn't focusing, wasn't grading. She was somewhere else, somewhere in the past, with him, with the man who'd written that poem, who'd been fully engaged, who'd loved her, who'd disappeared.

She took another sip of tea. It was cold now. She set it down. Looked at the clock. She had to pick up the children soon. She had to be there for them.

She gathered her papers, put them in her bag, stood, walked to the counter, paid, left.

Outside, the canal was silent. The moorhens were gone. The water was empty, grey.

She walked to her car, got in, started the engine, and drove away.

Seven months after the separation, Amir called me to his flat.

I hadn't heard from him in weeks. The invitation was strange, formal, tense, not the usual casual text, not the usual pub invitation. This was serious, urgent.

I arrived at his place. He opened the door, and I could see immediately that something was wrong. His expression was serious. I hadn't seen that before, not in all the years we'd been friends, not in the places we'd lived together, not ever. He was always the one who made jokes, who lightened the mood, but not today. Today he was worried, afraid.

"Come in."

I followed him inside. His flat was tidy, but uneasiness hung in the air. He didn't offer me tea, didn't ask how I was, didn't make small talk. He stood there, looking at me, working to understand how to help.

"Sit."

I sat on his sofa. He remained standing. The position felt wrong, formal, as if it were an intervention. Something was about to happen that I wasn't ready for, didn't want, couldn't avoid.

"Dev, we've been friends for years. I've watched you. I've seen what's happening."

"What are you talking about?"

He pulled out a card, held it out to me. White, simple, professional. A therapist's card. Help, therapy, the words I'd been avoiding, the words I'd been running from, the words that said I was broken, that I needed fixing, that I wasn't okay, that I wasn't fine.

"Dr. Claire Hammond. Clinical psychologist. She specialises in this, trauma, identity, what happens to people who've had to code-switch for survival."

I stared at the card. "Amir, I don't need this."

"I'm not asking. I'm telling you. As your friend. It's time."

"Time for what?"

"Time to get help. Time to stop pretending you're fine when you're not. Time to stop disappearing."

I took the card, stared at it: the name, an address, a phone number. Simple, direct, final, as if a sentence, as if a judgment.

"I don't need therapy."

"You do. And you know you do. I can see it. Everyone can see it. You're too far gone to notice, to understand, to help yourself."

"That's not true."

"It is." His voice was firm. "I'm not going to argue with you. I'm giving you this card. I'm telling you to call. Today. Not tomorrow, not when you're ready. Now."

He left the room. Came back with a phone. "Call. Now. While I'm here."

I looked at the card, looked at Amir, saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before: fear, fear for me.

I took the phone. Dialled the number.

That evening, I walked to Claire's clinic.

The building was unassuming, a converted Victorian house, its brickwork weathered, its windows tall and narrow, letting in the northern light. The waiting room was small, intimate, a space that felt safe rather than clinical. Warm lighting created pools of golden light, making the room feel as a home rather than an office. Magazines on a coffee table, their covers speaking of normalcy, of the everyday concerns of people who weren't in crisis. A plant in the corner, its leaves green and healthy, a small sign of life, of care, of the possibility of growth.

I sat, trembling.

I could leave. I could stand up right now and walk out. No one would know I'd been here.

I stayed.

A door opened. A woman emerged. Short grey hair. Kind eyes behind rimless glasses.

"Dev?"

I stood. "Yes."

"I'm Claire. Come in."

I followed her into her office. Books on trauma lining the walls. A window overlooking a small garden. Two chairs, one for her, one for me. The room was warm, not the temperature but the light, the colours. The space felt intentional, safe, but also temporary, as a waiting room, as a space between places, as the provisional existence I'd learned to navigate in visa offices, in airport terminals, in the liminal spaces between one life and another.

I sat. The chair was comfortable. Not too soft. Not too hard. As if it had been chosen for this. For people who needed to feel grounded. For people who needed to feel present.

She sat across from me, didn't speak, waited. Her hands were still, her expression calm, not expectant, not demanding, just there.

The silence stretched. I could hear traffic outside, a siren in the distance, my own breathing too fast and too shallow. I worked to slow it down, attempted to make it normal, strived to make myself normal. I couldn't.

I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I attempted to still them, but they wouldn't stop.

"Why are you here?" she asked finally.

"Amir made me come."

"Did he? Or did you choose to come when he gave you the card?"

I didn't answer. I wasn't sure. The answer was complicated. I'd taken the card, dialled the number, made the appointment, walked here, sat in the waiting room, come into this room, but had I chosen? Or had I done what I was told, what was expected, what I thought I should do?

"Tell me about yourself."

I opened my mouth, closed it. What was there to say?

"I'm a software engineer. A father. From India. Divorced."

The words came out flat, empty, as if I were reading from a script, as if I were describing someone else, someone I used to be, someone I couldn't remember being.

Long silence. She didn't rush, didn't fill it, waited, let it be.

"How do your days usually start?" she asked.

"I wake up. Get dressed. Go to work."

"What time do you wake up?"

"Six. Sometimes earlier."

"And when you're at work, how do you feel?"

I paused. "Normal, I suppose."

"Normal how?"

"Just... working. Doing my job."

She nodded. "What about when you're not at work? What do you do?"

"I pick up my children sometimes. From school. When it's my week."

"And how is that?"

"Fine. They're good kids."

"What about when you're alone? What do you do then?"

I looked at my hands. They'd stopped shaking. "I work, or I don't. Sometimes I settle."

"Just settle?"

"Yes. In my flat. Uncertain why. Just remain."

She was quiet for a moment. "I notice something. When you talk about work, your voice changes slightly. Did you know that?"

"No."

"It's subtle. But it's there. As if you're shifting into a different mode."

I didn't know how to respond.

"Does it happen in the moment? Can you catch it?"

"No. Probably not."

"That's okay. We're just noticing things today. No need to understand them yet."

She asked more questions about sleep, about food, about what I did on weekends. Small things, specific things. Nothing that felt too big, too heavy, too real.

At the end of the hour, nothing had been clarified or fixed or solved, but I'd sat there, answered questions, stayed for an hour. I'd been there, not fully, but present. That was progress.

"I'd like you to come back next week," she said. "And I'd like you to tell me your story. Not the facts. The story. How you got here."

"Where do I start?"

"Start where it makes sense to you. But start."

I stood, walked to the door, turned back.

"Why am I here?"

"Someone who cares about you saw you not well. They found a way to help."

"Who?"

"That's not for me to say. Not yet."

I left, walked down the stairs, out into the street.

The card was still in my pocket. I'd made the appointment. I'd come. I'd sat in that room.

Now I had to decide if I'd come back.

The following week, I returned.

I sat in the same chair. The same books on the walls. The same warm light.

"How was your week?" Claire asked.

"Fine. Normal."

"Anything stand out?"

"No. Just work. The usual."

She nodded. "You said last week you'd tell me your story. Are you ready to start?"

I looked at my hands. "I'm uncertain where to begin."

"Where would you like to start?"

I thought about it. About where I'd come from. About where I was now.

"The beginning, I guess."

"What feels like the beginning to you?"

I was quiet. The answer felt complicated. "Where I grew up, perhaps."

"Tell me about it."

I looked out the window, rain streaking the glass, October light fading. The question hung in the air between us. Where to start? How to begin a story that felt as if it had no beginning, only a series of departures, a series of leaving?

Excerpts