The hum of the engine was the only constant in the suffocating silence that filled the opulent interior of my sedan. Outside, the city, a blur of concrete and glass, quickly gave way to the winding roads that promised a temporary escape from the relentless demands of my world. My hands, accustomed to the weight of responsibility, gripped the steering wheel with a familiar tension. Beside me, Sanavika sat, a still, graceful figure outlined against the passing landscape. Her gaze was fixed outside the window, a habitual posture that had become as much a part of our shared existence as the air we breathed.

It was always like this. The vast, unspoken chasm between us, a carefully constructed silence that I, on occasion, felt compelled to bridge. "Tabiyat kesi hai?" (How are you?) My voice, usually commanding, felt strangely hesitant, a fragile whisper against the roar of the engine.