I hate crowds.

Not in the cute, introvert who needs a break way. I hate them viscerally.

The chaos. The overlapping conversations that feel like static in my brain. The meaningless pleasantries that scrape at my patience like sandpaper.

And the questions. God, the questions. Always the same.

“Shaadi ke baad honeymoon kaha jaaoge?”

“Beta, khush toh ho na?”

As if happiness follows a deadline or a dress code.

I nod at the uncles I’ve never seen before and will never see again. Let someone shove a glass into my hand. Watch a random video someone practically forced me to see.

A photographer gestures for me to stand straighter— chin up, shoulders back— as if perfect posture might mask everything. I let him angle me like a cardboard cutout, stiff and hollow.

Inside, I’m just counting. Minutes. Breaths. Seconds until I can excuse myself and disappear into a corner, alone with my silence.

But then—

Something shifted.

A pause I couldn’t explain.

It wasn’t anything loud or dramatic. No drumroll. No spotlight. Just… a ripple. Like the room tilted a little. And somehow, my eyes knew where to go.

She had just stepped in.

I didn’t see her face at first.

Only the whisper of ivory fabric— deliberate, fluid, graceful. Her hair was tied low, a simple bun that somehow made the word "simple" feel sacred.

And then she looked.

At me.

Eyes locked.

Brief. Unsteady.

But it was enough.

Enough to knock something off balance inside me.

Her expressions weren't fear.

It wasn't joy.

It wasn't ready.

It was uncertain. Like she's walked into something too big, too loud, too fast.

And I understood it.

Because I'd been feeling that exact thing since the moment this hall had filled with people.

She looked away first. Again.

Everything else— the noise, the lights, the camera flashes— dulled around the edges.

It wasn’t a stare. Not quite.

More like… an accidental alignment.

A brief intersection of glances that should’ve meant nothing.

But it did.

Because in that fraction of a second, I saw everything.

And nothing.

At once.

She looked calm.

But not still.

Like someone who had mastered the art of holding a storm inside her ribs and breathing through it. Not untouched by the chaos, but undefeated by it.

There was a quiet defiance in the way she stood there, as if the world had tried to break her once— and failed.

And my chest tightened. Just enough to notice.

That never happens.

I don’t get affected.

That’s my rule. The one unspoken truth I’ve always lived by.

And yet, there I was— frozen in the middle of my own engagement, staring like a fool at the woman I was supposed to marry. A woman I barely knew. A woman who wasn’t smiling either.

Not because we fell in love.

Not because we chose this.

But because two families decided we’d look good in photographs together.

And in that locked gaze, we weren’t smiling.

That was what undid me.

Not her beauty.

Not her presence.

But the quiet, mutual understanding that echoed between us like a secret only we could hear:

Neither of us had chosen this.

And still… there she was.

Not a savior. Not a dream.

Just something real.

Something unspeakably real in a room full of performances.

And I—

I didn’t look away.

I didn’t notice when the music changed.

Didn’t realize the priest had called our names twice.

Someone nudged me— probably Atharv— and I blinked, tearing my gaze away from her like I was surfacing from deep water.

She was already walking towards the stage.

Graceful steps. Anklets chiming low, like distant bells.

I followed.

She looked like she belonged to a different century.

Her saree was ivory, almost the same shade as the walls of the ancestral haveli where dadu wrote letters with ink. But softer. Gentler. Like milk laced with moonlight.

It shimmered in places, gold thread catching the light like whispered secrets. Embroidery curled across the fabric— delicate vines, petals, and faint butterflies— like someone had stitched dreams onto cloth.

And she wore it like armor.

Graceful, unflinching, wrapped in tradition, yet untouched by it.

There were bangles stacked on her wrists, heavy with gold and maroon, clinking gently every time she moved. Mehendi circled her fingers— dark, fresh, almost possessive. I didn’t know what it meant, but it felt intimate. Too intimate.

Everything about her was subtle. Intentional. As if she didn’t need grandeur to be seen.

As if she was the heirloom, and the saree just a casing for something older, something fierce and quiet and undefeated.

And beside her— me.

In a sherwani that almost matched.

Ivory, again. With threadwork that looked like someone had tried to trap starlight in paisleys and mirror work.

It felt heavy, but not unbearable. Like a weight you wear for someone else’s sake. The collar brushed my jaw every time I moved, reminding me where I was.

My stole was embroidered, handwoven, lined with the kind of detailing that generations of women probably spent years perfecting. It looked beautiful, even on someone like me— someone who didn’t belong to celebrations.

We matched.

Not perfectly, not like some planned aesthetic. But accidentally.

There was something about the way she carried herself that made me feel like I knew her.

And at the same time—

Like I’d never understand a damn thing about her.

But maybe that’s why I couldn’t look away.

Because I wasn’t supposed to reach her.

Just… witness her.

Exactly like this.

We stood beside each other, close enough for the scent of her to reach me— shea butter and something warmer, deeper— cashmere wood, maybe. But not close enough to feel her warmth.

Her hands were clasped in front of her, the bangles resting like a crown around her wrists. She didn’t look at me. Not directly.

But I saw it— how her lashes fluttered, how the muscles in her jaw shifted.

She was holding something back.

Same.

Same, Diya.

Yes, I know her name now.

Was told a dozen times, but it never sounded like anything real until she was standing beside me.

Diya.

Of course. A name that meant light.

And here she was— draped in dawn's first light, wrapped in gold thread— light, quiet, soft… and burning steadily.

And then—

the moment arrived.

The rings.

Someone brought them forward in a velvet tray.

More lights. More flashes.

But all I could see was… them.

The rings. The ones we picked. The ones we didn’t talk about afterward.

And suddenly—

I wasn’t here.

I was back in that store, two days ago.

Back in that strange, quiet moment that cracked something in me without warning.

Flashback : Jewellery store.

I stepped out of the car, the air hit different. Heavy with something I couldn’t name yet. The kind that clings to your skin before your mind catches up.

My footsteps echoed as I walked toward the pavement of the store— too focused on my thoughts, too lost in the noise inside my own head to notice anything outside of it.

I climbed the first step.

And that’s when it happened.

A flicker of movement. A sudden sway.

A girl tripping backwards.

I didn’t even realize it was her at first.

Not until my body had already moved—instinct snapping into place before logic could catch up.

My hand shot out.

Caught her.

She landed against me, her back glued to my chest and her fingers instantly went backwards and gripped my bicep— tight, desperate, like I was the only solid thing in a world that had tilted too fast beneath her feet.

And I stilled.

Completely.

Because in that moment— skin against fabric, breath caught between us— I realised who it was.

Diya.

And my arms… they hovered. Just barely around her waist. Not touching. Not quite. Suspended in that tiny sliver of space that separated reflex from intention.

I didn’t want to cross that line.

So I kept my arms where they were.

Just enough to steady her.

Just enough to let her know she was safe.

“Are you okay?” I asked, quietly, because anything louder might've broken whatever strange bubble we were caught inside.

She didnt reply.

Her face flushed with a kind of heat that wasn’t from the fall.

And I saw it— the way her eyes darted away, the blink-blink that came too fast, too forced.

She stepped back like she couldn’t do it fast enough.

Like she wanted to pretend it didn’t happen.

Like pretending would make the moment less real.

But it was already real.

Branded into my memory.

Later, in the store, she was quiet again.

We were browsing rings— or at least pretending to. The shopkeeper was showing us styles, asking for preferences. I don’t even remember what I said, if anything.

Because I was watching her.

She had picked up a ring, something dainty, nothing too loud.

But it got stuck.

She didn’t panic— of course she didn’t—but I noticed the way her lips thinned. The slight flinch in her wrist. Her finger was red, protesting.

The shopkeeper leaned in, offered to help, reaching for her hand.

And she… hesitated.

Her hand rose slowly, halfway to his.

And something in me twisted.

I didn’t think.

I didn’t weigh the consequences.

Didn’t consider boundaries or explanations or how it might look.

I just moved.

Gently, I caught her hand before it could reach the shopkeeper’s. My fingers closed around hers— not tightly, just enough to stop her.

She looked at me, startled.

And I didn’t say a word.

I lowered her hand, held it steady, and used my other hand to ease the ring off her red finger. Carefully. Softly. Making sure not to hurt her more than the metal already had.

I should’ve let her choose the next one. I know that.

But my eyes had caught something earlier— something quiet in the display.

Two silver bands.

Simple, curved. Shaped like infinity symbols.

I don’t know why it stuck with me. Maybe it was the design. Maybe the symmetry. Maybe just the idea of something fitting.

I picked them up. Slipped one onto her finger.

Not to make a point. Not to make it mean more than it was.

But because it felt… right.

The metal sat snug but gentle against her skin. It caught the light in a soft, understated way. Not flashy. Not trying to be noticed.

Kind of like her.

I let my hand fall away.

Didn’t say a word.

But something in my chest felt different.

Not loud.

Not clear.

Just there.

And I didn’t know what to do with that yet.

She didn’t say a word.

Just looked down—

at our hands,

at the ring now resting against her skin,

at the faint imprint the old one had left behind.

And then… slowly, she looked at me.

Her gaze didn’t flash with surprise.

It didn’t light up, or glimmer, or do anything that would make this moment obvious to the world.

But something shifted.

A softening.

Like a knot inside her had finally loosened— just slightly.

Like something she’d been holding onto without realizing had let go, for the briefest second.

It wasn’t grand.

Wasn’t dramatic.

But it was sacred, somehow.

Quiet in the way only real things are.

And in that silence, something flickered in her eyes.

Not joy.

Not peace.

Not anything light.

It was older than that.

Heavier.

Like grief dressed in memory.

Like she was remembering something she never wanted to,

or feeling something she wasn’t ready for.

And for a split second— just one— I saw her want to fight it.

To push it down.

But she didn’t.

And that undoing— small, quiet, invisible to everyone but me—

shook something loose in my chest.

Because how could something so small— a ring—

hold that much weight?

And how could a moment that wasn’t meant to matter…

suddenly feel like it did?

Afterwards, she tried to pay for the ring.

She handed over her card with practiced calm, like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Didn’t look at me. Didn’t flinch.

Just said, flatly, that she’d pay for her ring.

I told her she wasn't supposed to.

But then she insisted on paying for mine.

No room for negotiation.

Because that’s her.

She doesn’t request. She decides.

She doesn’t let anyone do things for her— not even the small, effortless kindnesses.

Not because she doesn’t want them.

But because needing feels too close to weakness.

Because control is her last line of defense, and even a swipe of a card is a battle she refuses to lose.

So I let her.

Not because I agreed.

Not because I didn’t want to argue.

But because pushing back— right then— felt like pressing too hard on a bruise that hadn’t even started healing.

It would’ve cracked something between us.

Something delicate. Unspoken.

And maybe, without realizing, I understood what that payment meant to her.

It wasn’t about the money.

It was about holding on.

To herself. To her choices. To whatever scrap of agency the world hadn’t already taken.

So I let her have it.

Her little victory.

Even if a part of me wished she didn’t feel like she needed to win at all.

Then—

standing in the middle of the parking lot,

rear door of my car open,

watching her get into the back seat—

I stopped thinking.

Something in me just... snapped.

Not out of pride.

Not because she didn’t sit beside me.

And definitely not because of the words that came out—

“Do I look like a driver?”

It wasn’t about that.

I didn’t care about appearances. I didn’t care about who sat where.

What got to me was the space she was creating.

It felt wrong.

Cold. Disconnected.

So I made her sit in the front.

Met her stubbornness with my own.

Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask. Just waited— silent, still— until she moved.

And we drove in silence.

Not tense. Not hostile.

Just... full.

Like there were words sitting in both our throats, refusing to be spoken.

Until she pulled out the camera.

It was small. Old, even. The kind of thing people don’t carry anymore unless it means something.

The leather strap was frayed. The corners scuffed. Like it had seen too much and been held too tightly, too often.

She clicked a photo without a word.

I followed her line of sight—

A child, barely five, curled up on the edge of the pavement.

Two puppies nestled beside him like warmth itself.

All three asleep. Undisturbed. Unbothered by the world rushing past them.

But her face didn’t soften right away.

Her smile didn’t come until a few seconds later—when she noticed the mother dog.

Sitting a short distance away.

Still. Watchful.

Her gaze sharp, her body alert— ready to protect, even from afar.

That’s when something shifted in her.

Not loud. Not obvious.

Just a quiet easing in her expression.

Like she’d seen something she understood a little too well.

And that was the first time I saw her smile for real.

No mask. No tension.

Just... a flicker of truth.

I didn’t say a word.

Just watched her.

Because in that moment, she was everything I didn’t expect.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

We reached her house sometime after.

She got out. I followed and handed her the rings.

We didn’t speak—

But our eyes held, a second too long, like neither of us knew what to do now.

I didn’t leave until she stepped inside.

And now—

Back to the present.

Back to the noise, the clapping, and polished smiles.

The tray was brought forward— silver, ornate, too shiny under the lights. Two rings sat on a bed of rose petals, absurdly delicate for how heavy they felt in my chest.

I stared at them like they might burn me.

Her hand was already there.

Steady.

Small.

I wanted to trace every curve of every vine and ask her what parts were hers, and what parts were painted on for this evening alone.

The priest said something. A cue, I think.

I was supposed to move.

Supposed to take the ring.

But I paused.

Because how do you offer something that symbolic to someone who hasn’t asked for it?

My fingers reached for the ring.

It was cold.

Lighter than I expected, like it didn’t carry the weight it was meant to.

But maybe the heaviness wasn’t in the metal. Maybe it was in the moment.

I looked up.

She was watching the floor. Not out of shyness— no. It felt more like… armor.

Like she was keeping her gaze anchored, afraid that if she met mine, something might spill.

And I wasn’t sure if it would be hers… or mine.

“Diya,” I said softly. Not out loud. But in my head. Just once.

And her eyes flicked up.

And it was quietly shattering.

I could see her inhale, slow, like she’d been holding her breath since the morning and had finally run out of places to keep it.

I wanted to say something.

Something that would make it easier. Lighter.

But all I had was this stupid ring, and a name I’d barely gotten to call her.

I held her hand gently.

No fingers interlaced. No accidental grazing of skin. Just palm to palm— measuring warmth.

She didn’t pull away.

She didn’t lean in either.

Her hand was cold. Or maybe mine was too warm. I don’t know.

I slid the ring onto her finger, and the second it settled at the base—

I felt something shift.

Not between us.

Within me.

Like a door quietly unlocking inside my chest.

Not opening. Just… no longer locked.

And then it was her turn.

She picked up the ring slowly, and for a moment, she just… stared at it.

Like it was a sentence she hadn’t prepared for.

Her fingers hovered over mine.

I didn’t breathe.

She didn’t meet my eyes this time. But I saw her lips part slightly— like she was about to say something.

She didn’t.

She took the ring and slid it onto my finger— slowly, gently. Like it was something she didn’t want to do roughly, even if she wanted nothing more than to be anywhere but here.

And just like that, it was done. With the kind of caution that told me she didn’t do things halfway.

For a moment, I felt rooted to the floor and floating all at once.

Not because of the ring.

But because of the way she did it—

like she was giving me something sacred and terrifying, and pretending it was just tradition.

I looked down at the band of metal now sitting snugly against my skin.

It wasn’t just a ring.

It was a line I couldn’t uncross.

The applause came.

The flower petals rained.

The cameras flashed.

But none of it reached me.

Because she was still standing beside me.

Her shoulders drawn, but her expression calm.

And I realized—

For all the noise around us, this moment between us was the quietest thing I’d ever known.

And somehow, the most real.

I’d barely registered the applause when someone guided us toward the table.

It was ridiculous, really. A towering five tier cake with cream roses and gold dust like it was trying too hard to impress a room that didn’t need impressing.

There was a knife. Someone placed our hands together, fingers overlapping. The contact was brief, but it sent a strange static up my spine.

We cut through the first layer.

The room cheered like we’d done something miraculous.

Someone shoved a piece of cake into my hand.

I turned toward her.

Paused.

And then— held it out.

Feeding her felt… foreign.

Too intimate for strangers.

Too staged for truth.

But she leaned in, graceful and composed, and took a small bite. Her lips never brushed my fingers. Of course they didn’t.

Then she returned the gesture, delicate but firm.

Held the cake just close enough, then waited.

I hesitated.

And then leaned in— eyes still locked on hers.

The cameras clicked.

Everyone clapped.

And I… just stared at her.

🪔

There’s a strange thing that happens during formal photoshoots.

You’re asked to smile, hold poses, lean in like affection is a light switch someone else gets to flip.

They want chemistry, symmetry, something picture perfect for the family WhatsApp group.

The photographer was good at what he did— fast, confident, unapologetic in his orders.

“Sir, haath rakhiye unki kamar pe.”

His voice was casual.

His assumption, automatic.

Like he thought we were just another couple in love, celebrating something we’d chosen.

I didn’t move.

Not an inch.

Diya stiffened beside me.

It wasn’t visible. Not to anyone else.

But I felt it in the way her shoulders locked, the slight shift of weight in her stance.

I turned to her slowly.

Our eyes met.

And suddenly the noise blurred again.

I wasn’t going to do it.

Not like that.

The photographer repeated himself, a little more insistently this time.

“Sir, haath... just lightly, for the frame.”

Again, I didn’t budge.

Instead— I looked at her.

Not a glance. Not a question.

A quiet offering.

My eyes asked, We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable.

But then—

She blinked.

Once.

A slow, steady blink.

Not hesitation. Not fear.

Permission.

Not in the loud, over romanticized kind of way.

But in the real way.

The kind where someone sees you offering space, and chooses to step into it on their own terms.

So I moved.

Deliberate. Careful.

My hand hovered near her waist.

Not touching. Not grazing. Just there.

Close enough that through the lens, it would look like contact.

But we both knew better.

There was no warmth of skin. Just that charged space in between— small, sacred, alive.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t lean in either.

But she didn’t pull away.

Click.

The sound cut through the air like punctuation— final, definitive.

The kind that should’ve meant the moment was over.

But neither of us moved.

My hand still hovered near her waist, careful, steady.

Not touching. But near enough to feel the gravity.

That gentle, invisible pull.

And she didn’t step away.

We stayed exactly like that—

for two, maybe three seconds longer than we should have.

The world kept moving.

The photographer was already checking the preview.

Someone in the background laughed. Another camera flashed.

But we… were still.

And then—

She looked up at me.

Slow.

Unrushed.

Her lashes lifting like curtains on something she hadn’t meant to show.

And suddenly, I couldn’t look away.

So I looked down.

Met her gaze, just as steady.

Not intense.

Not romantic.

Just... aware.

A quiet recognition.

Click.

Another shutter.

The photographer caught it.

Whatever it was.

That charged, weightless moment.

He probably thought he’d captured a stolen glance between two people falling for each other.

But what he actually caught—

was two strangers, standing in the middle of tradition and tension, learning how to breathe in each other’s space without flinching.

🪔

T

he stage had turned into a conveyor belt of relatives.

One after the other—

Shiny sarees. Loud uncles.

Gifts wrapped in glitter paper, envelopes passed like bribes, blessings pressed against our heads like paperweights.

Diya and I sat side by side on the floral couch meant for the couple of the hour.

The distance between our shoulders had remained unchanged.

Not too close. Not awkwardly apart.

Somewhere in the middle.

A metaphor, probably.

My mother came first, beaming like we’d won a lottery and she was the one cashing it in.

She blessed us both, arms lingering a little longer around Diya than they ever had around me.

Then came Diya’s parents. Hands on our heads, whispering something I didn’t catch.

Her father patted my back like he was testing the quality of a sofa.

It was all… expected.

Until they arrived.

The only chaos I'd never admit I needed.

Atharv climbed up the steps of the stage, his kurta creased from toddler chaos and dad duty. Tanya walked beside him.

And in Atharv’s arms—

Misha.

Twelve months of pure drama and chubby cheeks– in a tiny pink frock with white frills, matching socks, and shoes too big for her tantrums.

Her hair tied into two messy puffs and a suspicious look in her eyes like she was already judging the guest list.

But what really got me?

The oversized marigold clutched in her tiny fist like it was treasure.

Tanya stepped up first. She pulled Diya into a hug, warm and casual, the kind that bypasses social awkwardness.

“Congratulations,” she beamed, brushing a strand of Diya’s hair back.

Then came the main event.

Misha— still in her father’s arms— peeked out cautiously from the crook of his neck.

A blink.

A quick look at Diya.

And back to hiding.

Full shy mode activated.

Tanya chuckled. “She brought this flower for you.”

I turned to Diya instinctively.

Until now, she’d been all stillness.

Emotionless grace.

Poised, polite, unreadable.

But at those words?

Something shifted.

Her face— still, serene, statue-like— lit up.

Not with a grin.

Not with a performative thank you.

But a soft, unguarded smile.

The kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that means something.

She stretched her arms out, open and sure, the smile still blooming.

And Misha—

without a second of hesitation—

launched herself from Atharv’s arms into Diya’s like she’d known her since the womb.

She hugged her tightly, tiny arms wrapping around Diya’s neck like she was holding on to something precious.

Then she peeked up, whispered a breathy: “Hi.”

Diya melted.

I swear, she physically melted.

You could see it.

The shift. The softness that took over her expression in real time.

“Hi,” she replied, just as softly. Almost like she didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“You got this for me?” Diya asked, looking at the marigold still gripped in Misha’s baby fist.

Misha nodded with all the determination of a monarch sealing an alliance.

A single, chubby, over committed nod.

Diya chuckled. Gently.

Not loudly. Not for anyone else.

Just for Misha.

And then Misha, very ceremoniously, held the flower out.

Diya took it like it was sacred.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick with something even I couldn’t name.

And Misha?

She clapped.

A full baby clap. Two tiny hands coming together with all the joy her body could hold.

And Diya’s smile grew. Wide. Unfiltered. Real.

And me?

I stood there.

Watching this tiny human offer her loyalty, her marigold, her whole heart—

to a girl she met four days ago.

The girl I’m getting married to.

The one I’m trying to figure out.

The one who hadn’t looked at me like that once all evening.

And Misha, who’s known me all her life, ignored me completely.

Didn’t even give me a look.

The stage had stilled again after they left.

The marigold sat in Diya’s lap, her fingers absently tracing its frayed edges. She wasn’t smiling anymore— but she wasn’t back to blank either.

It was something in between. A space that wasn’t hollow.

And then—

I saw him.

Wading through the crowd like he wasn’t late, like he wasn’t expected, like this entire event was a personal inconvenience he was somehow making fashionable.

Varun.

Hair pushed back. That navy blue kurta hugging his frame like it had a vendetta.

Rolled up sleeves, obviously.

No tie. No fuss. No neon, thank God.

But the glint in his eye—

That was vintage Varun. Unapologetic. Irreverent. Home.

And just like that—

I was pulled back to the morning.

To the silence.

To the version of me that had nothing figured out.

Flashback – Morning of the Engagement

I stepped out of the shower, a towel slung carelessly around my neck, hair damp and falling into my eyes. My shirt clung to my back slightly, but I didn’t move to change it.

Didn’t see the point.

It was 9:00 AM. I had ten hours left.

I stared at myself in the mirror. Tried to see the groom everyone else was clapping for.

Still saw me.

Same tired eyes. Same headache lingering from last night. Same silence filling up my ribcage like concrete.

My phone vibrated once. I ignored it.

Then again.

And again.

I finally picked it up. Varun.

I hadn’t told him yet.

Of course, he’d find out eventually. He always does. Doctors are nosy like that. Also, he has the subtlety of a firecracker.

I answered with a grunt.

“Well, well, well,” his voice came through, far too awake for a Sunday. “Is the great Vedant Malhotra finally alive? Or are you calling from beyond the grave?”

“Busy.”

“Liar. You don’t get busy. You get broody. Different B-word.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed, resting my elbows on my knees.

“I’m getting engaged today.”

There was a pause.

Long.

Then—

“Wait—what?”

I didn’t repeat myself. Didn’t need to.

He processed it like someone had just told him the Earth was flat. Or worse, that I’d joined Instagram.

“You’re getting engaged. Today?”

“Yes.”

“To who? Since when? Does she exist or did you invent her to shut everyone up?"

I ran a hand through my hair, already regretting this call. “Arranged. Long story. Not in the mood.”

“YOU’RE GETTING ENGAGED AND YOU’RE ‘NOT IN THE MOOD’ TO TALK ABOUT IT?! BRO THIS IS THE MOOD.”

I sighed. Loudly. Didn’t help.

“She’s doing CA. Quiet. Keeps to herself. Name’s Diya.”

“Oh wow. Two emotionally unavailable people getting married. What could possibly go wrong?"

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously, Vedant— what happened? You never wanted to get married. You've said this since high school. I thought you’d sooner adopt a cactus and name it ‘Commitment’ than do this.”

There was a pause. Then he spoke again.

“This isn't you. You don’t just wake up and say yes to this. You hate functions. You hate people.”

I closed my eyes. Took a slow breath.

My fingers curled into the bedsheet.

“Dadu had a cardiac episode last week.”

Everything on the line went still.

He knew. He knew what that meant.

“How bad?” he asked.

“Bad enough for doctors to stop offering hope.” I swallowed. “He’s okay. But...”

“He asked.”

I nodded. Even though he couldn’t see me.

“Vedant…”

His voice was softer now. Less Varun the smartass. More Varun the person who’s seen me fall apart before.

“You said yes just like that?”

I looked at the floor.

The way Dadu had looked at me.

His hand had trembled when he said it.

“Yeah" I murmured.

Varun didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then, finally,

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Diya. Why didn’t you tell her you didn’t want this?”

“It wouldn't change a thing,” I said quietly. "And she knows."

“Why did you tell her, if it wouldn't change a thing, you idiot."

I took a deep breath, "I didn't."

He sighed. I imagined him rubbing his temples, leaning against a wall, surrounded by chaos but still hearing me.

“Do you like her?”

Silence.

Another exhale.

“You’ve talked to her, right? Not just the family dinners and the polite nods. Like talk talked?”

“Barely.”

“Vedant— what the hell, man?”

“I know.”

He sighed again. Heavier this time.

“I don’t know whether to hug you or slap you.”

“You can do both. After 7 p.m.”

“Don’t test me. I’ll show up in a flamingo shirt and make a toast.”

“Wear something normal.”

“No promises.”

I was about to hang up when he said—

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not alone. You know that, right?”

Something in my chest cracked quietly.

Like a wall remembering it had a window.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

“If you need to run, just cough twice and blink four times. I’ll have the getaway car outside.”

I let out something that might’ve been a laugh. Or a breath that didn’t taste like guilt.

“See you at seven,” I said.

“Tell Diya she’s got good taste in men. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

I rolled my eyes. “Shut up.”

And I hung up.

But for the first time that week...

I didn’t feel like the ground was slipping out from under me.

Not completely.

Because now, someone else knew.

And someone else cared enough to show up anyway.

He was walking toward me now, past buffet tables and aunties whispering behind their clutches.

Past Dadu, who gave him a nod.

Past the chaos of everything staged and sugar coated.

And in that moment—

for the first time tonight,

my shoulders dropped.

Like my body remembered I wasn’t carrying this alone.

I didn’t smile. I’m not wired that way.

But something loosened behind my ribs.

Because he was here.

Because he always is.

And because a part of me had been waiting to see someone who actually knew what it cost me to wear this ring.

Varun climbed the stairs, shoes slightly scuffed, gaze sharp and warm all at once.

And when he reached me—

he didn’t say anything right away.

He just bumped his shoulder lightly against mine.

No hug. No big entrance.

Just that one familiar jolt.

The kind that said: I see you. I’ve got you. You’re still you, even in this mess.

I looked over, and for a second— we were eighteen again.

Except now, I was engaged.

Just as Varun’s shoulder brushed mine, something shifted again—

like another layer of noise peeled back from the crowd.

My eyes caught movement on the other side of the stage.

A girl in a yellow lehenga stepped forward, her walk steady, deliberate—

like she belonged here, but on her own terms.

She wasn’t looking around, wasn’t smiling for the cameras.

Her gaze was set— first on Diya.

She paused in front of her.

Said nothing.

Just looked.

And not the way people usually look at Diya— like they’re trying to figure her out.

No, this was different.

She knew her. Or thought she did.

Then, slowly, her eyes turned to me.

There was no softness there.

Not hostility either.

Just… assessment. Like she was silently asking herself, “This is the guy?”

Whatever she concluded, I wasn’t completely dismissed.

And then— like they’d rehearsed it—

Varun stepped forward, and so did she.

At the same time.

He extended his hand to Diya.

She extended hers to me.

“Hi, bhabhi, I’m his best friend."

“Hi jiju, I’m her best friend."

They both said at the same time. Voices overlapping.

Their hands hovered in the air—

still extended.

But neither of us took them.

Diya didn’t move.

Neither did I.

Their hands awkwardly crossed in front of us, forming this strange, tense ‘X’ between introductions and refusals.

And then it happened—

they looked at each other.

Eyes locked.

And the air tightened.

Varun’s usual smirk faltered.

Just slightly. A hairline crack in his performance.

A second of something—recognition, disbelief, maybe even something heavier—

passed through his face.

Then he masked it. Instantly.

And with a quirk of his brow, said—

“What a tiny world we live in.”

He turned fully to her now. His voice gentler, almost surprised.

“How are you doing, Star?”

The confidence she walked in with— the quiet interrogation in her eyes, the energy that screamed she’d come here to examine me—

all of it slipped.

Her expression flickered.

A glitch.

Gone as soon as it came.

And then, like him, she slipped back into sarcasm like it was second skin.

“I’ve been as amazing as I am,” she said, finally shaking the hand he had now extended towards her.

Her fingers met his.

But her smile was all thorns.

“Are you still roaming free with that fake degree of yours, Doctor?”

Varun laughed.

A real one. The kind that said he wasn’t rattled— even though he absolutely was.

Like she hadn’t just jabbed at his career like it was a childhood hobby.

Diya turned to me.

I turned to her.

Neither of us needed words.

We both wore the same quiet confusion on our faces.

What just happened?

Varun looked at me, still grinning.

“Long story. Later.”

The girl looked at Diya with the same half smirk.

“Long story. Later.”

And then— just like that—

they turned.

Walked off the stage together.

Side by side.

Not talking sweetly.

Not whispering.

They were arguing.

Low. Rapid.

Like they’d been interrupted mid fight and were just now picking up where they left off.

And just like that, the noise returned.

The families— those well meaning, overly dressed, tradition wrapped hurricanes—started pouring in again.

One after another.

Uncles with padded hugs and heavy cologne.

Cousins I didn’t recognise handing over wrapped gifts with polite smiles and sly questions.

Everyone had something to offer.

A plate. A wish. A photo. A story.

I nodded. Let it all pass through me like weather.

The crowd had started thinning.

Some people were already halfway through dessert.

The music softened, something instrumental and slow.

We sat side by side now, on the couch meant for the “happy couple.”

She was playing with the edge of her bangles. A nervous habit, maybe. Or maybe it was just something to do with her hands now that all the ceremonial performance was over.

I wanted to speak.

Ask her if she was okay. If her feet hurt. If she wanted to disappear too.

But all I said was,

“You didn’t eat the cake.”

She didn't, only took the tiniest bite when i offered her— when I was supposed to feed her for the photos.

She glanced at me.

Just slightly.

“I don’t like vanilla,” she said softly.

It was the first real thing she’d said to me all night.

Then came the photographers.

“Look here, sir. Yes, now ma’am—little smile, little smile!”

We did.

Barely.

The camera flashes popped like artificial stars, trying to pin down a moment that didn’t fully belong to either of us.

“Sir, now with the family again! Diya ma’am, just a little tilt of the chin— yes, perfect.”

I watched her do it.

Tilt. Nod. Smile.

Like it was muscle memory.

Like the real her was somewhere tucked behind the folds of her saree.

After what felt like a hundred staged photos, the crowd thinned.

Someone announced over the mic—

“Now the couple will proceed for blessings from the elders.”

I stood up first.

Offered my hand to help her up.

She looked at it, then placed her palm in mine.

Her touch was cool. Measured.

But the moment lingered longer than it needed to.

We stepped down together.

One by one, the elders came forward.

Some placed their hands over our heads.

Some pressed sweets into our palms.

Some gave advice we wouldn’t remember.

And one aunty pulled Diya into a hug so tight, I could see her blouse crease from the front.

She didn’t flinch.

She endured.

And for a moment, I hated how familiar that looked.

After the blessings, someone brought in a tray of vermillion, sweets, and rose petals. My mother did the aarti for us— slow, precise circles in front of our faces like she was trying to erase bad omens.

Diya stood still through it all.

Chin up. Back straight.

But I caught the slight twitch in her fingers as she adjusted her saree’s pallu for the seventh time in three minutes.

The final ritual was small— dadu pressed a dot of red on both our foreheads.

Then, mercifully—

it was done.

The stage cleared.

The crowd turned toward the dining area.

Chatter grew louder as the rituals faded into memory.

We stood side by side.

“It's over,” I said quietly.

Diya nodded once.

“Mostly.”

Then— just like that—

we stepped down from the stage,

two strangers still tethered by something bigger than both of us.

The engagement was over.

But whatever had just begun—

that wasn’t in the script.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Engagement done and dusted.

This one again is a little longer because y'all practically forced me to add vedant's pov from the other day lmao.

Anyway I hope you liked it 💗 Vote and comment for next chapter ⭐ because might contain the recent spoiler i posted 👀

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thankyou so much for reading.

with love.

-M 💌