Ira comes for tea and slowly reveals a life shaped by emotional surveillance. Loved, watched, and quietly evaluated by her parents, she lives under constant explanation. Through food, posture, and confession, she names the exhaustion of being known too well and finds nourishment not just in eating, but in finally being heard.
Ira arrived five minutes early and apologized for it, the way people do when they are used to taking responsibility for time itself. She said it lightly, as if time itself had offended her.
She wore a white A-line shirtdress, clean and careful, the kind that looks chosen for comfort but ends up signaling restraint. When she sat down, she folded herself into the chair unconsciously. One leg rested on the floor, the other tucked underneath her, knees visible. It was not a pose meant to be seen. It slipped out before her body remembered how to protect itself. I noticed the brief softness of it, the quiet vulnerability, before she settled and forgot.
Her hair was tied back, not neatly, not messy either. The kind of compromise people make when they want to appear effortless but still acceptable.She looked younger than her age until she spoke. Then something older slipped through.
The room held us gently. A small wooden table. Two mismatched chairs that had learned to coexist without explanation. Light came through thin curtains, dulling the sharpness of the afternoon. In the corner stood a plant, puny and slightly tilted, its leaves uneven and stubbornly green. It looked like something that had survived neglect by lowering its expectations. Nothing in the room demanded attention. Everything allowed it.
I poured the tea. Cardamom-heavy, boiled a minute too long, imperfect in an honest way. Almost bitter.
I offered sugar. She shook her head before I finished asking.
“My parents don’t like it,” she said, then smiled quickly. “Sugar.”
“They read somewhere it’s bad for focus,” she added. “They send me articles.”
She wrapped both hands around the cup, even though it was too hot. When I asked how she’d been, she answered the way people do when they’ve rehearsed the version that sounds healthiest.
“Good,” she said. “Busy. Productive.” She wrapped both hands around the cup, even though it was clearly too hot. The skin on her knuckles reddened slightly. She didn’t move them away.
I placed a plate of butter biscuits between us, the kind that crumble softly and leave a dusting on your fingers, and a thin slice of plain cake whose edges had already begun to dry.
Ira looked at the plate for longer than politeness required.
“I didn’t think I was hungry,” she said, almost surprised by herself.
She picked up a biscuit, broke it cleanly in half, dipped one side into the tea, and ate it before it could soften too much. Butter caught the light on her fingers. She did not wipe them away. She took another bite, slower, like she was checking whether it was acceptable to want more.
Her phone lay face-down beside her cup. It buzzed once. She didn’t look at it. I noticed the way her fingers hovered near it anyway, like a reflex she’d trained herself not to show.
We talked about work that paid just enough to feel legitimate. The city and how it pretended to be exciting when it was mostly exhausting. The strange performance of always sounding fine. Ira spoke carefully, choosing words that felt approved. She was good at this. She had been practicing for years.
The phone buzzed again.
She didn’t pick it up.
“They know where I am,” Ira said, suddenly, eyes still on the steam rising between us. “Not in a creepy way. Just… in case.”
In case of what, I almost asked.
“They have my location,” she continued. “They say it’s practical. Everyone does it now. Especially educated families.” She laughed softly, checking whether I was laughing too.
I wasn’t. Instead, I refilled her cup.
“They don’t check it all the time,” she said quickly. “Just if I don’t reply. Or if I’m out late. Or if I sound different on the phone.”
Different how?
“Tired,” she said. “Or quiet.”
“I usually send a photo when I reach places,” she said lightly, nodding toward the phone. “Not always. Just when it’s new.”
New places needed proof.
“They don’t ask directly,” Ira continued. “They frame it as curiosity. Like, that café looks nice. Or who took the picture.”
She smiled, almost fondly. She finally picked up the phone, glanced at the screen, typed something short, then placed it back exactly where it had been. Face-down. Aligned with the edge of the table.
“They worry,” she said. “Which I appreciate. I really do.”
“They don’t comment on my posts,” she said. “They think it’s undignified.”
Undignified to be visible.
“But they see everything,” she added. “If I don’t post for a few days, my mother asks if I’m feeling low. If I post too much, she asks if I’m avoiding something.”
She dipped another biscuit into the tea. This time it softened too quickly and broke. She fished it out with her fingers, unbothered by the mess. Crumbs clung to her skin. There was something grounding in the way she ate, like she was relearning how to take up space.
“They ask how my day was,” she went on. “What I ate. Who I met. Whether I reached safely. Whether I slept enough.” She paused. “If I don’t answer one question, they repeat it later. Nicely.”
Nicely, she emphasized, as if kindness itself were evidence.
“I think they believe this is what love looks like now,” she said. “Being informed.”
She reached for the cake at last, took a small bite, then another. The act of eating seemed to undo her more than the talking. Her shoulders rounded. The careful posture collapsed inward.
Ira exhaled slowly, as if she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.
“I don’t think they know they’re doing it,” she said. “That’s the worst part. If they were cruel, I could be angry. But they’re careful. They ask permission before they cross a line. They just cross it anyway.”
She picked up the phone again, turned it over this time. The screen lit up. A message preview flashed, then disappeared.
“She’ll wait,” Ira said, almost to herself. “My mother. She waits until I respond. It’s her way of being patient.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach anywhere useful.
“I used to think freedom was about distance,” she continued. “Moving out. Earning my own money. Having keys.” She paused. “I didn’t know it was also about not being observed.”
I asked her if she’d ever tried turning the location off.
She looked at me as if I’d suggested something obscene.
“I did once,” she said. “For an hour. They didn’t say anything directly. Just… later that night, my father asked if everything was okay. My mother sent me a link about phone settings malfunctioning. They were very calm.”
She folded her hands in her lap.
“I turned it back on,” she said.
I put a plate on the table. Warm toast, butter melting unevenly, a bowl of cut fruit that smelled faintly of orange peel. Nothing impressive. The kind of food you make when you don’t want to ask questions.
Ira noticed immediately.
She hesitated, then reached for the toast with both hands, as if she needed the contact.
“I once deleted a photo,” Ira said. “Just didn’t like how I looked that day.”
She paused.
“My father mentioned it a week later.”
Her voice did not rise. It thinned.
“They remember versions of me,” she said. “Then they compare.”
She reached for the cake, scraped crumbs loose with her nail, then finally took a bite. As she chewed, her shoulders dropped, as if eating itself were permission she had forgotten she needed.
“They mean well,” Ira said quickly now, the words beginning to crowd each other. “They really do.They read,” Ira said. “They go to therapy. They use the right language.”
She laughed once, sharp and brittle.
“That’s what makes it worse.”
Her hands were shaking now. Not dramatically, not for effect. Just enough to be undeniable. She pressed them flat against the table, trying to discipline them into stillness.
“I don’t know when being known became this exhausting,” she said. “When every pause started to feel suspicious.”
She stopped. Swallowed.
“When I was seven,” Ira said suddenly, “my mother asked me why I was quiet on the drive home. I remember thinking there must be a correct answer. And not finding one.”The memory landed and stayed.
The tea had cooled. She took a small sip and grimaced, then smiled apologetically, as though the tea had feelings.
“I start narrating my life before they ask,” Ira went on, quieter now. “I explain myself in advance.“Pre-emptively. Like if I explain myself fast enough, I won’t disappoint them. I soften my voice while I’m alone.”
Her eyes filled, not dramatically, just enough to darken the kajal, to give the tears a shape that felt earned instead of loud. She did not apologize for them. She let them exist.
“I rehearse happiness,” she whispered. “I edit sadness. I delay anger.”
She lifted her cup then and drank the rest of her tea. Fully. Not hurried, not careful. Finishing it felt important, like proof that something had been taken in and not left behind.
“I love them,” Ira said urgently, as if love were evidence she needed to submit.
Her voice broke.
“I really do.”
Biscuit crumbs still clung to her fingers. She pressed her hands together, as if trying to keep herself from coming apart.
“But I feel like I’m living under review.” The words sat there, undeniable. They asked to be held.
“They say they just want to know I’m okay,” Ira continued. “But okay keeps changing.”
She looked down at the empty cup, then back up.
“I don’t want to escape them,” she said. “I just want one day where nothing needs to be explained. One day where silence isn’t suspicious.”
Her tears slipped quietly into the cup she had already finished. She noticed, smiled faintly at the absurdity of it, wiped her face with the back of her hand. The kajal smeared completely now. She did not bother fixing it.
“They’ll ask how this was,” she said. “Who you are. What we talked about. How long I stayed.”
She stood, smoothing her dress, assembling herself with frightening efficiency. It was clear she had done this before. Many times.
“I’ll tell them it was nice,” Ira said. “That the tea was good.”
At the door, she paused.
“Thank you,” she said. Not for listening. For feeding her.
“I tell myself it’s fine,” Ira said. “They’re not conservative. They’re not angry. They encourage independence. They just like… visibility.”
She stopped.
“I don’t remember the last time I didn’t explain myself,” she said quietly.
Outside, a car passed. Somewhere, someone laughed. The world carried on at a distance.
“They say they trust me,” she added. “They just trust themselves more.”
She looked up then, finally meeting my eyes, as if she’d said something irreversible.
The phone buzzed again. This time, she didn’t reach for it.
After she left, the room felt too still and too large. The biscuits lay broken on the plate. The cake had dried completely at the edges. The plant leaned slightly toward the window. Biscuit crumbs lay scattered on the table like evidence of something gentle having happened.
I cleared the table slowly, thinking about how love can learn the language of care and still ask for receipts.
Somewhere, Ira would already be typing.
Explaining herself.
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