Glass Walls Act II – Cracks in the Mirror

Weeks passed.

The envelope remained in his drawer. The audio file stayed untouched on his laptop—just another document waiting to be opened, shuffled in with budget reports and pending emails.

Rajeev kept meaning to check it.

He even hovered the mouse over the file one evening, thumb brushing the trackpad.

But Rhea called out from the hallway with that familiar softness, “Love, did you forget about the dinner with Mishra Sir? You promised…”

He closed the laptop.

“Later,” he thought.

Meanwhile, Rhea’s control turned subtler—and sharper.

She began “helping” with Aanya’s school matters.

Calling teachers without asking. Redirecting PTA notices to her phone.

Even dropping by school once with sweet excuses and carefully rehearsed concern.

“She’s not sleeping well,” she told the school counsellor. “She gets moody. Maybe it’s teenage hormones, but I just want her to feel supported.”

Aanya found out two days later, when the counsellor gently suggested a group therapy session for “stepfamily communication.”

At home, Rhea smiled as if she hadn’t just stolen her voice again.

“You’re welcome,” she said, slipping a mock-kind hand on Aanya’s shoulder.

In private, Aanya’s rage brewed.

She had proof. And a father who wouldn’t listen.

“What do I have to do?” she asked Nisha one afternoon on the rooftop, eyes stormy. “Do I have to scream in front of him? Smash his laptop open?”

Nisha frowned. “You’re not wrong, Aanya. But if you explode, you give her what she wants. She wants to make you look unstable.”

“She already has.”

At home, Rajeev began noticing other things—but said nothing.

How Aanya’s laughter, once loud and impulsive, had gone quiet.

How she barely looked at him now, as if choosing her words around landmines.

And how Rhea, for all her sweetness, never really asked about Aanya, just reported on her like an employee giving updates.

Still, he buried the questions under deadlines, meetings, and the constant need for peace. Conflict was messy. And Rhea? She was composed, gracious, and generous.

She looked like stability.

One evening, he found Aanya’s sketchbook open on the sofa.

A girl drawn in profile, screaming into a glass jar.

Around her, small words floated in bubbles:

You’re overreacting.

She means well.

You should be grateful.

It’s not that bad.

He stared at the page for a long time.

Then closed it.

Another time, maybe.