This morning usually comes wrapped in stillness.

The kind that settles on your chest like a warm shawl— gentle, unhurried. A day stitched from sleep stained sheets, the sound of ceiling fans humming above you, and the relief of simply existing without the need to perform. A kind of slowness that only came once a week.

But not this time.

This one bore weight— named and marked.

This Sunday had a title.

Engagement Day.

Two words that didn’t feel like mine, no matter how many times I whispered them into the hollow of my room.

I hadn’t told Tara.

Not because I didn’t want to— but because I didn’t know how.

The last real conversation we had was me— arms crossed, voice sure— declaring how the idea of marriage made my skin crawl. And now… now I was about to call her and say, “Guess what? I’m doing the one thing I swore I’d never do.”

She wouldn’t judge me. Tara never did.

But I was still scared.

Because how do you explain being swept into something you didn’t choose, not really? How do you make someone understand the quiet kind of pressure— the kind that doesn’t shout, but corners you gently until you stop resisting?

Still, I dialled.

She picked up on the fourth ring, her voice heavy with sleep.

“Hello?”

I didn’t know how to ease into it. So I didn’t.

“I’m getting engaged.”

A beat. Then, “You’re dreaming.”

“I’m serious.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Diya, we still have ten months left till the first of April. And it’s six in the freaking morning. Don’t you think it’s a bit early for pranks?"

“I’m seriously getting engaged, Tara,” I repeated, quieter this time. Like saying it any louder might break me.

Silence.

Then she deadpanned, “Right. And I’m going to the moon.”

I exhaled shakily and sent her a photo of the invitation. The moment the double blue ticks appeared, my heart curled up inside my ribs.

“What the— Diya. You got this printed? Just for a joke? Because this looks real. Like... scary real.”

I didn’t respond.

But a sob slipped out anyway— raw, uninvited. I slapped a hand over my mouth, too late.

Tara’s voice sharpened, sleep forgotten.

“Diya? Are you crying?”

I hung up.

I couldn’t do this over a call— not with my voice shaking and chest splintering. I didn’t even know why the tears were falling.

Maybe it was the suddenness. The speed. The feeling of being boxed into a corner that didn’t even feel like my own life anymore.

I sat on the edge of my bed, hands curled into the bedsheet, and just… let go.

I didn’t stop them. The tears.

Gave them permission.

To fall.

To escape now that no one was watching.

Twenty minutes passed. My phone buzzed again.

I picked up, sniffling.

“Open the door.”

“What?” I whispered.

“I’m outside. Your main door. Open it.”

My heart stuttered.

No. She didn’t. She couldn’t have—

“She lives eight kilometres away,” I mumbled to myself, already wiping at my face with the back of my hand, trying to smooth away the evidence of my unraveling.

I rushed downstairs. The house was still quiet, but traces of the evening ahead were scattered across the living room— gift bags stacked on the floor, half of them still unwrapped, an invitation card lying face down under the table like someone dropped it mid conversation. The scent of agarbatti lingered, soft and stubborn, refusing to leave the air.

I opened the door, and there she stood.

Tara.

Breathless, wrapped in sleep stained pyjamas and a kind of urgency only best friends carry at six in the morning.

She didn’t ask.

Didn’t say anything.

Just reached for my hand like I’d dropped it somewhere along the way and she’d come all this way just to return it.

And then— she dragged me.

Past the threshold, past the gift bags piled near the sofa, past the telltale clutter of a house bracing for a celebration.

Ma stepped out of her room, an empty water jug in hand, her hair still tied in last night’s bun and sleep clinging to her eyes.

Tara gave her a breezy, “Hi Aunty,” not slowing down for even a second.

By the time I could breathe, we were in my room again— door shut, world shut out.

She turned the lock, turned to me, and wrapped me into the kind of hug that made you forget what falling apart felt like.

Her arms circled around my shoulders, tight and warm and desperate— like she was trying to glue the pieces of me back together without saying a word. I didn’t realise I was shaking until she didn’t let go. Not even when I tried to.

And of course— because it had to be her— she was still in her Kuromi pyjamas.

I pulled back eventually, my voice barely above a breath.

"How did you even get here at this hour?"

Tara just shrugged, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

"Booked a bike the moment you cut the call. What else was I supposed to do— wait around and let you cry alone?"

Then she made me sit down on the bed, like she always did when she had something serious to say. Then, softly, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I asked, trying to keep my voice dry, biting back the emotion that still clung to my throat like a lump.

“For making you cry.”

I blinked. "You didn't."

"You started crying mid call, Diya."

Tara said quietly, guilt flickering across her face.

“That wasn’t because of you,” I said, a little more firmly this time— because it wasn’t. And I needed her to know that.

She studied my face for a second. Her voice dropped.

“I realised it wasn’t a prank the second I saw your house.”

I looked away.

She tried again, gentler this time.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. No. Not now. Maybe not ever.

She took a breath, but didn’t push. “Okay. Then just answer one question.”

I didn’t respond. She asked anyway.

“Who made you do this?”

“No one,” I said. Too fast. Too flat.

Tara leaned closer, eyes narrowing like she was reading something between the lines of my silence.

“Diya,” she said quietly. “Look me in the eye and tell me you weren’t forced.”

I did look.

I really tried.

But the words... didn’t come.

She sighed, like she already knew.

And then— classic Tara— she switched from comfort to confrontation in under a second.

“According to Section 13 of the Indian Contract Act, consent is considered free when not caused by coercion, fraud, undue influence, misrepresentation, or mistake.”

I blinked at her.

“This, CA Sahiba,” she said, poking my arm dramatically, “is a clear case of undue influence."

Of course it was. I should’ve known. My best friend would show up with a hug in one hand and legal jargon in the other.

She folded her arms, fixing me with that look— the one that always meant I was seconds away from a reality check.

"We didn't survive Business Law only for you to forget the clause that actually applies to you." 

I exhaled, finally letting a small laugh slip through my nose. Just a little. Enough to remind myself I was still alive.

Then she dropped the real bomb.

“Do you want to run away? We’ll go to Ahmedabad. I’ll sneak you into my hostel. I’ll hide you under a blanket if I have to.”

I stared.

“I’m serious,” she pressed. “Just say the word, and we’ll be out of this city in a second.”

“No.” My voice came out too calm, too resolved. “It’s too late for that.”

“Too late is a myth,” she shot back instantly.

And God— if this had been a different story, I think I would’ve said yes. But it wasn’t.

“Even if it’s the middle of the mandap, I’ll grab your hand and run, Diya. I swear to God.”

“Tara,” I whispered. “I don’t want to run.”

“I’m doing this. I’m not okay with it. But I’ve decided.”

There was silence for a beat too long.

“Then,” she said finally, “fine. I’ll be there. But on one condition.”

I raised a brow.

“I need to see the guy. Interview him. Grill him. If he’s not good enough, I’m not letting you go through with it.”

I smiled for the first time that morning. A soft, tired smile.

“When do I get to meet this mystery man?” she asked. "When’s your engagement?”

Her tone still light, but her eyes were already scanning my face like they knew the storm wasn’t over yet.

I looked down at the hem of my shirt, fingers fumbling with a loose thread.

“Today.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. “That was the answer to my first question or second?”

“Second.”

For a second, nothing moved. The air in the room just... paused.

And then she shot up like the bed had caught fire.

“What the actual—Diya?! What the actual fuck?”

Her voice echoed off the walls like a slap.

“You’re getting engaged today, and you’re telling me—” she checked the clock on my bedside table, “—at 6:47 in the morning?! Today?! Diya!!”

I winced. “It all happened really fast. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Her eyes narrowed, hands now flailing dramatically like she was conducting a very angry orchestra. “So you just decided not to?! Were you going to text me an update from the mandap? ‘Hey, this is my husband. Say hi to your jiju’ ”

I gave her a guilty half smile that did nothing to ease the firestorm in her face.

She sighed so hard I could feel it. “We’re talking about this later. I’m not done being mad. But right now—” she clapped her hands, “—we don’t have time for this.”

Then, softer, “Do you want me to stay over today? Be here? Moral support, eyebrow raises, death glares— whatever you need.”

My heart gave a small, grateful tug.

“What are you going to tell your parents?”

“That my morning walk turned into an afternoon hike,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “They left for Chandigarh last night, I’ll tell them later on call."

I blinked at her, overwhelmed with how easily she adapted, how quickly she slipped into damage control mode for me.

“Okay,” she said, already tying her hair back like she was about to lead an army. “We’ve got a thousand things to do.”

I nodded, a little dazed. “We really do.”

And just like that, the girl who showed up in cartoon pyjamas and legal advice was now flipping into bridesmaid mode— unasked, uninvited, but exactly what I needed.

I didn’t say thank you. I couldn’t.

But she knew.

She always did.

🪔

The house was humming again— too many voices, too much motion. But inside my room, Tara had declared it a “safe zone.” Apparently, that meant she could now spread out across my floor, take over both our wardrobes, and bark orders like she was prepping a celebrity for a red carpet.

She was digging through the boxes Ma had kept ready— ones I hadn’t even dared to touch.

“Where is your clutch?” she asked, already elbow deep in tissue wrapped boxes. “Please don’t tell me you were going to take that old maroon one. Diya. No.”

“I didn't plan on carrying one." I said.

She gave me a scandalised look. “God save you.”

I sat on the bed, watching her buzz around the room with the kind of chaotic precision only she could manage. She laid out the gold heels first, then gently unfolded the off white saree and hung it on the rack with dramatic reverence.

And then she paused.

Her hand landed on a rectangular box with neat cursive scrawled across the top: “For Tara” Written in Ma’s handwriting. Lavender ink. Underlined twice.

“Um,” she said, holding it up. “What is this?”

I glanced at it, heart skipping half a beat. “Open it.”

She raised a suspicious brow, but obliged. Carefully peeled back the layers of butter paper, then gasped.

She looked up, eyes narrowed like she was trying not to smile. “Why is this box... a whole emotional attack?”

I smiled faintly, watching her fingers trail over the delicate fabric. When Ma had gone shopping for my trousseau, I’d asked her to pick something for Tara too— an entire look, down to the last bangle. Because I knew. No matter what, she’d be there.

“Wait,” she blinked, still holding the dupatta like it might flutter away. “You knew I’d be coming here? That you got all this for me?”

I shrugged. “I hoped.”

She was quiet for a second too long. Then, in the most Tara way possible, she covered the moment with a dramatic sigh.

“I swear,” she muttered, pulling out a light yellow lehenga with delicate mirror work, “if you make me wear pastel just to blend into your Pinterest aesthetic—”

“You showed up in Kuromi pyjamas,” I reminded her, voice still soft from the morning’s mess.

She grinned, unfazed. “And I will walk into your engagement wearing them if you make that face again.”

I blinked at her in the mirror.

“What face?”

“That exact one,” she pointed at my reflection. “The sad, squishy one. Like you’re five seconds away from becoming a tragic Hindi serial heroine. Not on my watch.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Nope,” she said, tossing the dupatta over her shoulder like a cape, “I’m your best friend. Now sit and help me decide— these jhumkas or the ones with pearls?”

I reached for the jhumkas with pearls. “These. Less noisy.”

“Rude,” she said, but accepted them anyway.

There was a quiet comfort in the way she moved through the room— bossy, dramatic, completely in her element. It felt good to have someone take control when everything else in my life was being decided by people who never even asked me if I was ready.

Tara turned back to me, holding up the lehenga. “Do I look like a sunshine metaphor or an overly dressed ladoo?”

“A metaphor,” I said, too quickly.

She smirked. “Nice save. Now, back to work."

She continued arranging jewellery on the dresser— matching the kundan choker with my blouse neckline, aligning the earrings on a velvet tray, stacking the bangles by size and sound on the stand.

“I set aside your hair pins, your backup safety pins, and that tiny bottle of perfume you like but act indifferent toward,” she said without turning.

I smiled faintly, watching her adjust the last bangle stack like she was crowning herself queen of bridal prep.

She turned to me, dusting her hands. “Okay, dulhan to be. Emergency kit’s set. Outfit’s steamed. Chaos under control— consider me emotionally colour coded to your meltdown.”

"You’re impossible,” I said softly, the words slipping out with a quiet smile. My voice held more affection than frustration, and I knew she heard it. I didn’t have to say thank you— she’d already tucked it into every little thing she’d done.

She winked. “Now come on. We’ve got a venue to emotionally destroy.”

🪔

By late afternoon, the house was a blur of footsteps and instructions. Trays being loaded, relatives being herded, jewelry boxes double checked. I stayed out of it all. Quietly excused myself from the noise and let Ma believe I needed rest.

At 5 p.m., the house emptied out— just like they planned.

My parents, siblings, cousins, and everyone else left for the venue. The car for Tara and me would arrive later. “Less crowd, less drama,” Tara had muttered like it was a secret mission.

So now, for the first time all day, there was peace.

Tara already in full command mode, yanked out the off white saree and laid it out like a battle flag.

“Get up, dulhan. I’m about to make you look like you made this choice— even if you didn’t feel like it.”

I laughed under my breath, more grateful than I could ever say.

She began dabbing concealer under my eyes. “You didn't sleep properly, did you?"

“I couldn’t.”

She paused. “I know. You don’t have to explain.”

There was a silence— soft, not heavy— and then, in the gentlest voice she’d used all day, she said,

“You don’t owe anyone a performance today, Diya. Just... survive it. I’ll be next to you the whole time. Judging everyone. Including the guy.”

I looked at her, finally brave enough to say his name. “His name is Vedant.”

She paused— raised a brow— like the name said more than I had. “Vedant,” she echoed, her voice low with mock analysis. “Hmm. Sounds like someone who stares out of windows a lot and operates on a strict five words daily quota "

I snorted. “He kind of does, actually.”

She gasped. “I knew it. Please tell me he wears tailored shirts and has a tragic backstory.”

“I don’t know about the backstory,” I mumbled,

“but he does wear too much black and stares through people like he’s listening to a conversation only he can hear.”

“Oh my God, you’re marrying Batman.”

I burst out laughing— real, full bodied laughter that knocked the air from my lungs for a second. I hadn’t realised how much I needed that.

I’d refused to let a makeup artist get me ready. It wasn’t about vanity or rebellion— I just didn’t want anyone else in that space with me.

Not on a day where everything already felt too loud, too watched. I needed to do this part myself. Needed to feel like I had at least one thing I could still choose.

But Tara stayed with me. She didn’t ask, didn’t insist— just stayed. And it was better. So much better than being alone.

Her presence didn’t take space, it softened it. Made the silence feel less sharp. She didn’t try to fix anything, just quietly stood beside me, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And now, as her hands moved through my hair with a care I wasn’t used to receiving, I let her. I let her in. And in that small surrender, I felt something loosen— something like gratitude, steady and deep.

She moved with a quiet focus, her usual chaos folded into stillness. My hair was pinned into a low bun, a few strands left loose— just the way I liked. A swipe of eyeliner, a nude lipstick. Nothing borrowed. Nothing overdone. Just… me, or something closer to it. Calmer. Composed. Like I was trying to anchor myself to the moment.

When she finally draped the saree—perfect pleats, soft shimmer— I looked up and paused. The girl in the mirror looked like me… but also didn’t. There was a steadiness in her I wasn’t sure I’d earned. A softness I didn’t remember putting on.

(A.N : scroll down and see the outfit first for better imagination)

“You okay?” Tara asked, standing behind me, eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

“I think so.”

“Ready?”

I hesitated. “No.”

She grinned. “Perfect. Let’s go.”

By the time the driver pulled up at the gate, it was already close to 7. The sun had dipped behind the trees, and the sky had turned that strange dusky shade of lavender.

The ride was quiet. I kept fiddling with the edge of my pallu while Tara double checked the location on her phone, eyes flicking between the screen and the road ahead like she could somehow keep everything steady just by staying focused. Neither of us said much. But her silence felt like reassurance, not absence.

And then—

The venue came into view. Lights. Florals. A soft buzz of music in the air.

My heart skipped.

The staff led us in through the side entrance, away from the crowd. Into the bridal suite.

Which brings us here—

To the pause before everything shifts.

To me wearing six yards of questions.

🪔

The bridal suite was silent, save for the faint thrum of music and the occasional clatter of laughter from the hallway beyond. It smelled faintly of jasmine and newly ironed linen. The air conditioning hummed like it had secrets to keep.

I stood in front of the mirror. Still. Composed on the outside.

Inside, my heartbeat was pacing the floor.

Tara was already bouncing around like she owned the place, kicking off her shoes and mumbling something about “hostile lighting” and “ugly carpet choices.” But when she looked at me, she stopped.

Her eyes softened.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the velvet cushioned stool like it was a throne.

I obeyed. Again. Because I didn’t trust my own limbs anymore.

She kneeled down in front of me, adjusting the pleats of my saree, smoothing out invisible creases that weren’t really there.

Her fingers moved with a gentle determination, but her voice— oh, her voice had the bite of someone who had not finished yelling at the universe on my behalf.

“You’re not alone in this,” she said. “You don’t have to be graceful. You don’t have to smile at people you don’t like. You don’t even have to like him yet.”

I didn’t answer. My hands were folded tightly in my lap, knuckles pale against the off white fabric.

Tara tilted her head, studying me. “You’re scared.”

I nodded, finally.

“Okay.” She exhaled. “Then let’s not pretend.”

She stood, walked behind me, and met my eyes in the mirror. “Just survive tonight. That’s it. You don’t need to be strong or poetic or perfect. You just need to get through the next few hours. If at any point you feel like you can’t breathe, you just look at me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

I looked at her, and the tears prickled again, rising quick and hot—but I blinked them back.

And then, just as fast, she ruined the moment in pure Tara fashion.

“Also, just FYI— if this Vedant guy doesn’t pass my vibe check, I’m calling it off. I don’t care if the rings are blessed or the pandit’s already chanting.”

[FYI: For your information]

I smiled through my panic. “You’re insane.”

“And you love me,” she smirked.

She grabbed the clutch, fluffed my pallu like I was a literal princess, and offered me her hand.

“Come on, dulhan. Let’s go charm the crowd and traumatize some rishtedaars.”

And I— quiet, terrified, wrapped in gold threads and good intentions— nodded.

For the first time in hours...

I didn’t feel like I was walking alone.

The hallway leading to the main hall was dressed in soft yellow light and the faint sound of clinking cutlery, muffled laughter, and distant shehnai. I walked slowly, one step at a time, with the weight of my saree grounding me and Tara holding onto my clutch like it was a weapon.

I could hear the crowd before I saw them.

Flashes of camera lights sparked through the open door. There were petals on the floor. Strings of mogra. Chandeliers too grand for my taste and voices too loud for my head.

My stomach twisted.

And then—

A shift. A flicker in the air.

Like someone had turned their attention on me with a force sharp enough to be felt.

I froze. Mid step.

Tara looked back. “You okay?”

I nodded, but my eyes were scanning the room now— quietly, discreetly. Looking for the source of that pull.

And then I found it.

Him.

He was standing near the stage, surrounded by relatives, some distant uncle trying to show him a phone video, a cousin handing him a mocktail— but he wasn’t listening. Not really.

He was looking at me.

Not blinking. Not smiling.

Just watching. Like the world had quieted for him too. Like nothing had changed, and yet everything had. And I wasn’t sure if it was him… or me.

And for a strange second— I forgot how to walk.

Because his expression wasn’t blank. It wasn’t angry either.

It was... something in between. Confused, maybe. Taken off guard. Something I couldn't name. And the fact that I noticed at all unsettled me more than I want to admit.

I looked away first.

Because I didn’t know how to carry the weight of that gaze.

Tara leaned in and whispered, “I’m going to assume that is Vedant.”

I didn’t answer.

“Okay, but why does he look like he negotiated a contract five minutes ago and hasn’t emotionally left the room.”

Still, I said nothing.

She grinned. “Oh my god. The man is a walking NDA. All calm and unreadable. You were doomed from the start, Diya. You were bound to short circuit a little.

I shot her a glare, but she only grinned wider.

We moved further into the crowd. I could hear my name now— guests greeting me, relatives smiling too wide, uncles giving unsolicited marriage advice. But all I could feel was his eyes. Still following me.

As if he was trying to figure me out.

As if I was a question paper no one warned him about.

And I— I didn’t have the answers either.

ENGAGEMENT OUTFITS

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

hello pretty little babies, how was this chapter?

did you all reach the venue? hurry the ceremony begins shortly. khana kha ke jana okay? 😋

also let me know if me explaining their emotions in detail seems boring? i will cut it, if the majority wants that.

vote and comment, because that's my love language ⭐👀

will post next chapter tomorrow 🌸 (sorry for the delays, im out on vacation, will start posting regularly in a couple of days.)

for spoilers, edits and unlimited yap follow me on instagram

ig : authorem_

thankyou so much for reading.

with love.

—M 💌