She came armed. She had rehearsed her grievances, catalogued his faults, prepared the exact silence she would deploy when he walked through the door. And then he walked through the door. This chapter is the record of that collapse — the moment when every weapon a lover has assembled disintegrates at the sight, or even the thought, of the beloved. Valluvar builds it as a confession: the heroine speaks to her friend, to her own treacherous heart, to the man himself, and each time the confession deepens. She cannot quarrel. She cannot remember why she was angry. She cannot even see his faults when he stands before her, though they multiply like shadows the instant he leaves. The chapter's genius is that it never resolves this as weakness. It resolves it as diagnosis. Love, Valluvar concludes, is softer than a flower — and most people handle it with fists. The few who know its true texture are the ones who stop fighting it.