"Happy Married Life, Shivya Pathak" I weakly smiled seeing my condition, mangalsutra dangling in my neck, vermilion in hair and both hands filled with gold bangles.
"Come out quickly or do you want me to break the gate," my husband knocked again...
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Shivya sat alone on the damp earth behind the haveli, her back pressed against the weather-worn stone wall that bore cracks like veins of forgotten sorrow.
The wall, ancient and tired, seemed the only thing still strong enough to shoulder the weight of everything she couldn't say aloud. Above her, the sky sagged under the weight of twilight, clouds bruised purple with the promise of another sleepless night.
Her fingers sank into the cold grass, damp with dew and time, tracing aimless circles into the earth like she was trying to write her pain into something that might absorb it.
She didn't flinch at the chill, didn't move when the breeze lifted the edges of her dupatta. Her mind was elsewhere-adrift, spiraling.
Why did I say those things?
The question pulsed inside her like a bruise being pressed again and again, echoing in her skull, reverberating against her ribcage.
Because he pushed. Because he asked. Because he said he wanted to understand. And I-I warned him. I told him the truth wasn't soft. That I wasn't soft. That I'm all splinters and sharp edges. But still, he asked.
She had given him her truth-unvarnished, bloodied, real. And then he walked away. Just like all the others who had claimed they wanted honesty, until they got it raw and too real.
Her stomach knotted painfully.
Did he think I meant to hurt him? That I enjoyed it? That I'm just some cruel, bitter woman lashing out for the thrill of it?
She inhaled sharply, the air slicing down her throat like cold water swallowed too fast. Her chest burned, but her eyes stayed dry.
No one had come looking for her. Ruh had checked in earlier, but finding Shivya curled up like a closed book, eyes shut and body folded inward, she'd quietly slipped away. Now, the silence wrapped itself around her like a second skin. Except for Zumo.
The cat lingered a few feet away, watching with alert eyes, as though sensing her unraveling. For weeks now, Zumo had been her quiet shadow-always near, always nudging her with the soft persistence of something that cared without conditions.
Today, even Zumo had kept his distance. Until now.
With a tentative mewl, the feline crept forward, curling into Shivya's lap like a patch of warmth against her numbness. Her hand moved instinctively, fingers burying themselves in the softness of his fur. The rhythmic purr that followed soothed something brittle in her chest.
"Why can't life be as simple as yours, Zumo?" she murmured, voice hoarse and barely audible, as if her throat hadn't dared make sound in days.
"You don't second-guess your worth. You don't lie awake wondering if you're too much or not enough. You don't live in fear that those who say they care will turn away the moment you show them the mess inside."
