"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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As usual, I woke up in the morning alone in the room. The faint sunlight filtered in through the thick curtains, painting soft golden lines across the floor. The first thing I registered was the absence of warmth beside me—not that I expected it.
The bed, as always, was untouched on his side, perfectly smooth and unwrinkled. It baffled me how he managed that. I’d spent the night, once again, curled up on the narrow couch by the window, my spine protesting every turn I made. Yet, the bed remained pristine, as if untouched by dreams.
I sat up slowly, pushing the light duvet off my body and stretching my arms with a quiet yawn. It always took me a few seconds after waking to recall exactly where I was. This room. This house. This marriage. My mind needed time to piece it all together, every single morning.
My gaze swept around the room, instinctively searching for signs of him. But there was nothing—only the soft ticking of the wall clock, and the scent of incense faintly drifting in from the hallway. I blinked a few times and turned my head toward the clock. Past eight. My eyes widened.
Oh no.
I scrambled to my feet, heart skipping in panic. Two hours late. I never overslept. Ever. A wave of dread rolled over me as I imagined the disapproving glances from the women downstairs, the sideways comments, the awkward silences that followed me everywhere in this house.
I rushed to the bathroom, going through my morning routine at record speed. A quick shower, trembling fingers adjusting the pleats of my mustard yellow saree—the only one in my small collection that felt simple yet decent enough to wear around the house.
It wasn’t extravagant, not like the silk sarees the other women here paraded through the halls in, but it was mine. My choice. And today, it felt like a small act of rebellion just to wear something that didn’t weigh heavy on my shoulders.
My damp hair clung to the sides of my face as I stepped out, almost jogging toward the door. I was halfway through fastening the pin on my pallu when I nearly collided into someone just outside.
My reflexes worked better than expected this morning. I braced myself, hand instinctively shooting to my chest as I took a small step back. And there he was.
Vedant.
Standing right in front of me, lost in thought, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t looking directly at me—more like through me, as though his mind was tangled in something far away. After what happened in the kitchen yesterday, I hadn’t seen him again. Dadaji had called for him post-dinner, and I had fallen asleep before he returned.
“Morning,” I muttered, awkwardly, my voice barely above a whisper. Talking to him still felt like an exam I hadn’t studied for. A sixteen-year-old me could solve calculus problems with more confidence than I could muster while speaking to the man I was married to.
Maybe he looked at me, I didn't know but his eyes softening, though his posture remained distant. “Good morning,” he replied politely, his voice steady, measured. He wore a deep green shirt tucked into dark trousers, the sleeves rolled slightly at the wrist, revealing the veins that lined his forearms.
