The cool touch of henna seeped into my skin- soothing, slow, deliberate, and oddly grounding.

Each stroke wove stories I wasn't ready to read yet, curling across my palm like delicate vines whispering secrets I could almost hear but never quite understand.

Haldi was yesterday.

And somehow, I'm still carrying its scent- like it clung to me, refused to let go.

Even after I washed it off my skin, it stayed.

In the folds of my dupatta. In the hollow behind my ears.

Settled in the air around me.

They say haldi is for glow. For blessings. For beginnings.

But all I felt was a soft mourning- disguised in yellow.

Fingers dipped in turmeric had brushed my cheeks like they were sending me off, like they were writing my farewell in yellow smudges.

I remember gripping the edge of my kurta, grounding myself with every handful of fabric, trying not to come undone.

There were songs, laughter, a shower of petals.

And somewhere in that chaos, I realized- I was being celebrated for stepping into a life I hadn't chosen.

Decorated for departure.

Smiling for photos I'll one day look at and wonder: Was I ever really there?

It felt like someone was drawing curtains on a version of me I hadn't even finished becoming.

And now, Mehendi.

I sit still, a canvas, while henna vines bloom across my palms.

They say the darker it stains, the deeper the love.

But my heart feels pale, muted- like it knows better than to hope.

My left hand is nearly done.

The cool paste soothes something raw inside me, anchoring me to this moment, even as everything else spins too fast.

Tara sat beside me, legs folded, bangles clinking, her energy a sharp contrast to my stillness as she insisted- insisted- on feeding me fruits.

"Eat this," she mutters, holding out a mango slice with that stubborn glare she's mastered.

"I'm not hungr-"

Before I can finish, she shoves it into my mouth, no hesitation.

I choke- on the mango, on my own words, on the sudden warmth that crawls up my throat.

A laugh escapes.

Soft.

Unsteady.

"You'll thank me later," she said smugly, already reaching for an apple next.

But my mind wasn't on the fruit.

It hadn't been for a while now.

It was on the handwriting.

Slanted, clean, and oddly graceful- like someone who wrote with control.

Not Tara. Definitely not her. Her writing had always been messy, like her- loud, uneven, chicken scratch that she likes to call cursive.

I'd asked her twice before.

Okay.

Fine.

Three times.

But still, the question kept circling back like a restless bird.

"Tara..."

My voice was quieter this time, more curious than confrontational.

She hummed, distracted, half focused on the hair strands that kept falling on her face, the other half on whether the apple would fit in my mouth without warning.

"Are you sure it was you who wrote that?"

There.

I'd said it again.

And this time, I watched her face- closely.

Because something about that handwriting had unsettled me.

Felt... unfamiliar.

She let out a sharp exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "You've asked this, like, ten times in four days."

"Three times," I mumbled defensively.

She rolled her eyes, dramatic as ever. "It looked weird because I was in a hurry. The delivery guy was already downstairs."

I frowned, tilting my head. "But... it was really neat."

Tara didn't even blink. "Obviously," she said with a straight face. "I was in a slow hurry."

"A slow hurry?" I repeated, flat.

"Yes," she said proudly. "It's a skill. You wouldn't understand."

Before I could respond- or accuse her of deflecting yet again- she shoved an apple slice into my mouth like it was a full stop.

Flashback: 3 days ago

I was halfway through buttoning my shirt, fingers fumbling against damp fabric, my hair still dripping from a too fast shower. The morning was already slipping through my hands, breathless and blurry.

Then came the knock- three soft raps against my bedroom door.

Sharp enough to break the quiet. Familiar enough not to startle me.

I opened it to find Ma standing there holding a paper bag with a familiar brand logo.

"Tara sent you something," she said simply, extending it toward me.

I nodded, hands already reaching for it, eyes glancing anxiously at the wall clock.

"Breakfast ke liye jaldi neeche aaja, beta," she added, already turning to leave.

[Come down quickly for breakfast beta.]

"Five minutes," I called after her.

A lie we both pretended to believe.

It was always ten.

I tossed the paper bag onto my bed, the rustle of it louder than expected in the quiet.

I hadn't planned to open it right away, but something tugged at me- curiosity, maybe. Or instinct.

There, stuck neatly on top, was a small yellow sticky note.

"From Tara."

That's it. No smiley face. No heart. No unnecessary doodle of a sun wearing sunglasses.

Suspicious.

Tara was incapable of brevity. If she wasn't dramatic, she wasn't breathing.

This? This was clinical. Almost... careful.

I sat down, peeled the note away, and opened the bag.

Inside:

Dark chocolates.

A strip of painkillers.

Heat patches.

My hand stilled above the bag.

How the hell did she know?

I hadn't said a word- not to her, not to anyone. No texts. No subtle hints. I hadn't even sent my usual whining voice note in our chat, the one where I complain dramatically about period pain like the world owes me compensation. Nothing.

And yet... there it was.

An emergency kit, packed with precision and eerie timing.

Dark chocolates- the kind I'd never expect anyone to get me, period or not. Bittersweet, expensive looking, the kind that melt slow and linger.

Painkillers- not my usual useless ones, but a sleeker brand that looked like it might actually do something.

And heat patches- floral scented, the kind I'd only seen in aesthetic Instagram reels, never in real life.

Wrapped neatly in a paper bag like it was just another delivery.

But it wasn't. Not to me.

I stared at it, a quiet warmth blooming in my chest-unexpected, uninvited.

The kind that makes you feel seen in ways you didn't ask for... but secretly needed.

I reached for my phone. My fingers moved before my mind caught up.

Tara.

The call rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

I almost hung up.

Then-

A click. The line connected.

"Hello..." she mumbled, voice thick with sleep, slurred around the edges. Like she'd just been yanked from a dream.

Groggy. Muffled. Blissfully unaware.

Was she still asleep?

The bag sat beside me, too quiet.

I didn't say anything right away. Just listened to her breathing on the other end of the line.

Then before she could fall asleep again.

"Did you send me something?" I asked, keeping my voice as casual as I could.

There was a pause- just long enough to notice.

"Mmm... I send you so much love every day," she murmured, her voice syrupy with sleep and sarcasm, like a half asleep poet making declarations from bed.

I rolled my eyes, the corner of my mouth twitching despite myself.

"No, like... did you send me painkil-"

"Wait, wait, wait," she cut in suddenly, words snapping into a sharper register.

"I'm getting another call. It's important."

And just like that, the sleepy haze vanished.

Her voice turned crisp, awake, almost too alert.

Like she'd flipped a switch.

My brows drew together before I could stop them.

That was fast.

Too fast.

One second she was melting into her pillow, the next she was acting like she got a call from the president.

"Okay," I said slowly, though she'd already hit hold.

Didn't even wait for my answer.

The screen dimmed.

I sighed and tossed the phone onto the bed, letting it bounce onto the sheets like it had answers it refused to share.

Then I walked to the mirror, dragging a towel through my damp hair, scrunching the ends with muscle memory. I could feel the ache blooming low in my stomach-slow, dull, stubborn.

Cramps.

Of course.

But there was no question of skipping work.

World didn't pause just because your uterus was staging a protest.

Five minutes passed. Maybe six.

Then my phone lit up again.

Tara.

"Hi- yes, I sent you something," she chirped, voice suspiciously bright.

Too crisp.

Too fresh.

Like she hadn't been in a near coma just five minutes ago.

I narrowed my eyes, staring at my reflection as I answered flatly, "What did you send me?"

"Whatever you received," she replied sweetly, like that was a perfectly acceptable answer.

As if vague nonsense was an art form and she was Picasso.

She was hiding something. I could hear it in the edges of her voice.

"How did you know I was on my period?" I asked, bracing myself for something bizarre.

"Because I'm on my period," she replied, casually. Like we'd... scheduled it on Google Calendar.

I stared at the phone. "What?"

"So I figured you must've gotten yours too," she continued breezily, as if this logic was airtight.

I blinked. Once. Twice. "...You figured?"

She didn't even pause. "Our cycles sync, Diya. Whenever we meet. You remember, right? College? We used to get them almost on the same day? It's science. Or uterus telepathy. Or whatever."

"Oh."

I paused, the memory slowly clicking into place.

College. Shared instant noodles and synced up misery.

Right. That had happened. More than once.

"Yeah... makes sense," I said, softer now.

Did it fully add up?

Not really.

But I was running late, my cramps were unforgiving, and honestly?

Tara being weirdly intuitive wasn't the strangest thing she'd done.

"Thanks. For this," I added, my voice dropping to something quieter, more honest. "I've been literally dying from the cramps."

"Aww," she cooed. "Take care, okay? If you need anything else, let me know."

I smiled.

"Yeah. I should get ready for work. Bye."

"Bye."

And just like that, the line went silent.

I stared at the brown paper bag one last time, its contents suddenly less suspicious and more... thoughtful.

Maybe it wasn't a mystery.

Maybe it was just Tara being Tara- magical, mildly insane, and somehow always right on time.

I peeled open the heat patch, pressed it gently against my lower stomach.

Within seconds, warmth spread through me- slow, soothing, like someone had tucked a tiny sun under my skin.

The cramps didn't vanish, but they softened-just enough for me to breathe again without wincing.

A sigh escaped my lips, part relief, part surrender.

Reaching into the bag again, I pulled out a chocolate bar and slid it into my tote, the familiar rustle oddly comforting.

A small backup plan for a long day ahead.

I checked the time, grabbed my files, and glanced once more at the quiet room behind me.

Then I stepped out.

Present

"Why would I lie to you? You're thinking too much."

Maybe she was right.

Maybe I was overthinking- spinning threads out of thin air, trying to find meaning in something that was just... thoughtfulness.

But the doubt hadn't fully left me.

It hovered. Lingered. Hung by a thread in the back of my mind.

And then- just like that- my thoughts shattered.

The mehendi artist looked up from my hand, her tone calm, almost too casual.

"Dulhe ka naam kya hai?"

The words fell softly, but they hit like a stone dropped into still water.

I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

My breath stalled somewhere between inhale and exhale, like my lungs hadn't been warned.

The mehendi artist didn't even glance up again. She just waited, her cone paused at the edge of my wrist, as if the answer should've come naturally.

But it didn't.

It lodged itself somewhere in my throat- too sharp to swallow, too delicate to spit out.

My fingers twitched.

The room hadn't changed.

Tara was still beside me, but she didn't notice.

Scrolling through her phone, occasionally feeding me fruit like I was a helpless toddler.

The fan above still hummed its tired rhythm.

Outside, laughter floated in from the courtyard.

And yet... everything inside me had stilled.

The name sat there. Heavy. Unspoken. Unclaimed.

My heart gave the faintest kick, not romantic, not dreamy-

just startled.

Like it hadn't yet accepted that this was happening. That it was him.

"Dulhe ka naam?" the artist asked again.

My lips parted, but the name tangled itself in silence, unwilling to surface.

Then-

"...Vedant," I whispered finally.

The name felt foreign on my tongue. Like I was borrowing it. Almost like i was saying it for the first time.

But she smiled, nodded, and returned to her craft.

Unaware of the storm she'd stirred.

A moment passed, maybe two, and then- without lifting her eyes- she asked again, just as gently, "Is there any specific place where I should hide his name?"

Like it was part of a sweet game.

Like it was something light.

Like it wasn't unraveling something inside me.

But it didn't feel sweet.

It felt like being stitched into something I couldn't untangle from.

Forget the name- can I hide myself instead?

My mouth refused to move.

I didn't trust it. Not when my heart was thudding so loudly in my ears, not when my throat felt like it was closing around a truth I hadn't made peace with.

So I simply lifted my hand and pointed-vaguely, aimlessly- toward the curve of skin just above my wrist.

A safe, forgettable place.

She nodded. Her fingers moved with steady ease, tucking his name into the fold of a petal. A quiet secret. A truth disguised in beauty.

And just like that, it became real.

This wasn't a conversation I could ignore or a proposal I could dodge.

This was happening.

It's happening, Diya.

In less than a day, you'll be married.

The words settled into me like a weight.

Not panic. Not dread.

Just... weight.

Like gravity remembered me all at once.

My chest tightened- not from fear, but from knowing.

From realizing this life was no longer something I could hold at arm's length.

I watched her hands move with elegance and certainty, crafting vines and florals across my palms.

Steady. Artful. Intentional.

My own hands? Slightly trembling.

Not enough to notice.

But enough to feel.

Every swirl she etched brought the moment closer.

Every leaf sealed the silence.

And I just sat there- still, quiet- letting fate ink itself into my skin.

Breathing slow.

Not resisting.

Not welcoming either.

Because what else was I supposed to do, when my future was being written into my skin?

Quietly.

Beautifully.

And completely out of my control.

I reached home by seven.

Way earlier than usual.

Not because the workload had magically shrunk-

but because I was done pretending it hadn't.

When I walked into the living room, the scent of eucalyptus oil and mehendi hit me first.

Mom, Chachi, and Tanya sat on the sofas, arms outstretched, palms painted in patterns that whispered celebration.

"Aaj itni jaldi aa gaya?" Mom asked, her tone light but laced with something beneath.

[You came home early today?]

I gave a small nod. That was all I could manage. Didn't want to explain that the reason I left early was because the office felt quieter than my head and I couldn't bear either of them anymore.

I turned, ready to disappear into my room-maybe hide there until all this wedding chaos stopped feeling like a countdown to something I wasn't ready for.

But I paused at the base of staircase.

Noticed Tanya shifting awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, one arm cradling the baby, the other midair- fingers stretched and slick with wet henna. Misha's eyes were already half shut, her head bobbing against her mother's shoulder in that loose, sleepy way toddlers do.

Atharv wasn't home yet.

I moved without thinking.

"I'll take her," I said quietly, stepping forward and easing Misha out of Tanya's arms.

"Thank you, bhaiya." She looked up relieved. Her smile was tired but genuine.

I just nodded and turned to head upstairs.

I'd barely made it three steps before a soft little voice broke the stillness against my shoulder.

"E-dant?" she mumbled, eyelids fluttering open.

She was awake now. Sort of. Still wrapped in sleep, her voice thick and warm with drowsiness.

"You're up?" I whispered, shifting her slightly in my arms.

She nodded, her small fingers reaching for my face, like she needed to confirm I was really there.

And then she cupped my cheeks with her tiny palms and kissed my left cheek. Soft. Sloppy. Pure.

My heart melted.

She rested her head back on my shoulder, sighing like she'd just completed a very important mission.

Then-

"Sit," her voice serious in that toddler sort of way that leaves no room for argument.

I turned back to the couch and-

I sat. Obviously.

How could I ever refuse her?

She curled against my arm, legs tucked beneath her, head resting lightly against my shoulder as she blinked out at the living room.

Her eyes followed the patterns of the henna artists at work- Mom and Chachi laughing softly.

Misha just watched. Silently. Curiously.

Then she turned toward me, her brow slightly furrowed.

"Wha' dis?" she asked, pointing a tiny finger toward the swirling designs on Tanya's hand.

"Henna," I said gently.

She blinked up at me. "Enna?"

A crooked smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. "Yes. Henna."

She glanced down at her own tiny palms-clean, soft, untouched.

For a moment, she just stared.

Turning them over. Studying them.

And I could tell-

She'd noticed.

No swirls.

No flowers.

No henna.

Just bare skin, while everyone else around her had hands full of art and celebration.

Then- very deliberately- she raised one hand in the air, held it out in front of her like she was comparing.

And finally, she pointed.

At the silver plate on the table.

The cones lined up in a neat little row.

Like she'd just solved the mystery of why her hands looked so plain.

And exactly what was supposed to fix it.

"Mishki," she declared, her voice small but certain- pointing between her outstretched palm and the plate of henna cones.

"Enna Mishki."

Like it was obvious. Like this was the next logical step in her tiny, toddling world.

I looked at her.

Then at her hand- held out so seriously, like she was ready to be adorned.

Then at the cones- lined up like little tubes of magic, just waiting to make her feel included.

And for one absurd second...

I saw it.

Saw her little fingers dotted with tiny, wobbly hearts.

Loops that barely held shape. Smeared flowers. A squiggle or two she'd proudly show off like it was the best art in the room.

And damn.

It almost got me.

Almost made me say yes.

But then- instinct kicked in.

That quiet, automatic protectiveness I didn't even realize I carried around her.

I reached up and gently brushed her curls back.

"No," I said softly. "You're too small for that."

She blinked, still holding her hand out. Hopeful. Trusting.

"Your skin is too sensitive for that," I added, almost apologetic now. "It might hurt you."

She didn't argue.

Didn't pout or cry.

Just said my name again, softly-

"E-dant..."

Her tiny finger pointed at the cones again. Then back at the swirling patterns on the women's hands. Then back to me.

A loop.

Like she was trying to connect the dots between the designs, the cones... and the only person who could make it all happen for her.

And then she looked at me.

Big, pleading eyes. The kind that made you want to say yes to anything. Everything.

Before I could respond, she wriggled out of my arms and carefully slid down from the couch- her movements clumsy, determined. Her feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and then, balancing on her toes, she reached for one of the sealed cones on the plate.

She grabbed it in both hands, clutched it like treasure, and squealed- so softly and sweetly that every woman in the room looked over.

Like she'd just unearthed gold.

I didn't stop her.

It was still sealed. Harmless.

She turned on her heel and toddled toward the mehendi artist working on Chachi's hand.

No words. No demands.

Just stood there- quiet and expectant.

One hand holding the cone like an offering. The other steadying her tiny frame by gripping the edge of the couch.

She didn't interrupt.

Didn't speak.

Just waited. Patiently.

Like it was her rightful turn now. Like she belonged in that queue of women getting adorned.

And watching her like that- so small, so sure, so heartbreakingly hopeful- I felt something tighten in my chest.

God, she was going to get everything she ever wanted in life.

Even if I had to place the entire world in her palms myself.

She didn't speak- just kept glancing up at the artist's face, silently reminding her she was still waiting.

Still here.

Still holding her little treasure in her tiny fist.

The artist smiled- fond, distracted- and went back to filling intricate curves on Chachi's wrist.

Misha waited.

Then turned.

Her feet padded softly across the floor as she made her way to the second artist working on Maa's hand.

Again, no words.

Just stood there with that same hopeful spark in her eyes, like maybe this one would notice her.

But the artist didn't look up. Not even once.

And I saw it happen in real time-

That tiny heart of hers sinking.

Her face fell, the joy evaporating like mist in the sun.

Her bottom lip jutted out.

And in the next breath, she turned and ran.

Straight back to me.

I bent down and scooped her into my arms again without a second thought.

She buried her face in my shoulder instantly, her little arms wrapped around my neck like the world had failed her twice already and she needed to disappear now.

And I held her tighter.

She was quiet- too quiet.

That silence that always comes just before a child breaks.

And I wouldn't let her get there.

Because if one more second passed and those eyes filled with tears?

I swear, I'd have cleared out every damn artist in this house without a second thought.

No one ignores her.

Not when she asks this sweetly.

"Are these safe for kids?" I asked one of the artists, my arms still wrapped around the small body curled into me.

She looked up, offered a quick nod.

"Yes sir, chemical free. Completely safe- anyone can apply them."

I glanced down, she was still hiding her face in my chest like the world had been too cruel to her for five whole minutes.

"You want to apply henna?" I asked softly.

She didn't speak. just nodded, her fountain hairstyle brushing my jaw.

"Okay," I said, giving in like I always do with her.

The moment the word left my mouth, her head snapped up, her expression flipping from gloomy to glowing in a heartbeat.

"Okay?" she repeated, wide eyed, like she had to double check I wasn't joking.

I nodded again, and in return, she gave me a grin so bright it could've outshone the sun.

Then she kissed my cheek again- messy, loud.

I chuckled under my breath, took the henna cone from her hands. "Alright then, tell me... what should I draw for you?"

She looked at me like I was being silly.

"E-dant," she said proudly, as if that was the only logical answer in the world.

A helpless smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.

"You should write your own name," I said gently, smoothing her hair back.

But she shook her head with that same adorable stubbornness she inherited from-well, everyone in this family.

"E-dant," she repeated firmly.

I sighed. Soft and a little theatrical.

Like this tiny girl had just out-negotiated me. Again.

She wouldn't even know if I scribbled down gibberish, but still-

She asked for it.

So I wrote it.

A big, wobbly capital E.

Then a dash- because that's how she says it, always with a small pause.

And finally, dant.

E-dant.

Her version of me.

Because apparently her little speaking toy only teaches letters up to E, and beyond that, she just... wings it.

So Vedant became E-dant.

The only version her baby tongue could manage.

And honestly?

I wouldn't want it any other way.

I glanced at her after finishing, half expecting a dramatic squeal or maybe that infectious giggle she usually rewards me with.

Something. Anything.

But she just stared at her hand.

Blink. Silence.

No reaction.

Wow.

"Do you want to write anything else?" I asked, trying- really trying- not to sound personally wounded by a toddler's lack of applause.

She looked up.

And grinned.

That little traitor smile- the one she wears when she knows she's about to win.

And then, with a sparkle in her eye and a giggle bubbling up like mischief itself, she said it.

"E-yaa."

My hand stilled.

My breath did too.

Everyone around us smiled. I could feel it. Hear it in the quiet chuckles, see it in the way no one said anything at all.

I didn't look up. Couldn't.

Didn't want to invite more weight than was already pressing into my chest.

I just exhaled softly and did what I had to- kept my eyes fixed at her palm and let my hand move.

A second capital E, placed delicately above mine.

Then, right beside it, I wrote the letters that didn't belong to me.

Her version of Diya.

E-yaa.

Childish.

Clumsy.

Perfect.

And maybe I was just imagining it...

But the moment those two names sat together on her tiny palm-

Mine.

Hers.

Side by side.

Something inside me shifted.

It was too simple to be loud.

Too soft to explain.

Too quiet to ever name.

But it was there.

Undeniable.

Undercurrent and ache.

Like a secret only I had been made to carry-

Etched in henna.

On the smallest canvas imaginable.

And God...

I felt it everywhere.

Misha finally looked impressed.

Her little eyes widened, glowing like fairy lights on Diwali- bright, awestruck, alive.

And just as she was about to clap those henna-smeared hands together in full-blown, sticky toddler celebration-

I caught her wrists midair.

"Don't move your hand, okay?" I said, barely holding back a laugh. My voice low, laced with affection.

She nodded immediately, solemn as ever- like I'd handed her a state secret and the fate of the world now rested on her tiny shoulders.

I glanced around.

Everyone else's henna was nearly done-Mom's, Chachi's, Tanya's.

Laughter floated in soft waves, the air thick with eucalyptus and celebration.

But Misha?

Of course not.

She wasn't done.

Not even close.

I saw it in her eyes-still wide, still gleaming, a little too shiny for someone who'd just gotten her way.

She shifted slightly, reached across with her free hand, and grabbed the cone again.

Chaos flickered behind her smile.

Before she could launch her next masterpiece all over my palm, I gently slipped the cone from her grasp.

"What now, trouble?" I asked, already feeling a very real sense of danger.

That grin.

Wide.

Wicked.

And far too knowing for a one-year-old who still said "mulk" instead of "milk."

She was up to something.

I could see it forming in her mind-tiny gears turning with the pure confidence of someone who believed the world existed solely to entertain her next idea.

"E-yaa," she said loudly, stabbing a chubby finger at my palm like it was some canvas meant to be claimed.

I blinked.

This girl was relentless.

Sometimes I genuinely wonder if she knows what she's doing. If these little games of hers are just baby mischief or an actual conspiracy to wreck me emotionally on a daily basis.

Because once again- everyone was looking at me. Smiling. Watching. Like they knew something I hadn't said out loud yet.

And me?

I sat frozen.

Like her finger had pointed straight through my skin and pressed something I'd been hiding far too deep.

Because Diya's name didn't belong on my palm.

Not out here, not like this.

It was too... close.

Desperate, I tried to reroute her toddler brain.

"You wanna watch Masha and the Bear?" I offered.

But no. She wasn't buying it.

She didn't even blink.

Her finger returned to my palm, more persistent than ever.

"E-yaa," she said again, firm this time.

Like a command.

She had no clue what it meant.

But I did.

And that's exactly what made it so dangerous.

It wasn't hesitation that held me still.

Not fear. Not guilt

It was something else entirely-

Something quieter. Heavier.

The way my fingers paused before they moved.

The way my breath snagged in my throat, like my body already knew this was more than just henna.

It felt too raw.

Too close.

Too much like claiming something I had no right to.

Misha waited.

Eyes bright. Hands sticky. Heart open.

As if this moment didn't carry any weight at all.

And maybe for her, it didn't.

Maybe it was just play. Scribbles. A pretty pattern to match her own.

But for me?

It felt like something that could crack a dam.

I should've walked away.

I didn't.

I gave up.

Let her win.

And wrote it.

"E-yaa," in small letters, just above the lines on my palm. Noticeable, but not loud.

Misha beamed.

That proud, blinding smile like she'd just fixed the entire universe with a henna cone and her tiny fists.

And me?

I just sat there-

Staring at my hand.

At a name I had no business carrying.

But I was carrying it anyway.

It was 8 PM now.

The door clicked open, and Atharv walked in, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, exhaustion hanging from his shoulders.

The moment Misha saw him, she lit up like someone had switched the world back on.

A squeal burst from her throat, high and delighted, and before anyone could blink, she launched herself across the room.

"Papa!"

Laughter followed.

Warm voices. The soft rustle of movement. Mehendi-laced hands reaching to greet him.

The living room bloomed with noise and light.

Clinking bangles. Happy chatter. That soft background hum of family, of comfort, of a house that had known love for years.

And me?

I just sat there.

Still.

My hand resting open on my knee.

Her name written in fading brown.

My heartbeat loud against all the warmth around me.

I didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Because something inside me had gone quiet in the loudest way possible.

I looked down at my palm.

And felt it.

The weight- of a name I never thought would feel this heavy.

This right.

This wrong.

All at once.

Next Morning

The doorbell rang sharp at 6 a.m., slicing through the hushed stillness of the Malhotra mansion. It echoed once... twice... and still, no footsteps answered.

It was Meera Malhotra who eventually came to the door, her hands still warm from the aarti thali she'd just placed before the idols.

The scent of sandalwood and marigold clung to her, a quiet blessing lingering in the air. The staff was nowhere in sight-not that she minded. Some things, a mother preferred to open herself.

And standing on the other side of the heavy teak door was her younger son-Vivaan.

The sight of him after months tugged something loose in her chest.

Before she could say a word, Vivaan stepped forward and pulled her into a tight embrace, burying his face into the crook of her shoulder like a boy who never really grew up.

Meera's hand instinctively rose to cradle the back of his head. Her voice softened, half-mock, half-mother, "Itna jaldi kyun aa gaya, beta? Shaadi ke baad aana tha na..."

Vivaan didn't budge. Just mumbled into her shoulder with a smile, "Saari daant gate pe hi laga dogi, Maa?"

Meera shot him a mock-disappointed look-eyebrows arched, lips pursed dramatically-but the corners of her eyes betrayed her fondness. With a sigh that was all theatre, she gestured him in.

Vivaan stepped inside, dragging his overstuffed luggage along the marble floor, its wheels humming against the silence. He parked it at the edge of the living room and sank onto the couch beside her, as if his bones had been waiting for this moment of stillness.

Then, without warning, he leaned sideways and let his head fall onto her shoulder again-like muscle memory.

"Kal hi exams khatam hue," he murmured, his voice laced with exhaustion and relief. "Pehli flight le li."

Meera's expression softened. Whatever leftover scolding she had melted like sugar in warm chai. Her fingers came up to cradle his face gently, brushing back a stubborn strand of hair. Just a touch. Just a pause.

There was silence.

And then, quietly, Vivaan asked, "How's Dadu?"

Meera exhaled slowly. "Thoda weak hai... but he's fine," she replied, her tone carefully calm, almost rehearsed.

They sat like that for a while-no rush, no need for words. Just the kind of silence that only exists between those who truly know each other.

Eventually, Meera nudged him, murmuring for him to freshen up. She called out to the staff to take his luggage upstairs.

Vivaan nodded, pressing a soft kiss to her hair before getting up. He made his way to his room, took a quick shower, and changed into a fresh, loose t-shirt and joggers. But the comfort of home wasn't complete just yet.

Without pausing, he walked straight toward his brother's room.

Vivaan knocked once- sharp and sure.

The door creaked open a few seconds later.

Vedant stood on the other side, a vision of effortless dishevelment. Black trousers, a crisp white shirt hanging half-buttoned like he'd abandoned the task midway.

His hair was still damp, beads of water trailing down his temples, catching the morning light.

They hadn't seen each other in months.

Texts had been brief. Calls, rarer. Life- exams, work, the sheer noise of growing up- had gotten in the way. What was once a daily presence had faded into distance.

So when Vedant saw Vivaan standing there, flesh and blood and familiar smirk, he just... stared.

For a second, he genuinely wondered if sleep deprivation had finally won. If he was hallucinating his little brother into existence.

Vivaan didn't give him time to process. With zero warning, he launched himself at Vedant, arms flung wide, crashing into him like a storm that had been waiting to land.

Vedant stumbled back half a step, caught off guard, but then- his arms wrapped tightly around Vivaan with the same force. Realization hit, and a rare smile tugged at his lips.

And for a long, unspoken minute, they simply stood like that.

A reunion wrapped in stillness. All the missed moments folding into that one silent embrace.

Eventually, Vedant muttered against his shoulder, "Weren't your exams still on?"

Vivaan pulled back, offended. "Didn't you miss me? That's the first thing you say? Seriously?"

"I did," came the quiet reply. Firm. Honest. No hesitation.

Vivaan huffed. "Should've started with that," he grumbled, before throwing himself backward onto Vedant's bed like he owned the place.

Vedant just shook his head with a faint smile, turning back to the mirror and resuming the task of buttoning his shirt- like this wasn't the first peaceful moment they'd shared in ages.

As he adjusted the collar, Vivaan's voice softened behind him.

"How've you been, bhai?"

Vedant paused for a second, then answered with a clipped, "Good," while sliding on his watch.

Vivaan watched him closely, the slight stiffness in his movements, the way his gaze never really met the mirror. Something was off. But he didn't push- not yet.

Instead, he grinned and said, "I need to meet bhabhi."

Vedant didn't skip a beat. "Tanya must be downstairs," he replied automatically, like the words had been tucked under his tongue, ready to deploy on command.

Silence.

"I'm talking about your wife," Vivaan said, sitting up now, gaze sharp and mischievous.

Vedant's hands stilled on his tie. Just for a second.

"To-be," Vivaan added with a sly grin, watching his brother's mask flicker-just a crack, but it was there.

And that pause? Spoke volumes.

Vedant didn't respond.

He went back to working on his tie, the silken fabric slipping through his fingers as if the motion could distract him from the weight of that one word- wife.

Vivaan noticed. Of course he did. But he let it slide.

Vedant broke the silence first, voice casual. "When did you come?"

"Six. Today," Vivaan replied, plucking at a loose thread on Vedant's bedsheet.

Vedant gave a quiet nod, as if filing the information away somewhere behind his unreadable eyes.

Within a few more minutes, he was almost ready. He sat at the edge of the bed, slipping on his polished black shoes with practiced ease.

Vivaan watched from where he lounged, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, when something caught his attention- a glint of gold peeking out between the rumpled sheets.

His fingers tugged, and out came a delicate gold chain- subtle, elegant, and completely out of place in the world of cufflinks and chrome that Vedant lived in.

His brows arched, "I thought you didn't like gold," he said, twirling it between his fingers.

Vedant's eyes flicked to the pendant.

Something in his expression shifted- almost imperceptibly.

"Keep it back," he said, voice lower now. Tighter.

But Vivaan wasn't done. "Where'd you get this?" he asked, half-teasing, half-curious. "This is so not your style, bhai. What are we hiding? Secret girlfriend? Hidden sentiment? A wild phase?"

Vedant took a breath, jaw ticking. "It's mine. Keep it back, Vivaan."

That was sharper. Edged.

Vivaan grinned like he'd struck gold- literally. "Sure it is," he replied, deliberately placing it back on the bed.

Vedant stepped forward without another word, scooped the chain from the sheets, and tucked it swiftly into the top drawer of his side table.

He then reached for his phone and keys. And was ready to leave the room.

Vedant grabbed his phone and keys, the familiar weight of routine settling into his palms. Without another word, he headed toward the door.

Vivaan followed close behind. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Vedant didn't walk out of that room alone.

The hallway glowed with soft morning light as they made their way to the dining room. The comforting aroma of breakfast- butter, fresh toast, and cardamom chai- welcomed them like a hug.

"Good morning, fam!" Vivaan announced grandly as he entered, throwing his arms out like a celebrity on tour.

Everyone at the table turned, their faces lighting up in surprise.

"Vivaan!" Tanya beamed, her face lighting up the moment she saw him. She was already reaching for an extra plate, scooting things around to make space like it was second nature.

"When did you reach, beta?" Chachu asked from across the table, peering over his glasses with that familiar blend of curiosity and care.

Before Vivaan could answer, Atharv glanced up from his plate, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Arre, kab aaya tu? I would've picked you up, if I had known."

And then came the softest one- Dadu looked up from his cup of chai, eyes twinkling, voice a little slower, a little warmer.

"Chhupke se aa gaya mere sher? Ek phone toh kar deta... main intezaar karta."

His words settled over the table like a blanket.

Vivaan's grin faltered- just for a moment. A flicker of something passed over his face, too quick for anyone to catch unless they were looking closely. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, blinking a little harder than usual.

Because those weren't just questions.

That was love in its purest form.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, smile returning softer this time. "Next time, Dadu. I promise."

But even as he laughed along with the others, a part of him sat still- quietly aching at the thought of how much he'd missed this.

Then, his attention turned to the tiniest VIP of the Malhotra family. "Mishaaa, hiiii," he said in a high-pitched baby voice, dramatically leaning forward like she was royalty.

Misha stared blankly.

Then blinked.

Then... looked away, completely unbothered.

Vivaan gasped. "Don't tell me you forgot me so fast," he said, clutching his chest in mock agony.

The table burst out laughing.

Meanwhile, Vedant finished his breakfast in a quiet rush, barely glancing up between bites. The last six days had been a blur- endless meetings, calls, documents piling higher than his patience. He was trying to wrap up as much as humanly possible before the wedding steamrolled his schedule.

And since he was Vedant Malhotra, he refused to delegate. If he was going to lose his sanity, he'd lose it on his own terms.

By the time Vivaan reached for his second paratha, Vedant was already grabbing his keys, heading out the door without another word- his presence fading as quickly as it had arrived.

Across the city, tucked into the cold glow of her office cubicle, Diya sat doing the most Virgo thing imaginable.

She was making an escape plan.

Not from the wedding itself- no, that would be too simple.

She was planning her exit from the reality of it. From the chaos. From the conversations. From the sudden shift in identity that had crept in without warning.

And she wasn't just thinking it.

Her notepad sat open in front of her, the pages already filled with scribbles- tiny, structured lists in blue ink. Bullet points. Contingencies. Places she could disappear into. Things she could do that didn't involve being someone's something.

It was methodical. Practiced. Like she'd done this before- escaped quietly, without ever leaving the room.

The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, casting her shadow across the desk, but she didn't notice. Her pen moved with purpose. Her breath steady.

Because if she couldn't stop what was coming...

She could at least control how she survived it.

At the top of her notepad, in her neatest handwriting, the page had a title:

"Strategic Coexistence Framework."

Below the heading, the day was ruthlessly divided:

8:00 AM to 7:00 PM - Office.

7:00 PM to 9:00 PM - Play with Misha.

9:00 PM to 7:00 AM - Sleep.

Efficient. Predictable. Impenetrable.

She stared at the list like it was gospel.

Because tomorrow- she was getting married.

And no amount of calm breathing or colour coded lists could undo that now.

So, being the control freak she absolutely was, Diya did what she always did when her world started spinning:

She made a plan.

"I'm going to leave the house early for work. Stay at the office till late. And when I get back, I'll just play with Misha for a bit, then go straight to sleep."

No unnecessary interaction. No room for awkward silences or eye contact. No vulnerable midnight kitchen run-ins with her husband.

That was her big plan.

A tight, pristine schedule... designed entirely to avoid reality.

"Basically, I get an entire day to myself," Diya thought, tapping her pen against the page with smug satisfaction.

"I only have to be around my in laws and the person I'm going to marry for what- two, maybe three hours max? And even then, I'm planning to spend that time with Misha. So technically... it's a win."

She repeated it in her head- again. As if saying it enough times would make it feel less like denial and more like strategy.

She leaned back slightly, proud. A little too proud.

Like she'd cracked some divine cheat code for surviving a forced marriage without actually participating in it.

Because in her head, this wasn't avoidance- it was efficiency. Emotional boundaries disguised as productivity. A schedule so tight, not even awkward glances could squeeze through.

It was perfect.

Or so she thought.

Because what Diya had conveniently forgotten in her master plan was one tiny, soul-shattering detail:

The very person she was trying to escape by spending more hours at the office...

was none other than her boss.

Vedant Malhotra.

The name she'd tried so hard to avoid.

When it was quite literally etched onto her skin- hidden just above her pulse, wrapped in henna that only kept getting darker.

But hey. She had a plan.

What could possibly go wrong?

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Hi, hope y'all are doing well.

I'm not :) I got chicken pox a few days ago and im still going through it.

I think this is the sickest ive ever been.

Some people still didn't know and kept asking about the updates, someone literally asked "did you stop writing?" lmao cute.

Just letting y'all know that im not well, like physically not well to think of anything rn :( so things will take time, please be patient with me <3

I tried writing but i couldn't, this chapter- i wrote bits of it everyday and completed it today because this unwanted disease actually makes existing hard.

But it literally doesn't matter because I've received such sweet messages from you all it almost hurts :( advices from grandmothers 😭💕 and what now.

I'm so, so grateful, you guys have no idea ❤️

Enough rant ig 😔 let me know if you liked the chapter.

Follow me on instagram for book aesthetics and spicy spoilers ✨

ig : authorem_

Thankyou for reading.

- M 💌