"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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I don't know what came over me. But I let my body go slack, the blood rushing from my head as I closed my eyes and pretended to faint. Anything-anything-to escape this humiliation.
"Shivya!"
His voice-deep, sharp, alert-pierced through the thick fog in my ears. I felt my body tip forward, and in that brief fraction of a second, I was almost certain I would crash against the floor.
The cold, hard marble floor waiting to mock me for such a cheap, cowardly act. But instead of pain, there was warmth. A steady pressure. A sudden, unexpected resistance.
A hand wrapped around my waist-no, my midriff, and pulled me up just before I fell. I didn't hit the floor. I didn't even make it to the couch I had been eyeing discreetly.
I was hanging in the air, suspended between panic and disbelief, while his other hand brushed gently across my face.
The touch was so soft, so careful... as if I were made of something fragile. As if his fingers weren't allowed to linger but couldn't help themselves.
His palm tapped my cheek gently once, then twice. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to draw me back from the nothingness I was faking so desperately.
"Bach gayi" I swallowed silently, mentally whispering the words like a prayer. Saved. I didn't fall flat on the floor.
That had been my greatest fear-more than anyone discovering the truth of my act, more than his touch. Falling flat like a sack of potatoes in front of all these people. Now I hung in this surreal state of in-between, not grounded, not free.
My hands hung limp at my sides, awkward and unnatural. I didn't know where to place them. His hand was still supporting the upper half of my body, holding me up like I weighed nothing at all.
"Shivya..." he whispered again. His breath grazed across my cheek, sending a rush of goosebumps up my arms. His voice was so close-too close. His lips were near, dangerously near, and yet the way he said my name... it was laced with something unreadable.
I didn't open my eyes, I wanted to open them but I couldn't.
My heart was beating wildly, like it wanted to claw its way out of my chest. I was terrified he'd see through me. That he'd recognize the deliberate flutter of my lashes, the way my throat bobbed when I swallowed.
That he'd hear the panic rioting beneath my skin and realize I wasn't unconscious at all-I was pretending.
"Bro, please... maintain some distance" I screamed internally, mortified by how aware I was of every inch between us-of how little there was. His chest was almost brushing mine. I could feel his heartbeat. Not fast, like mine. Steady. Grounded. Confident.
His hand shifted, lower, sliding across my waist-and then, just as my nerves screamed in horror, I felt it. The fabric of my saree.
He folded the end of it between his fingers and gently tucked it under his palm, as if creating a barrier between my body and his touch. That simple act... it should've made me feel relieved. It should've made me feel respected.
