There is a moment, just before someone leaves, when the leaving has already happened. The bags are not packed, the door is not open, but the body knows. The hands thin. The bangles slip. The embrace that should be warmth becomes rehearsal for cold. This chapter is spoken entirely from inside that moment — a woman watching her lover prepare to go, and discovering that the pain of separation does not wait politely for the actual departure. It arrives early, uninvited, and it rewrites everything backward: his gaze, once pure pleasure, now carries the shadow of its own absence. His reassurances — 'I will return quickly,' 'Do not be afraid' — become evidence of cruelty rather than comfort, because they assume she will survive the interval. Valluvar builds the chapter as a slow collapse: from negotiation to accusation, from accusation to metaphysics, and finally to a bitter, sweeping irony aimed at all the women in the world who somehow manage to endure what she cannot.