A storm it was. Just not the kind that screamed through corridors or shattered glass. It was the kind that shut doors softly.

Vedant reached his room with steps that didn’t stomp but struck. The kind that sounded calm only because the fury was packed too tightly inside to spill.

He didn’t pace. Didn’t slam anything. He just stood there, jaw clenched, heart pressing against the inside of his ribs like it wanted out.

Every word from that dinner still circled his mind. His father's voice, velvet wrapped steel. His chachu’s faux casualness. The quiet weight of expectation that pressed against his shoulders with a familiar suffocating grip.

He needed space. More than the four walls of his room could give. So he left.

He crossed the hallway, past his bedroom, to the study nestled in the quietest wing of the house. The one space untouched by legacy, expectation, or inheritance. A space no one really entered except him. The air here smelled of stillness, mahogany and something faintly citrus, like the remnants of an old cologne he no longer used. Clean. Cold. Controlled.

Inside, the cool air greeted him like an old accomplice. Clean lines. Stark walls. The moonlight spilled in through the tall window, landing in pale patches across the sleek desk.

His laptop screen blinked awake, casting sterile blue light on the table. Company reports. Memos. Numbers.

He tried. Tried to focus. Work usually did the trick. But tonight? It didn’t work. Not when his mind kept replaying that voice.

“We’ve given you enough time.”

As if he owed them something. As if his life was on their clock.

He stood up abruptly, his breath shallow, his hand moved to the drawer, the farthest one, he opened it.

There it was, the absurd little diya pendant. The one he’d found only hours ago, it lay there like a breath paused mid sentence.

He stared at it for a moment. Just stared. And then… he picked it up. Fingers curled around the delicate curve.

It felt... strange.

He closed his fist around it, thumb tracing the edges like muscle memory born too soon.

There was no explanation for it. No rational reason for why this little piece of someone else calmed him down.

Maybe because it didn’t speak. Didn’t expect. It didn’t say “you’re almost thirty” or “we’ve waited long enough.” It simply existed. Quietly. Like comfort tucked into gold.

He sat back in the chair. The pendant resting in his palm. And for the first time that night, he let himself feel the weight of it all.

Not just the dinner. Not just the marriage talk. Everything.

The boy inside him that never got to be one. The man outside him who never got to rest. And this pendant, this little thing with no right to mean so much, made it all feel… softer. Quieter. Bearable.

He didn’t know whose it was. Didn’t know why it calmed him. But he knew one thing with strange, inexplicable certainty: He couldn’t let it go.

Later, when the house went to sleep and even his anger ran out of breath, Vedant returned to his room.

He didn’t put the pendant away.

He didn’t leave it on the desk or return it to the drawer.

He took it with him.

Held it against his chest like a secret he wasn’t ready to name.

And when he finally closed his eyes, it was the first time in months that sleep didn’t have to be fought for.

The pendant rested between his fingers. His heartbeat calmed. And for one night, the ache inside him dimmed.

Sunday mornings were sacred. Especially after a week that felt like an entire audit report compressed into five suffocating weekdays.

I woke up later than usual, 9:30 a.m., a luxury in my life. The sun had already filtered in through the white curtains, soft and warm. I just lay there for a moment, head resting against the pillow, listening to the soft whir of the ceiling fan, letting myself exist. No calls, no client follow ups, no pending reconciliations just… silence.

My body ached with exhaustion, the kind you only feel when the adrenaline of deadlines wears off. The past week had been relentless. Long hours at the firm, multiple client visits, late night study sessions for CA finals, it was a blur of tired smiles and pushing through. But today, today I could breathe.

I grabbed my phone and texted Tara.

Me: “Still alive or has IIM-A turned you into a PowerPoint presentation?”

She replied instantly. “Landing in an hour. Ready for coffee and tea iykyk.”

I smiled. She was finally back. After a month of voice notes and "guess what happened" texts, I was going to see her.

I got out of bed, did a quick stretch, brushed, and moved to my skincare like it was a ritual that kept me sane. Showered, moisturized. Then slipped into my outfit: soft white top with a tiny bow at the neckline and blue jeans. I looked… decent. Comfortable.



My Uber dropped me at the café we always went to. We’d outgrown most things from college, our silly nicknames, Tara’s obsession with Korean dramas and hundred other things, but this café remained. A little too expensive for the size of their lattes, but the nostalgia made it worth it.

I spotted Tara by the window, scrolling through her phone, sunglasses on her head, hair tied in a low bun. When she saw me, she stood up with a squeal, arms already halfway stretched.

"Finally!" she exclaimed while hugging me tight.

We ordered coffee, creamy and too sweet for normal people, that's how we liked it. We sat down, and the chatter began. Her campus stories spilled out in fast, excited bursts about professors who loved power plays, presentations that felt like group therapy, and that one boy in her batch who she swears wears the same white shirt every Monday.

"Also, I’ve decided," she announced dramatically, mid sip, "You need a boyfriend."

I snorted. "You need therapy."

"Diya, come on. You're literally the soft core dream girl of every CA aspirant. You’re smart, pretty, you love idli sambar, you're the whole package."

"I’m also emotionally unavailable and allergic to awkward family dinners."

"So? Get a man who loves silence. Those exist."

"Tara," I sighed, trying to stay casual. "I’ve never even dated anyone. I wouldn’t even know how to… be in love. It just feels like something for someone else. Not me."

"Besides, dating? in this generation? I don't have the time to babysit an emotionally unavailable man child."

She laughed. Loudly. “Okay fair, but still... I want you to find someone. Someone who brings you idli when you’re sad.”

“I don't need a man for that" I grinned.

We kept talking. About IIM. About deadlines. About love. I told her I didn’t believe in marriage.

"What do you mean you don’t believe in marriage?" she asked, brows raised.

"I mean moving into someone else’s house sounds like a nightmare, calling their parents yours, pretending like you’re not an outsider in a home that doesn’t smell like yours, it just... feels fake. Like I’d be a guest forever. I want to stay with my parents... forever if possible but im very open to the idea of living alone in my one bedroom apartment where I’m not a visitor in my own life."

Tara didn’t laugh. She just looked at me, quiet for a second, and said, "That’s not a crime, you know."

I shrugged. She understood me in a way very few did. She didn't push.

Later, she took me to a little South Indian place tucked between two giant bookstores.

The second I saw it, my face lit up.

"Oh god," Tara said, watching me with mock horror. "Are you actually tearing up at the sight of idli?"

"Respect the classics," I said, placing my order like I’d waited for this moment my whole life.

We sat down with our plates, mine stacked with hot, fluffy idlis and extra sambhar. I could’ve cried from happiness.

"This is better than love," I said mid-bite.

Tara laughed, "That’s because you’ve never been in love."

"Exactly. So I get to romanticize carbs."

We spent another half hour there. Chatting. Laughing. Slipping back into that easy rhythm we always had.

When we hugged goodbye outside the metro station, something twisted in my chest.

"Come visit more often," I said.

"Fall in love and I’ll consider it," she teased.

"Idli is my soulmate."

"You need help."

🪔

I got back home around 7 p.m. But the house… felt different.

Dad wasn’t in his usual chair, sipping tea with that bored look on his face. He was sitting on the living room couch, phone in hand, eyes sharp.

"Come sit," he said, like it was an invitation and an order.

Mom joined in a moment later, drying her hands on her dupatta. "You’re back. Good. Sit."

I sat across from them, still buzzing slightly from the warmth of the day.

Dad leaned back, phone still in his hand, and looked at me for a moment longer than necessary.

“I was wondering… what is your plan after your studies?” His tone was mild, almost casual. The kind of casual that feels rehearsed.

I blinked, thrown for half a second. “I want to finish my CA degree. Maybe work somewhere good for a while. Build something of my own. Why?”

He nodded like he’d expected that answer. But the silence that followed didn’t sit right. And I knew, I just knew that wasn’t all he had to say.

“There’s no doubt you’ll do well,” he said, the compliment slipping in so smoothly it made me suspicious. “But Diya… life isn’t just about degrees and jobs. You have to think long term. A future beyond just… ambition.”

I stayed quiet. My heartbeat wasn’t loud yet, but it was curious. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You’re twenty-three,” he said finally. “In our time, girls were already mothers by then. You’ve done enough of what you wanted, it’s time to start thinking practically.”

And there it was. Not a slap, not a shout. Just a slow push off a ledge. My stomach turned.

Mom sat down next to him, smiling like we were discussing paint colours for the living room.

“We got a proposal.” Dad added. Like it was a parcel that had arrived while I was out. I blinked. “A… what?”

“A marriage proposal. For you.” He said it calmly. Like it was nothing. Like it was air.

Mom chimed in like she’d been waiting for her line. “They’re good people. Reputed family. The guy is well settled and doing good for himself, your dad trusts them beta.”

I didn’t speak. I was trying to find footing in a conversation that had none.

“What do you think?” he asked, tilting his head. As if I had a real say. I swallowed. “I’m not ready for marriage yet. I still have a career ahead. A degree to finish—”

He cut in, his voice tightening ever so slightly. "You know how long it takes to become a CA? It’s not just about one exam. Years of attempts, pressure... what if it takes you till thirty?”

That stung. More than I’d let on because I had cleared every exam in the first attempt. Foundation. Intermediate. But apparently, faith had an expiry date.

“You think you’ll still find a good match then?”

His voice wasn’t loud. Just sharp. Razor edged. He continued. “I've known this family for some time now. The kind that holds old values, doesn’t believe in show, but they’ve built everything from the ground up. Very respected in the business world.”

He spoke like he was sharing a stock tip, not dropping a bomb. “The Malhotras. They’ve sent a proposal… for their elder son.”

“I just want to see you settled diya, im saying all this because i worry about your future"

"...I just... don't think im ready"

“Of course you’re not. You never are when it comes to things that actually matter.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

That line… it landed like a sucker punch to the chest. Not because it was loud or cruel, but because it was quiet and calculated. A soft stab wrapped in silk, the kind you don’t even feel until you’re already bleeding.

My throat tightened. I didn’t respond. What would I even say? That I was ready? That I wasn’t? He’d already decided. The silence between us did what words couldn’t, it buried me under the weight of everything left unsaid.

I didn’t reply.

I just stared at a corner of the carpet. Wishing I could disappear into its patterns.

“You never listen to me. I told you to take science and become a doctor, you chose commerce. I wanted you in a private university but you ruined a whole year chasing that ridiculous delhi university cut off. I’m not doing this for myself, Diya. I’m thinking about you.”

I felt the heat rise behind my eyes.

Because he wasn’t angry.

He was disappointed.

And somehow, that cut deeper.

“Say yes to this, Diya,” he said finally, quieter now. "For once, do what’s right before it’s too late.”

His voice had lowered but not softened. It had that edge. The one that sliced beneath skin, where bruises never showed.

How did I end up here?

Just this morning, I was clinging to coffee and stolen hours with Tara, finally breathing after a week that felt like drowning. We’d joked, kind of. Teased each other about love, and I said it... I don’t want to get married. Not now. Not ever.

But here I was.

His words weren’t screaming. But I could hear the ones that weren’t spoken. Because I knew the man in front of me. I knew what he became when I said no.

I remembered the fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. The venom laced in every syllable when he was angry. I remembered the names. The yelling. The way his love was a conditional thing I had to earn with obedience. With silence.

I'd spent years trying to forgive that version of him even without the apology i wasn't expecting in the first place. Rewriting the pages so we could be a normal family. And it had worked. Almost.

But I saw it.

That flicker in his eyes, the storm that hadn’t touched down yet but was gathering fast. And I knew if I said no, really said no, that man would come back. The one whose words never needed fists to leave wounds.

Mom was watching me like I was a lit match near a leaking gas pipe. Begging me to not ignite anything.

And I— I didn’t want to survive another version of him. Not again. So I looked down. And my voice came out like it didn’t belong to me.

“Accept the proposal.”

Just three words. But I could feel something inside me wilt.

Mom exhaled softly. Dad looked relieved.

I walked to my room like a ghost. Closed the door, locked it.

Then went to the bathroom. Turned on the tap. Filled the tub.

I slid in, clothes still on, water warm.

For one whole hour, I stayed in the bathtub. Submerged in warm water that had long turned lukewarm. Coming up every few minutes to breathe, out of habit, not want.

Under the water, everything was muted. The voices couldn’t reach me. Not his. Not mine. The silence there didn’t hurt. It numbed.

Thoughts drifted in like fragments of a nightmare. Dad’s voice. Sharp. Final. Every time I had said yes just to keep the peace. Every time I folded myself small enough to fit inside his expectations. Every time I told myself "just survive this."

I thought about how my yes tonight didn’t sound like me. Didn’t even feel like me. It wasn’t a choice. It was a surrender.

A quiet, terrified surrender. I didn’t cry in the bath. Just floated because if I started crying, I knew I wouldn’t stop.

Eventually, I got out. Toweled off skin that felt colder than it should. Pulled on a clean kurta that didn’t feel clean at all.

Then I lay down. Face to the wall. Sheets too heavy on my body. And that’s when the tears came. Soft. Relentless. Like grief you don’t have a name for.

I’d said yes. To a stranger. To a life I had never imagined. To a future that didn’t have me in it, just the version of me everyone else wanted.

I had said it. "Accept the proposal." Not out of agreement but survival and I couldn’t take it back. Not now, not without breaking everything I had just barely glued back together.

And now the silence felt permanent. Like it had settled into my bones. And somewhere between silence and shame i realised...

I wasn’t afraid of marriage. I was afraid of losing myself inside it. Of giving up my space, my control, my comfort for a life that never felt like mine.

And maybe… maybe tonight, a part of me already stopped existing.

The city slept in fragments, some in silence, some in sobs.

A soft drizzle tapped against the window panes of the Sharma house as Diya finally let herself unravel. Her room, once neat and carefully curated, now held the echoes of muffled cries and trembling breaths. The study lamp stayed on, casting a dim halo around the storm she couldn’t escape.

She had cried, quietly, messily, completely. And somewhere across the city, in a room that felt colder than it looked, someone else hadn’t shed a single tear.

The night had peeled back all distractions. No footsteps echoed, no voices murmured. Just the hum of a fan slicing the silence and the weight of a choice that still hadn't settled.

He lay on the edge of the bed, back to the world, his gaze lingered on the blank ceiling trying to find meaning in nothing. Fingers curled around something small and unfamiliar. Faintly warm from how long he had held it.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t let go of it. Maybe because it burned quieter than the storm he was swallowing. Maybe because it was the only thing that made sense in a day where nothing had.

His phone buzzed twice, ignored. A clock ticked louder than usual.

Somewhere down the hallway, voices blurred into the background, talking about health and recovery and relief.

But none of it reached him. Because he had said yes to a name he didn't know. Not for love but because a pair of fading eyes believed in him.

The rain kept tapping. Soft. Relentless.

As if the city, too, was waiting for what came next.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

If you want to comfort diya, touch the ⭐️ if you want to comfort ved

ant comment "🪔" emoji hehe.

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- M 💌