After getting dressed, I found myself back at my study table— an odd place to be on a morning like this, wrapped in maroon and silence.

The unfinished video lecture blinked at me from the screen, waiting to be completed. Waiting to give the illusion of control. So I let it. I clicked play. For the next twenty minutes, numbers danced across the screen while my mind wandered elsewhere.

When it ended, the clock read 9:25 a.m. Too early for the ceremony. Too late to undo anything.

I had taken the day off from work, but that left me adrift, no emails to answer, no reports to fake-busy myself with. Just me. And the weight of what lay ahead.

So I turned to the one thing that had never failed me— sleep.

Because when life feels too sharp, too loud, too irreversible... you close your eyes and pretend it's just a passing dream.

I lay down carefully, mindful of the creases on my anarkali— not out of vanity, but because the thought of ironing it again made me sigh. My fingers reached for the duvet, pulling it to my chest with slow familiarity.

The lights went off, except for the fairy lights above my bed, casting the room in a soft amber haze— like a lullaby hummed by the walls themselves.

And in that glow, with exhaustion blooming behind my eyes like ink in water, I drifted.

Three days of pretending.
Of packing my hours with noise and motion.
Of outrunning the silence.

Now, the silence was here.
And strangely, it was kind.

Sleep found me within moments— quiet, gentle, complete.

And for a little while...
The world outside ceased to exist.

🪔

I was woken up by a voice pulling me gently— then not so gently— out of sleep.

"Kitni der se utha rahi hoon!" Ananya's tone was exasperated, but there was laughter tucked beneath it.

For a few seconds, I just blinked at the ceiling, completely disoriented.

The nap had been... transcendent. Possibly the best one of my life. The kind of sleep that wraps around your bones and hushes everything loud inside you.

But then— like a bucket of reality over the head, her next words landed.

"Neeche sab bula rahe hain."

Ah. Right.

I'd woken up... into the nightmare.

I nodded without speaking and reached for the glass of water on my bedside table, throat dry like I'd just emerged from a desert.

Ananya was halfway out the door when she paused, turned dramatically on her heel, and added with a smirk that should be illegal this early in the day—

"ALSOOO... jiju indeed is VERY hot."

I choked.

Water caught mid sip, panic hitting me faster than gravity. I coughed violently, trying to breathe as Ananya rushed back in, wide eyed.

"Are you okay?!"

"Yeah," I rasped, eyes watering. "I'll be there in five minutes."

She gave me one last cheeky grin before leaving, closing the door behind her like she hadn't just detonated a bomb in my head.

And just like that, any trace of sleep disappeared.

Dragging myself to the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, the chill anchoring me back into my body. Moisturiser. Lip balm. Hair fixed just enough to not scream 'I was just unconscious.' Small efforts to resemble a version of myself I wasn't sure existed right now.

Then I stood by the door.

And that's when it hit me...
I was about to walk into a room full of strangers.

People I didn't know, who knew about me. People who'd smile politely. Whose eyes would follow my every step like it meant something.

It wasn't stage fright.
It was worse.

It was the fear of being seen... and not knowing how to be seen.

What was I supposed to do? Smile like I wasn't dying inside? Touch feet? Shake hands? Just... stand there and absorb the collective awkwardness like a sponge in maroon anarkali?

What if I said something weird? What if I tripped? What if I existed wrong?

Conversations were never just conversations for me. They were minefields. Measured pauses, calibrated nods, overthinking every blink like it might explode.

And this? This was the worst kind— awkward, silent, intimate.

I hated awkwardness.
The stiff limbs. The weird air. The feeling that everyone else knew the rules, and I was just... guessing.

My palms had gone cold. My brain? Already running simulations of every possible socially embarrassing scenario.

And yet, with my luck? The worst one was probably already waiting.
But the room downstairs wouldn't wait for me to become ready.
It never had.

So I drew in a breath— deep, shaky, almost convincing. Pressed borrowed courage against my ribs and whispered a silent prayer:

Let today pass without wreckage.

Then I opened the door, stepped out, and walked straight into the moment I'd spent days avoiding— hoping I'd make it through without unraveling completely.

🪔

The stairs felt longer than I remembered.

Each step stretched like a breath I couldn't quite exhale— measured, cautious, caught somewhere between elegance and escape. My fingertips grazed the railing absently, not for support, but to anchor myself to something, anything that wouldn't slip.

And then I heard them.

Voices. Laughter. The sound of families trying too hard to blend tradition with ease. Politeness woven with tension. It poured in from the living room like a tide I was about to drown in.

My breath caught in my throat.

They were here.

And suddenly, this house— my house felt unfamiliar. Too curated. Too dressed. Drenched in marigolds glowing like a festive postcard. But beneath the shimmer, it felt like a stage. A carefully built illusion. And I was the reluctant lead in a play I never agreed to audition for.

The staircase ended, but the dread didn't.

The air changed.

People. So many of them. Sitting neatly. Smiling politely. Voices dipped in curated warmth. I didn't look too directly at anyone— I couldn't. I just kept walking like my body had remembered how to move but forgotten how to feel.

Then my eyes— traitors that they are, flicked to the sofa near the stairs.

And stopped.

He didn't look up.
He didn't need to.

The air shifted around him. He was... still. Like the silence belonged to him. Like it had followed him into the room and taken a seat beside him. A stillness so specific, so deliberate, it carved itself into the noise.

No one told me who he was.

But I knew.

Somehow, I knew.

And I hated that I knew.

Was it the way the room subtly tilted around him? The way his presence didn't demand attention, but held it anyway?

Whatever it was, I felt it. In my chest. In my stomach. Under my skin.

He didn't look at me. Not immediately. And neither did I.

Instead, our eyes did this strange dance— glancing, dodging, brushing against the edges of meeting but never quite crossing that line. Like we both understood the unspoken rules: Don't look. Don't engage. Don't give them anything they can spin into a story later.

So I looked down.
And I kept walking, like my knees weren't seconds away from giving in.

Everyone else was already seated. Their voices softened when I entered— like even their syllables knew to behave now. My mother rose, adjusting the border of her dupatta with precision, like a visual cue for me to become the version of myself they all expected.

I folded my hands in a polite namaste. Too small for the weight of the moment. Too rehearsed for sincerity.

Smiles greeted me in return. Nods followed. Mechanical. Measured.

God, I hated all of it.

And then came the inevitable.

"Vedant, Diya, beta... why don't you two go talk for a bit?" Someone said— His aunty, I think. Her voice— too kind, her smile— too expectant.

Vedant.

That was the first time I heard it.

His name.

It fell into my chest like a stone into still water— not loud, but irreversible. A ripple. A root. A presence.

Vedant.
Of course that was his name.
Of course it belonged to the silence on the couch. To the dark eyes I hadn't dared meet. To the weight in the room I hadn't known how to carry.

I didn't look at him.
I couldn't.
Not yet.

But now he had a name. And that name found a home in my head far too quickly, far too easily.

I wanted to say no. Disappear into the furniture. Curl beneath the table like a child and pretend none of this was mine to carry.

But my feet moved anyway. Because that's what daughters do.

🪔

We moved to the next room— one that had been prepared for us.
Like we were a couple.
Like this wasn't the first time our names had been said in the same sentence.

The room was small. Neat. Neutral.
Like it had been scrubbed of personality just for this— the polite, arranged marriage level "conversation".

I stepped in first, trying not to trip over my own hesitation.

He followed.

The door clicked shut behind him... with an intimacy that didn't belong to us.

A long sofa stretched across one wall— the kind that looked too stiff to ever hold comfort. Opposite it sat a lone armchair, angled just enough to feel like a refusal.
Like fate had designed the room for a debate neither of us had asked to attend.

I chose the armchair.
It gave me space. Distance. A little illusion of control.

He didn't sit in the center of the sofa, like someone confident would. Nor did he withdraw into the corner.

He picked the edge, balanced, restrained, exact.
Not too inviting.
Not too distant.
Just... enough.

And then?

Nothing.

The silence poured in like thick smoke— soft at first, then smothering. Not awkward. Not tense. Just the kind that makes your skin itch for no reason. The kind that knows it's being watched.

I fiddled with the edge of my dupatta, smoothing fabric that didn't need smoothing.

He glanced down at his watch— not checking the time, just giving his eyes something to do.

I stared at the carpet.
A tragic attempt at design.
Was that a peacock or a misplaced jellyfish?

Still, neither of us moved.

But the silence...
It didn't stay still.
It stretched. Pulled at the seams.
Like a thread, one tug away from unraveling the whole thing.

And then—
I felt it.

The quiet weight of his gaze.
Not burning.
Not demanding.
Just there.

Looking.
Not at me.
Into me.

My fingers froze mid fidget.

I looked up.

And in that second,
everything tilted.

Time didn't stop.
But it slowed.
Like the air itself had paused to watch.

Our eyes met.

His— still, dark, unreadable, met mine like they weren't supposed to. Like we'd both opened a door we hadn't meant to knock on.

There was no music. No wind. No cinematic swell. Just the hum of the ceiling fan and the very loud, very present thud in my chest.

Something shifted between us.
Not clarity.
Not connection.
Something quieter.

Recognition.
Not of him.
But of myself.

Because in his stillness, I saw it—
the same reluctant compliance.
The same quiet surrender.
The same storm...
only, he had learned to bottle his better than I ever could.

He wasn't here willingly.
I didn't need to ask.
I knew.

Because I could see me in him—
except he was calm, carved in restraint, wrapped in a silence that didn't twitch.
While I was noise.
Even in stillness.

We stared.
Not because we were brave.
But because, for a moment,
we forgot how not to.

I dropped my gaze first.

My stomach fluttered— annoying and traitorous. The air in the room shifted again. Thicker now. Denser. Like it wanted something from us.

I told myself it was just eye contact. That people made it all the time. I made it with the grocery delivery guy last week.

This wasn't new. This wasn't special.

Except it was.

Because he didn't look away.

I inhaled— quiet, controlled. Because I needed to breathe, but didn't want him to see that I did.

He leaned forward, just slightly and reached for the glass of water on the table. But he didn't drink it. He nudged it gently, sliding it an inch closer to me.

No words. No glance.
Just a simple gesture.
A quiet offering.
A silent truce.

My fingers hesitated.
Then, slowly, I picked it up.

No eye contact.
No thank you.

I just drank— because suddenly, it felt like the glass might have answers I didn't.

What were we even doing?

Sitting in a room that looked like a wedding catalogue, not talking, not even pretending to act normal. And then— he offered me a glass of water. Like that's how people bond now. Was this... Some weird version of arranged marriage etiquette I missed the memo on?

Then, just when the silence felt like it might settle again—

He spoke.

Not loud. Not sudden. Just... steady.

As if the words had been waiting in his throat for a while, testing their weight before they dared to land.

"Is this something you want?"

The question wasn't sharp. It was worse.

It was honest.

It caught me off guard. Not because it was unexpected. But because no one else had thought to ask.

I looked down at the glass again.
Then up at him.

And when I answered, my voice barely reached the space between us.

"Does it matter?"

He didn't flinch. Didn't react the way people usually do when they hear truth in a voice that wasn't meant to be brave.

But I saw it— the smallest flicker in his jaw. Not anger. Just restraint.

A pause.

Then—

"If you need a reason to walk away... I won't be the one to stop you."

And it wasn't a line. It wasn't some noble gesture dressed as permission.

It was weary.
Familiar.
Like he'd said it before— maybe to himself.

That did something to me.

Because I understood what it meant to carry that weight. To offer freedom when you weren't sure you had any of your own.

I met his eyes. This time, I didn't look away. "That makes two of us."

The words sat between us, still and honest.

And somehow,
they stitched something quiet across the space—
not connection exactly,
but understanding.

He studied me, the way people do when they're not sure what they're hoping to find.

Then asked—

"Then why are you here?"

I looked away.
Not because I didn't know.
Because I Knew.

"Same reason you are."

He didn't like that answer.
I saw it in the way his brow twitched ever so slightly.

But he stayed composed— of course he did.

"You don't know my reason."

The words weren't defensive.
They were... Bare.

"You're not doing this willingly, that's reason enough for me"

He didn't confirm it, but the quiet that followed felt like an agreement.

He leaned back slowly, exhaled like he'd been holding something in longer than just this moment.

And I knew that breath.
I'd taken it a thousand times.
The one right before surrender.

The room was quiet again,
but something about it felt different now.

He nodded once.
Barely a motion.
But I felt it like a verdict.

Then, with a calm so careful it almost hurt, he said—

"Alright."

One word.
It shouldn't have meant anything.
But it did.

It meant: this is what it'll be.
A performance.
A pact.

"Then let's not make this harder than it already is. We'll do what they want. Show up. Smile when needed. Nothing more."

His tone wasn't cold.
It was careful.
Measured.

Like someone who'd lived too long with broken things and learned how not to touch sharp edges.

I looked up again.

"Don't worry, Mr. Malhotra. I wasn't planning to fall in love."

She walked in like she was trying not to exist.

Not timid. Not clumsy. Just... careful. Every step measured, like she'd rehearsed it in her mind before trusting the ground beneath her. There was a kind of restraint in her presence, a quiet refusal to give more than necessary.

She greeted everyone with a smile— the kind you could miss if you weren't paying attention. But I was. And I saw it for what it was. Practiced. Polished. Worn in. A smile stitched from obligation, not warmth.

She folded her hands to greet the elders, the way one's expected to. But something in her eyes— barely a flicker, told me she hated every second of it.

And I didn't know how to feel about that.

Should I be relieved? That she wasn't thrilled about this either? Or should it ache a little— knowing she might be giving up something too, just like me? Maybe it was too soon to assume we were in the same boat.

Then came Kavita Chachi's voice, warm and gently nudging through the polite chatter. "Why don't you two talk for a bit?"

I saw the shift in her face. Just for a second. That carefully layered expression cracked at the edges.

She moved forward, her dupatta trailing behind— its edge skimming the floor with a grace far too dramatic for how quietly she carried herself.

As I entered the room, the door clicked shut behind me.

She didn't look at me.

She claimed the armchair across from me. Not out of comfort, but calculation. It gave her distance, autonomy. Control. She wasn't here for small talk— she was here to survive it.

And then?

Silence.

I expected it. What I didn't expect was her.

She wasn't what I had imagined.

No shy smiles. No fluttery laughs. No overcompensating giggle meant to ease the awkwardness. Just stillness— quiet, composed, like she belonged to the silence more than the moment.

And something about that stillness felt... familiar.

I watched her adjust the corner of her dupatta again and again, like it might betray her if left unchecked. She was nervous, yes, but not in the fragile way. More like someone who was terrified of being seen too closely.

So I didn't look too closely. Not yet.

I let the silence settle like dust between us.

Her gaze was fixed on the carpet. A strand of wavy hair fell over her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear without thinking.

Her hair moved like it had a mind of its own, soft, untamed, free. But she wasn't. Not even close.

And I couldn't stop reading her— not because she made it easy. Quite the opposite.

It was because I recognized the patterns. The control. The silence filled with too much noise.

She was like me.

I let the quiet stretch until it folded around us like something living.

And then she looked up.

One second. That's all it took.

One second, and I forgot what the hell I was doing here.

Her eyes met mine— and stayed.

No flicker, no fake smile, no softening. Just... two pairs of eyes that didn't know what to do with each other but refused to look away.

There was something in her bambi eyes, wide, unreadable, holding more presence than expression. She wasn't scared. Or shy. Or breakable. She just didn't want to belong to this moment.

Her gaze broke first.
Of course it did. Most people can't hold eye contact like that unless they're challenging you or— seeing you.

I wasn't sure which one she'd done.

I nudged the glass of water toward her, a subtle gesture. It felt like she needed it.

She reached for it after a moment. Took a sip. No thank you. No Nod. No reaction.

I didn't want one. This wasn't about pleasantries. It was about something I hadn't figured out yet.

She didn't speak. I didn't push.

I watched instead— the way her fingers kept fidgeting with the same corner of her dupatta, how her lips stayed pressed together, unmoving, like speaking wasn't even a consideration. And the way she avoided my eyes, like meeting them again might undo something she'd worked hard to keep together.

She wasn't here by choice. That much was clear now— sharper than it had been a moment ago. And something about that rattled me.

I'd assumed she was the kind who floated through decisions without looking too closely. Who said yes without thinking— because she had. Without meeting me. No questions, no hesitation.

But now, watching her sit there like every breath was a battle, I realized I'd been wrong. She wasn't floating. She was drowning quietly. Enduring every second like it cost her something.

And I couldn't stop thinking— this had to be harder for her.

Because while I didn't want this either— at least I wasn't being asked to leave anything behind.

She was.

She would have to walk away from the comfort of her home, from the people she still wanted to stay with. And she didn't get a say.

A kind of loss I could never imagine— being expected to smile while the ground shifted beneath you, just because tradition said so.

I hadn't planned to speak. Wasn't sure if breaking the silence would help... or make it worse.

But watching her sit there— so still, so quiet, like she'd folded herself into the moment just to survive it—

I couldn't hold it in.
She didn't have to do this.

So I spoke.

Carefully. Measuring every word before I let it go.

"Is this something you want?"

The moment I said it, she froze.

Her fingers stilled. Her body tensed.

I panicked a little inside. Had I made it worse? Did she think I was expecting her to smile and nod and agree, like others?

She didn't look at me immediately. Her gaze dropped to the glass in her hand, then back to me.

And then she said, softly

"Does it matter?"

Those three words gutted me.

Because now I was sure— I was right.

She wasn't here by choice. And that unnerved me more than I thought it would.

She was sacrificing something. Maybe everything. And suddenly, my own reluctance felt small in comparison.

After a beat, I said, "If you need a reason to walk away... I won't be the one to stop you."

Because I wouldn't. I couldn't. She owed me nothing. She didn't owe anyone anything.

She looked at me, calm and steady.

"That makes two of us," she said.

I didn't argue— because she was right. We were both caught in something neither of us had chosen.

But I needed to know what brought her here anyway. So I asked, quietly,
"Then why are you here?"

She looked away, her voice quiet. "The same reason you are."

And that... unsettled me.

The way she said it. Like she knew me.

Like she could see through everything I didn't say out loud.

"You don't know my reason," I said, before I could stop myself.

She didn't flinch.

"You're not doing this willingly. That's reason enough for me."

That knocked the air out of me.

She saw me. Without even trying. And I had no defence.

I sank back into the couch, a slow breath leaving me like surrender. She'd caught me off guard— disarmed me without raising her voice.

We were mirrors. Two people bound by decisions that weren't ours, holding our silence like it was the only choice left.

So I met her gaze and said, softly,
"Alright."

She had her reasons. If she could've escaped this, she would've. I knew that now.

We were here not out of hope, but helplessness.

Still, I didn't want her to carry this alone. The weight of a forced marriage. The guilt. The pressure.

So I offered her something. A way through.

"Then let's not make this harder than it already is," I said. "We'll do what they want. Show up. Smile when needed. Nothing more."

I said it gently. Measured it like a fragile truth.

She nodded. Barely.

Then she said, "Don't worry, Mr. Malhotra. I wasn't planning to fall in love."

It should've rolled off. Just another line in a conversation neither of us wanted to have. But it stayed. Quietly. Like the echo of something I didn't fully catch, but couldn't unhear either.

I didn't react. Didn't need to. Still, for a second too long, the silence stretched— like her words had brushed past something I hadn't realized was there.

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

Of course she wasn't. Neither was I.

The silence settled again— but this time, it didn't carry the weight of tension. It felt stripped down. Honest. Like neither of us had the energy to pretend anymore.

Then came a knock. Soft, but sharp enough to break whatever that moment was.

She stood first— too quickly, like stillness had started to feel dangerous.

I rose a second later, slower, quieter. I opened the door for her without thinking, without deciding to. Just... did.

She stepped past me. And in that moment, something lodged itself quietly in the back of my mind.

She hadn't smiled. Not once.

And still— I couldn't stop thinking about her.

Not because she was beautiful. She was. In that effortless, unbothered way that didn't care to be noticed.

But it wasn't that. It was the quiet.

The way she wore silence like it was tailored to her— soft but firm, delicate but unyielding. She didn't flinch in it. Didn't fill it. She just existed in it, like it was the only space she trusted.

And somewhere between watching her sit there and watching her leave, I stopped thinking about Dadu. About marriage. About duty and expectations and all the noise that had filled my head for weeks.

For once, I was just... watching.

And for the first time in a long time—

I didn't mind being watched back.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Did we just survive that room together?

Now that you've met both of them-really met them...
Tell me whose silence hit harder? 😶‍🌫️

How was this chapter? Did it hold you still the way they held each other's gaze? 👀

Comment and let me know 💬 also touch the star ⭐ please cuties 🎀

For sneak peeks, edits & soft chaos:
ig: @authorem_

Thank you for reading, always. 🌷

- M 💌