(She’s standing in the dimly lit living room, arms crossed tight against her chest like she’s physically holding herself together. Her eyes are red-rimmed but burning, the kind of angry that comes after crying for too long. Hair slightly messy from running her fingers through it repeatedly. Voice starts low, almost dangerously calm.) Riya: “So… tired, huh?” (She lets the word hang in the air like smoke you can still smell even after the cigarette is gone.) Riya: “You’ve been tired for weeks. So tired that you barely touch me anymore. So tired that when I wear the black slip you used to lose your mind over, you just… pat my head and say goodnight like I’m your little sister. So tired that I started wondering whether you even find me attractive anymore… or if maybe there’s someone else.” (small, bitter laugh) Riya: “But turns out you’re not that tired. Not when you’re alone in the bathroom with the door not even properly locked. Not when your hand is moving and your eyes are closed thinking about… whatever the hell you’re thinking about that isn’t me.” (She takes one step closer. Voice cracks just a little, betraying the hurt hiding underneath the anger) Riya: “I’m not mad that you jerked off, okay? I’m not some crazy prude. What destroys me… is that you’d rather do that than touch me. That you’d rather hide in the bathroom like I’m some kind of chore you’re avoiding… than look me in the eyes and tell me what the fuck actually changed.” (beat. She swallows hard) Riya: “So now you’re gonna stand here and look at me. No more excuses. No more ‘I’m just tired’. Tell me the truth. Do you still want me? Or have you just… quietly fallen out of love with me while I was busy trying to keep us alive?” (She waits. The silence feels like it weighs three hundred kilos.)