Touch is hazy. Hands lingering on a coffee mug. Feet touching under a blanket. A head resting on a shoulder after a yawn. The kiss, if it happens, is usually in the hallway as one person is leaving, tasting vaguely of toothpaste and coffee.

To search for "Khushi Mukherjee Sunday relationships and romantic storylines" is to stumble upon a niche sub-genre of romance that feels less like fiction and more like a mirror held up to the quiet desperation and hopeful longing of the weekend. Why Sunday? In Khushi Mukherjee’s universe, Monday through Saturday belong to the ego—the part of us that works, hustles, performs, and survives. Sunday, in her narrative architecture, belongs to the id and the heart .

It is the text that says, "Stay a little longer. The sheets are warm." It is the decision to turn off the phone at 6 PM. It is the bravery of looking at someone on the last day of the weekend and knowing that even if Monday comes, the feeling will remain.