Kashvi Rao never planned to get married, and it was never her choice. However, when she finally agreed to marry, it was to the man chosen by her parents.
There's nothing inherently wrong with a parent-arranged marriage, but when the man her parents...
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Vansh and I are like two ships passing in the night, our marriage a mere facade, a hollow shell of a relationship that's been drained of all its vitality. We're like adversaries in a never-ending game of chess, each move calculated to outmaneuver the other.
Our words are laced with venom, our actions designed to provoke and irritate. The atmosphere between us is heavy with hostility, our very presence seeming to suck the oxygen out of the room. We've become masters at pushing each other's buttons, our interactions, a delicate dance of passive-aggressive snipes, and thinly veiled insults.
But when Vansh gave the green light for Arman to move into our home, a stinging sensation coursed through my veins. It was as if the fragile threads that held our marriage together had been yanked apart, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable.
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks: our union was nothing more than a mere formality, a loveless arrangement that meant little to him. His loyalty to his brother was a fortress, strong and unshakeable, while our marriage was a flimsy tent, easily toppled by the slightest breeze.
If Vansh had his way, I'd be nothing more than a distant memory, a fleeting thought he'd rather forget.
I'm stuck feeling awful, like a heavy weight is pressing down on me. And to make things worse, I'm forced to live under the same roof as Arman, the constant reminder of my pain. It's like being trapped in a never-ending nightmare, with no escape from the hurt and betrayal that lingers in every corner of our home.
As I began to gracefully fold the saree that had draped my body all day, the soft fabric rustling in my hands, Vansh suddenly materialized in the doorway of our room, his presence as unexpected as a summer storm.
His eyes locked onto mine, and I felt a jolt of tension, like the air was charged with electricity. The gentle motion of my hands faltered, the saree slipping from my fingers as our gazes remained fixed, the silence between us thick with unspoken words.
With a gentle stride, Vansh approached me, his eyes never leaving mine. He bent down, his fingers brushing against the floor, and picked up the saree that had slipped from my hands.
He straightened up, his movements graceful, and handed me one end of the fabric. Without a word, we began to fold the saree together, our hands moving in tandem, the soft rustle of the fabric filling the silence between us. It was a moment of unexpected intimacy, our fingers touching as we worked together, the tension between us palpable but unspoken.
I summoned the courage to ask, "Why did you do what you did?" But Vansh's response was curt and dismissive: "I don't owe you an explanation." He turned and walked away, leaving me feeling stunned and silenced. The arrogance of this man! I thought to myself, my anger and frustration boiling over. Fine, sleep on the sofa then!
But my mind raced ahead, imagining the awkwardness of us both trying to fit on the sofa together, Vansh's large frame overwhelming the space. It wasn't that the sofa was small. It was just that Vansh seemed to take up too much room, physically.
