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Neha's face was a masterpiece of controlled panic. She smiled, said, "I'll check my calendar," and then, under the table, her hand found mine and squeezed so hard I felt my bones rearrange.

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That sentence hit me harder than any scream could. She wasn't talking about the fern. She was talking about my habit of avoiding emotional maintenance—letting small cracks in our conversations grow into canyons. For three days, we were in that agonizing space where you sleep on opposite edges of the bed and rehearse speeches in the shower. Neha's face was a masterpiece of controlled panic