Until She Looks at Me

The room was too quiet for a wedding night.

Avira sat at the edge of the bed, fingers twisting the end of her dupatta, her heart thudding unevenly. No sindoor, no mangalsutra, no witnesses apart from a judge who signed their papers. The world would call them married - but here, she sat alone, in a silence heavier than any vow.

The door opened.

Pretibha Singh stepped in - not in bridal silk, but in a sharply cut black business suit, her hair tied, her expression unreadable. Not a single trace of the wedding lingered on her. No warmth. No curiosity. Only cold presence.

For a moment, Avira's breath caught.

She's beautiful, she thought. And terrifying.

Pretibha didn't look at her. She walked to the table, placed her phone and keys down with precise calm. No words. No acknowledgment.

Avira, mustering courage, stood up. "I-" her voice trembled, "I was waiting. I thought maybe... we could talk?"

Pretibha's eyes slid to her. Sharp. Empty.

Avira swallowed, stepping closer. She gently reached out, fingers brushing Pretibha's blazer sleeve. Wife, she reminded herself. Be gentle. Be welcoming. She whispered, "Let me help, you must be tired-"

Pretibha stepped back.

A full step. As if burned.

Her voice was low. Husky. Quiet enough to be soft, sharp enough to cut.

"Don't. Touch me."

Avira froze.

Not loud. Not cruel. But final.

Pretibha turned away, unbuttoning her cuffs herself. Her face held no anger, no explanation - just distance. Distance so vast Avira felt as though she no longer existed in the room.

Without another glance, Pretibha walked toward the balcony doors.

Avira stood alone, her fingers still lifted in the air where she had tried to help. Hope - so carefully carried - slipped from her chest silently.

She had dreamed of understanding. Of companionship.

But all she got was four words.

Don't. Touch. Me.

And in that moment, Avira realized - she was married to a woman who had no space for her existence.