Chapter 1: The Beginning of Distance

The Sound of Plates

The sound of the steel plate hitting the table was louder than usual. Ira didn’t look up, but she knew it was intentional.

“Sit properly while eating,” her mother said, her voice calm but edged with irritation.

“I am sitting properly, Maa,” Ira replied, already feeling the familiar tension rise in her chest.

“Don’t answer back for everything.”

That was enough. Ira let out a quiet, humorless laugh, pushing her food around without appetite. It amazed her how even the smallest things turned into something bigger in this house.

Her father sighed from across the table, clearly tired. “Can we just eat in peace for once?”

Ira looked up at that, her eyes tired but sharp. “No, Papa, we can’t. Because apparently even breathing the wrong way is a problem here.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” her mother snapped, finally meeting her eyes. “We are only telling you for your own good.”

“Yeah?” Ira muttered. “Then why does it never feel like that?”

The air shifted. It always did at that point—when things stopped being small.

“Because you don’t want to understand,” her mother said, her tone tightening. “You only want to argue.”

“And you only want to control everything!”

“Ira—” her father tried to interrupt, but she didn’t stop.

“No, Papa, let her say it,” Ira said quickly, her voice rising. “She always says I never listen. Today I’ll listen.”

Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Fine. Then listen properly. We have done everything for you. Everything. And this is how you talk to us?”

For a moment, Ira said nothing. She stared at her plate, at the food she had no desire to eat, at the table where every meal felt like a battlefield.

“I didn’t ask for all that,” she said quietly.

The words slipped out before she could catch them.

Silence followed—sharp and heavy.

Her father’s hand stilled. “What did you just say?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, I just—”

“No, Ira,” he cut in, his voice firmer now. “You don’t say things like that.”

Her mother let out a short, bitter laugh. “Of course she will say it. After all, this is the same girl who—”

“Stop bringing that up again!” Ira’s voice cracked, louder than she intended.

“Why should I stop?” her mother shot back instantly. “Did you forget it? Because I didn’t.”

“I was a kid!”

“And now?” her mother said, her eyes cold. “What excuse do you have now? Same attitude. Same behavior.”

Something inside Ira tightened painfully. It didn’t matter how much time passed—nothing ever really moved on in this house.

She pushed her plate away, the scraping sound cutting through the room. “You never forget anything, do you?”

“Some things are not meant to be forgotten.”

Ira swallowed hard, her eyes stinging. “Yeah… especially when you remind me every single day.”

Her father rubbed his forehead, exhausted. “This is going nowhere.”

“It never does,” Ira said, standing up abruptly. “Because in this house, I’m always the problem.”

“That’s not what we said,” her mother replied, though her tone held no softness.

“You don’t have to say it,” Ira said, a hollow laugh escaping her. “You make it clear enough.”

She turned to leave, her steps quick, almost desperate.

“Sit down and finish your food,” her mother ordered from behind.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re always like this—leaving things incomplete.”

Ira paused.

For a brief second, it felt like something might break differently this time—like maybe she would turn around, say something softer, fix it.

But she didn’t.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, without looking back. “Maybe I learned it from here.”

And then she walked away.

Behind her, the food remained untouched. Her father didn’t pick up his spoon again, and her mother sat still, staring at the empty chair as if it could answer something she couldn’t say out loud.

The house fell silent.

But it wasn’t the kind of silence that brought peace.

It was the kind that stayed.

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