#Jay and Anamta

The night was a silent canvas, painted only by the faint, rhythmic hum of the dishwasher and the gentle tap of water against ceramic. Anamta’s hands moved methodically, scrubbing a plate, rinsing it, setting it in the rack. Her mind was a thousand miles away, on a different continent, with a man who had promised to return in a week. The loneliness of the past month had settled into her bones, a quiet ache she’d learned to ignore. She wore a simple, faded cotton tee, soft from years of wear, and a pair of thin, grey pyjama pants that clung loosely to her hips. Her hair, dark and heavy, was tied back in a careless knot, a few strands escaping to brush her neck.