It’s not a big deal. Really. This is stupid. I shouldn't even be writing this. Just... it happened. Today. My first real parent-teacher conference of the year. Mrs. Henderson. You know the type. Pearl necklace, too-tight bun, smells like expensive soap. She brings up my "unwavering dedication" to the students. "Mr. Sharma, you're such a pillar of this community." Blah blah blah. Smiles. I nod. Thank you. Then she leans in. Whispers. "You know, Mr. Sharma, some of us were just wondering. You're always so... alone. No family at the school events. You never mention anyone." My blood runs cold. I can feel it. I smile wider. "Oh, my family, you know. They live a bit far. Very traditional. Don't really get involved in the school stuff." Lie. It was a lie. I saw it. The look in her eyes. Not suspicion. Not judgment. Pity. A soft, knowing pity. Like she saw right through the polite bullshit. Like she knew I was making it up. The wife. The kids. The perfect family. It’s all a front. Has been for years. Then the image. My partner. At home. Making his special dal. He makes it for me every Tuesday. Always has. Always will. I picture his face. The easy smile. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. And I feel… a pain. A sharp, hot stab behind my ribs. I told my parents I was marrying a girl. An engineer. From back home. I even showed them a picture of my cousin. Photoshopped her face onto a bridal magazine cover. They sent money. For the wedding. For the dowry. My dad, he was SO PROUD. “My son. Such a good boy. Respects his culture.” I still send them money. Every month. More than I should. My partner. He knows. He understands. He’s the one who says “You have to do what you have to do.” He calls it my “double life.” My “performance.” Says I’m a great actor. He laughs. But I see the sadness in his eyes sometimes. The quiet moments. When he thinks I’m not looking. Tonight, after Henderson. I came home. He was cooking. The smell of cumin, ginger. I hugged him. Held on tight. My hands were shaking. He pulled back. Looked at my face. “What’s wrong, baba?” His voice is so soft. So gentle. I couldn't tell him. Couldn't tell him that her pity felt like a spotlight. Like someone was shining a light on my fraud. I just mumbled, “Long day.” He knows. He always knows. He just made me a cup of chai. And we sat there. In silence. The silence felt heavy. Like a blanket. Covering everything. My shame. My fear. His understanding. It’s all there. In the quiet. It’s just… I’m so tired. Of living this way. Of being two people. Mr. Sharma, the pillar of the community. And the other me. The real me. The one who loves his partner. The one who’s terrified of being found out. My parents would disown me. They’d never speak to me again. EVER. And the community. This traditional town. What would they say? The whispers. The gossip. My job. It would be gone. This isn’t a confession. It’s just… noise. In my head. At 2 AM. I hate Mrs. Henderson. I hate her pity. I hate that she saw through me. Just a little. A tiny crack in the facade. And now it feels like the whole thing is crumbling. What am I going to do. What am I going to do.