I sat still before the ornate vanity, wrapped in layers of crimson and gold that didn't quite feel like mine. The bridal lehenga clung to my body like expectation, heavy and unrelenting.

Bangles lined my wrists. A nath curved around my face, its chain tugging softly with every breath I took. And a maang tikka rested against my forehead like a mark of fate I hadn't chosen.

Everything about me screamed celebration: the kohl lined eyes, the red tinted lips and the jasmine threaded in my hair.

But behind it all there was just... me. A girl staring at her reflection, wondering where she had gone in all this beauty.

Tara had been here earlier, hovering, fussing and filling the room with nervous chatter while the makeup artist sculpted me into a bride.

But now, for the last ten minutes, she'd slipped away, said I needed a moment alone. “To soak it all in.”

There was nothing to soak.

I didn't feel joy, or dread, or even defiance. Just a quiet emptiness that refused to settle, like waiting for a storm that never arrives but still keeps you on edge.

That's when I heard the distant growing beat of dhols. Erupting from outside my window, loud, joyous and demanding to be heard.

Bursts of laughter followed, mixed with whistles and shouts and the crackling pop of firecrackers lighting up the air like impatient celebration.

I didn't need to see it, I could feel it. The shift in energy outside, the kind of energy that only arrives with a groom.

He was here.

I stayed frozen in place, eyes drifting to the glass window. I should've stayed seated. But there was something inside me, small and stubborn that needed to know.

I had asked him once, not to arrive on a mare. He hadn't answered... I didn't let him answer to be precise.

Still some foolish part of me clung to the hope that he would listen. So I told myself, just one look. Just once, then I'll sit back and pretend this doesn't matter.

And so I did.

I walked to the glass window of my suite, heartbeat dull but present, and peeked through the clear pane.

The view from up here was cluttered with movement, colours swirling, people dancing, camera flashes blinking like little storms of joy.

But my eyes... they weren't searching for the celebration.

They were looking for him.

There was no horse in sight, no white mare rising above the crowd. Relief flickered in my chest.

But then- my gaze found him.

He was in his car, the sleek black one I'd seen before. Atharv bhai was behind the wheel, moving the car forward slowly, carefully, through the sea of music and colour.

The world around him moved in chaotic joy, but he sat still, untouched and unmoved. Like he didn't belong to the noise, like the laughter couldn't quite reach him.

I couldn't see him properly from this distance, but even blurred by glass and space, he looked... beautifully unreachable.

As if the whole thing, this wedding, this celebration, this life was happening to someone else entirely.

And for a second, I envied him.

I wished I could wear that indifference the way he wore his sherwani. That stillness, that ability to detach.

Or at least... fake it better.

But before I could sink too deep into my thoughts, his gaze lifted- sudden, precise- and landed right where I stood.

Right at me.

Our eyes met- just for a heartbeat- and I yanked the curtains shut like I'd been caught stealing something.

My breath caught halfway up my throat.

Shit.

My heart was pounding, wild and uninvited. My chest rose too fast, too loud. I could hear my own breathing.

Did he see me? He definitely did. He looked right at me, right through me.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Why couldn't I just sit still like a normal person? Why did I have to look? What does he think now? That I'm interested?

That I'm sitting here- fully decked up, dolled up, and now peeking at him like some starry eyed, waiting for his approval kind of girl?

I wanted to scream. At him. At myself. At this whole damn circus outside my window.

I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying to slow the chaos spiraling in my head, but the thoughts wouldn't stop. One crashing into the next.

What if he tells someone I was staring? What if he smirks about it later? What if this means nothing to him, and everything to me, and I'm the only idiot here pretending I can survive this without completely falling apart?

God.

I feel so... pathetic.

I was still mid spiral, heart thudding, thoughts tangled when the door creaked open and Tara stepped inside.

She carefully closed it behind her, a plate of food held steady in her hands.

"What were you doing at the window?" she asked, brow raised.

"Nothing," I muttered quickly, stepping away like I hadn't just been caught staring at him, by him.

I walked toward her, pretending everything was fine, and sat at the edge of the bed.

She held the plate out to me. "Eat this."

"I'm not hungry."

She sighed loud and tired. "You've been saying that since morning. You know that, right?"

I didn't reply.

What was I supposed to say? That every bite would turn to dust in my mouth? That I couldn't tell if I was more sick from the food or from everything else?

"Diya," her voice dipped lower, softer, "if you don't eat, you're going to faint during the rituals."

"I don't feel like eating," I said, my voice flat. "I'm nauseous. The thought of food makes me want to throw up, Tara."

She looked like she wanted to say more, to argue, to insist but I spoke before she could.

"Don't start listing things I might want to eat Tara. I don't. Don't force me. Please?"

"Fine," she said, her voice soft and defeated.

"If you feel weak... or dizzy, or like you're about to faint, just tell Vedant, okay?"

Her voice was gentle, casual, like it was the most obvious solution.

Tell Him? And what exactly is he going to do about it?

I just looked at her, said nothing.

She sighed again, more gently this time. "Okay. Tell me instead of him."

I nodded.

She set the plate aside and moved closer, fingers gently adjusting the strands of my hair, retouching my makeup with the same quiet care she'd always had.

Then came a knock, followed by a voice. “Tara, bring Diya down, it's time.”

Tara's spine straightened at Maa's voice. She nodded toward the door and turned to me. “Time to go,” she said softly.

She gave me a little nudge, but I didn't move. I couldn't. My body felt rooted and paralyzed. Every part of me was screaming no while my face stayed blank.

I don't want to do this.

I don't want to walk down that hallway. I don't want a thousand eyes tracing every step I take. I don't want to smile when my lips feel like stone.

I don't want this.

No. No. No.

The word pulsed like a heartbeat in my head, louder than the dhols. I was slipping into a spiral again.

That's when I heard her.

"Diya."

My gaze snapped up.

Tara stood in front of me, brows furrowed, concern pressed into every line of her face.

"I've called you five times in last two minutes," she said gently.

I blinked, the fog clearing just enough for the words to form. "I don't want to go," I whispered.

"I know," she said, voice low and steady.

She knelt in front of me. "Do you want to run away?" she asked, in all seriousness.

I shook my head.

"Then I'm here with you," she said. "I'm going to be around you the whole time. You don't have to be scared. Not of him. Not of them. Not of this."

I looked at her and took a shaky breath. It didn't calm the storm inside me, but it gave me a second of stillness.

I nodded. I need to get this over with, not because I was ready, but because there was no other choice left.

I stood from the bed, limbs stiff, resolve paper thin. Tara walked beside me toward the door. But the moment her hand touched the knob...

Panic surged again, not a whisper this time, but a full body wave crawling up from my stomach to my throat.

No.

No, no, no.

I turned and ran straight back to the bed. My breaths came out uneven and shallow. My chest felt like it was closing in on itself, the room tilting just slightly as the sound of blood roared in my ears.

"I can't do this," I muttered.

"I can't do this," I repeated again and again.

Tara rushed back to me, tissues already in her hand like she'd been prepared for this exact moment.

She crouched in front of me, gently blotting the tears from my eyes with a tissue, barely grazing my eyeball, precise enough to keep the kohl intact and untouched.

And then, quietly- firmly- "I'm taking you out of this. Change your clothes."

I shook my head.

"If I wanted to run... I would've done it long ago," I whispered. "I don't want to run. I just..."

My voice faltered. "I just need a little courage. Just enough to walk in front of all those people without falling apart."

Tara stared at me for a long second, then nodded. I stood up again, slower and stronger this time and walked to the door.

Tara didn't follow.

I turned to her. "I'm ready, Tara. Let's go. Please." She wordlessly stepped forward and we walked together.

I didn't even realise when it happened.

One moment I was clutching Tara's hand like a lifeline and the next, I was beneath a floral canopy, jasmine and roses swaying gently above me, held up by the soft laughter and careful hands of my cousins.

Their faces were glowing, full of joy. Mine... was still catching up.

Someone nudged me forward gently. It was time.

My legs moved before my mind could argue. I walked slowly, each step echoing louder than the last, every pair of eyes in the room turning toward me. I felt their stares like heat against my skin.

But I kept going.

My breath hitched when I reached the stairs leading to the stage. Because right there, a hand extended toward me, steady and waiting.

And I didn't even need to look up to know it was him.

Ivory.

He was draped in it, soft, luminous and untouched. His sherwani shimmered like it had been stitched from starlight and old secrets.

Every thread spoke in hushed golds, woven in patterns so intricate they felt sacred. And yet, somehow, they didn't outshine him.

I took his hand after a pause, and the second our skin touched something inside me exhaled. His hand was warm and steady.

When I finally looked up to meet his eyes, every ounce of panic dissolved like sugar in warm water.

Every trembling breath, every echo of anxiety that had been ricocheting through my chest, went quiet.

Like someone had placed a warm cloth over a shivering body.

His eyes didn't say much, but they didn't need to. It felt like a hug without arms, like someone saying, You're not alone, without moving their lips.

And for a fleeting second, I didn't feel like the girl being handed away. I didn't feel trapped in a celebration I couldn't escape.

I felt seen.

Safe.

And I wanted to hold onto that feeling, tuck it somewhere deep inside me. I wanted to pull him away, run- just the two of us. No rituals. No pressure. No crowd.

Just him and me.

Somewhere far from here, somewhere quiet, somewhere real.

Because in that room full of applause and blessings and camera flashes,

his eyes were the only place where I saw my own emotions reflected back at me.

He helped me up the stairs, his grip steady as if he knew my legs weren't entirely mine. And we walked to the centre of the stage, hand in hand.

I couldn't think, couldn't remember who I was supposed to be. I didn't care about the rituals or the guests or the meaning of any of it.

My head was empty. Blissfully, beautifully empty.

All I cared about, selfishly and shamelessly was the warmth of his hand. The soft, terrifying calm of his presence. And the fragile, dangerous peace that came with it.



The world around them spun in celebration, too loud, too gleaming and too eager to turn their moment into a spectacle.

Cameras flashed, petals rained, someone whistled; a little too excited and a little too unaware.

Diya stood still, the varmala in her hands was a quiet masterpiece. Layered with soft pink lotuses, their petals curled like shy confessions. Strung between them, clusters of baby's breath cascaded down like whispered vows; fragile, white, and impossibly delicate.

When she looked up, Vedant was already watching her. His eyes didn't waver, didn't blink.

He just... waited, like he had time, like he was letting her take all the space she needed.

A beat passed. Somewhere, someone joked about shyness.

But he didn't flinch, didn't look away. He stood steady and still, his gaze the only anchor Diya had in that too bright room.

And then finally when her hands lifted, hesitant but determined, to place the garland around his neck...

He bowed.

Not just his head, but something deeper.

Like he understood the weight in her fingers and the war in her chest. And this was his way of saying ‘you don't have to carry it alone.’

He didn't move his feet, didn't look away. He simply gave her those few inches of space by lowering himself without a word and met her halfway.

Diya lowered the garland, and it slipped over him with quiet grace, the soft strings brushing against his chest.

And then her trembling fingers accidentally grazed his jaw. Barely but enough to shatter the breath between them.

He didn't lift his head immediately. For a moment, he just stayed there, still bowed, as if her nearness had stunned him too.

Then he looked up. Eyes unreadable but soft now, less guarded.

Diya didn't look away. Because in that entire crowd, in all the noise, he was the only thing that didn't overwhelm her.

It was his turn now.

Someone pressed a garland into his hands, cracking a joke he barely registered. The words floated past him, light and meaningless.

Because every ounce of his attention was tethered to her. Diya stood just ahead, unmoving.

Her gaze lingered lower, somewhere near his chest. As if eye contact would be too raw, too close, too much.

He held the garland loosely, fingers awkward in a way that felt unfamiliar to him.

He drew in a slow breath. Then lifted the garland slowly and reverently.

Her breath did that fragile little catch again and he noticed. He didn't drop it over her in haste, his arms moved with excruciating care.

And when the garland finally slipped over her head, the flowers brushed against her skin, catching briefly on the edge of her earring.

His fingers lingered.

That's when her gaze lifted again. This time, she didn't look away, didn't hide.

He let go of the garland gently, like he was placing something fragile down.

She didn't smile. Neither did he. But something passed between them, silent and certain.

The ritual was complete.

The crowd broke into cheers, people showered petals on them, applause echoed. The priest's voice lifted, calling them towards the mandap and towards what waited beyond petals and garlands.

They sat side by side beneath the canopy laced with flowers, close enough for their knees to almost touch.

Between them, the sacred fire flickered: alive, restless, and knowing.

It cracked and danced, the flames licking the air as the priest began chanting ancient verses. Words older than time, meant to bind, to bless, to seal.

But neither of them heard them. Not really. Because their minds had become louder than the mantras.

Diya sat with her back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap like she was afraid they'd betray her otherwise. Her expression didn't falter, not once.

But beneath that calm veneer, her thoughts roared, louder than anything in her surrounding.

Beside her, Vedant mirrored the same silence.

His spine, a line of control. His gaze, fixed on the fire, like it held answers he didn't want but needed. His jaw was tense, like he was clenching thoughts he didn't want escaping.

He didn't look at her.

She didn't look at him.

They sat like shadows in a ritual meant for soulmates. Strangers in a ceremony crafted to entwine fates.

And still, the fire burned, because it had no choice. Neither did they.

The priest's instructions came steadily, one after another. Vedant extended his hand when asked. So did Diya.

But between the chants and rituals, two people spiraled, drowning for different reasons yet somehow in sync.

And that's how it began. Not with promise or love, but with a shared ache.

Then came those words.

“Now, the bride's father will place her hand into the groom's hand.”

Diya's fingers curled tighter into her lap, knuckles pale against the fabric of her lehenga.

She didn't look at anyone, not at her father, not at her mother but she felt the shift beside her.

Her father reached for her hand.

The same hand he had once held at school gates. At hospital corridors where she was too shy to walk alone.

And now he was about to place that same hand into someone else's, like this was a transaction wrapped in ritual.

The priest began chanting again.

Diya's heart thudded hard, because that wasn't just a mantra. It was a giving away, a severing.

And in that moment, something deep inside her fractured, and all she felt was loss. Not the kind that comes with goodbye but the kind that comes with being handed over like a gift.

Beside her.

Vedant noticed it all.

The way her spine had gone stiff. The flicker of hesitation in her fingers. The look in her eyes that wasn't just emotion.

He moved his hand, that was all he could do. Just a small shift of his hand forward, palm open, extended toward hers as hers still rested in her parents' hold.

When Diya looked down, she saw it. There etched deep into his skin, in dark henna...

"E-yaa."

The name Misha gave her.

It felt like a whisper against her ribs, a crack of softness in a moment built entirely on weight.

Her chest tightened, her stomach twisted and her throat tightened without warning.

Something about seeing her name on his skin in this moment, while her father's hand still held hers, felt too much. Like being handed over without choice and being seen without permission.

Vedant didn't offer words to explain it.

He just met her gaze, steady and unreadable. And then looked toward Misha, sitting on Tanya's lap, blissfully unaware of the storm she'd triggered with her tiny henna stained hands.

Diya followed his gaze.

Understood.

But that didn't fix the way her chest still ached. It didn't make the heat in her throat disappear.

Her hand lifted, numb and obedient. And as her father placed it into Vedant's waiting palm, she felt the cold of absence more than the warmth of beginnings.

Because this wasn't just the passing of hands. It was the quiet, aching unmaking of a girl who had once belonged only to herself.

Vedant didn't miss how her fingers trembled, how she was trying hard not to fall apart in front of everyone, how she was breathing heavily and how she was holding back tears.

He noticed it all.

The priest chanted on, his voice deep and ancient. The sacred fire flickered, the garland petals wilted softly, the air was thick with smoke and destiny.

But Diya didn't hear any of it.

Because all she could see was that messy little “E-yaa” stained onto the palm now cradling hers.

And for the first time that day, after hours of being dressed, blessed, placed, and positioned, she didn't feel like she was being handed over.

It felt like maybe someone was reaching for her too.

The fire crackled again, louder this time, as if it could feel the shift in the air, as if it knew.

The priest's voice dipped into a hush, no longer commanding, but coaxing. Each word uncoiled gently from his lips.

Vedant was handed a small silver case and a coin. He took them with steady fingers, but something in him stilled.

The box was light, too light for what it carried and too small to hold what it was about to do.

Inside the case was vermillion A red so bold, so final, it made his pulse shift.

He didn't move until the priest said, softly but firmly. “Now the groom will fill the bride's parting with vermillion.”

Beside him, Diya hadn't looked up. Not since her hand had been placed into his.

But she did, right in this moment. Their eyes met again, but different this time. Not the way grooms and brides lock eyes because they're told to.

But the way two people look at each other when something quiet inside them is undone.

Her eyes didn't shine.

They pleaded.

And his didn't speak.

They understood.

Vedant dipped the coin into the vermillion. A slow scoop, a breath held too long and a ritual older than both of them living again through his trembling hand.

He reached for her with sacred hesitation.

The coin met her scalp and the moment the powder touched her skin, Diya's eyes closed, something inside her shut down to survive the weight of being marked.

And Vedant saw all of it.

The flicker in her lashes, the breath that snagged in her chest, the way her face didn't shift, but her entire being did.

And it wrecked him.

He had not expected this. He thought it would be a gesture, a step, a symbol. But it felt like a reverent trespass.

Still, he did it. He filled the parting in her hair with one slow stroke. A line of red against black, quiet and irrevocable.

The vermillion fell into place like it had always been waiting to belong there.

But one grain slipped.

It floated down, gently, weightless-

and landed on the slope of her nose.

A perfect, startling dot of red.

Vedant froze.

His heart stuttered in his chest-

a quiet panic blooming in his throat.

He wanted to wipe it.

Apologize.

Undo it.

But before he could move, Diya's eyes fluttered open. She hadn't noticed, she wore it without question.

He didn't know, he couldn't have that what he saw as a mistake, the world would call a blessing.

That vermillion falling on the nose was said to be a symbol of love. A sign the groom had looked at his bride not just with duty... but with devotion.

He slowly moved his hand away like it had just finished writing something sacred.

And then he looked at her.

With vermillion in her hair, eyes open and steady, face bathed in the soft glow of firelight, Diya didn't look like a bride.

She looked like a goddess.

That's how he would describe her. Not beautiful, not elegant...

But divine.

Like something no man should dare claim, yet somehow she had been placed in his hands.

“Now the groom will place the nupital chain around the bride's neck.” came the next instruction.

Meera Malhotra reached forward with the weight of generations in her fingertips, her expression unreadable.

She placed the chain in Vedant's palms with the same gentleness she'd once used to place toys in his cradle.

But this wasn't a toy.

And he wasn't a boy anymore.

The chain rested between his hands. A promise tied in black beads. He stared at it longer than he should've, long enough for the priest to glance at him.

It wasn't nerves, it wasn't confusion, it was the gravity of it. This chain... wasn't just a symbol. It was a vow, a claim.

And beside him, barely inches away, Diya sat perfectly poised, too poised.

Her shoulders were straight, chin lifted just enough, eyes fixated on the fire like it might save her from what was happening beside her.

But he noticed the one thing she couldn't control, her breath.

It caught, sharp and sudden. And in that stuttered inhale, he felt it: her awareness.

Of him.

Of this moment.

Of what he was about to do.

So he slowly moved, he leaned toward her. Their shoulders brushed, the contact was so light it could've been a trick of the wind, but they felt it.

The chain — the mangalsutra — glinted between his fingers, the gold trembling like his hands knew more than he was willing to admit.

Diya's spine went taut. Her eyes dropped, lashes low, lips pressing into a line so tight it could've drawn blood.

His arm moved around her. The chain was lifted behind her neck with a slowness that didn't belong to ritual.

It belonged to deliberate hesitation and reverence.

He was too close now.

His sharp and clean scent folded around her before the necklace ever did. Her heart gave a single stuttered beat in response.

She hated that she noticed, she hated that her body responded this way.

His fingers moved carefully, hovering close to her skin, never quite touching. But she felt the air shift around her throat.

Her breath hitched, and something in his hands went still for a second too long.

She closed her eyes.

Because the moment the chain made contact, the second his fingers brushed the back of her neck; soft, accidental and  terrifyingly tender almost undid her.

The pads of his fingers grazed her nape, warm skin lingering just long enough to burn a memory into her nerves.

His fingers fumbled. His hands were shaking ever so slightly. But still he didn't rush. He adjusted, tried again with quieter breath and less sure hands.

Diya didn't move, instead her spine dipped ever so slightly. She leaned forward, just enough to give him space.

And finally his fingers stilled.

The clasp clicked into place, the chain fell against her chest. Cool metal still warm from his fingers.

It settled softly, like it belonged there, like it had always been waiting to rest against her skin.

🪔

The sacred thread wasn’t just a knot. It was a promise, a prayer.

Avni stepped forward to tie the knot. She leaned in gently, her expression soft with something unspoken.

Diya’s veil fluttered with the heat of the fire, delicate and trembling. And Vedant’s stole hung with the quiet weight of responsibility.

Avni brought the two together. She knotted them slowly, deliberately.

One fold. One twist. One pull.

And though they didn’t look at each other, something shifted the moment the knot was tied.

A new kind of silence, not empty or heavy but full.

Full of steps that couldn’t be taken alone anymore. Of breaths that tugged softly at one another. Of lives that had just been braided without permission.

Then came the seven rounds around the fire.

Seven vows older than memory, whispered into the flames, not each other.

Diya stood first.

Her lehenga shifted as she moved, the hem trailing across the petals on the floor. She didn’t look at Vedant but she felt him rise beside her.

The nupital chain kissed her collarbone with each breath. The vermillion still burned faintly in her parting.

She wasn’t ready.

But she was already bound.

The sacred fire crackled softly, its golden flames dancing. A hush settled over the crowd, broken only by the priest's calm chants weaving through the smoke.

Vedant stepped forward. Then paused and glanced over his shoulder.

Diya stood still for a heartbeat, her eyes catching his.

Then she moved.

The red of her lehenga shimmered like wildfire as she followed him, one step behind, her fingers clutching the edge of her dupatta like it was the only thing keeping her steady.

The first circle began, tentative and quiet. Not because they were unsure, but because the weight of what they carried didn’t allow haste.

This wasn’t just a walk. It was the undoing of everything they’d known alone.

The second round, Vedant's pace steadied. Diya's gaze flickered from the flames to the back of his shoulders, a silent thought blooming — this is happening.

He was taking her forward, step by step, and she was still following.

By the third, the tension shifted. It wasn’t just a ritual anymore, it was something heavier. Something ancient. Like their souls were circling lifetimes.

The rhythm deepened, the fire grew taller and the air thickened. Something unseen began circling with them: memories that hadn’t been made yet.

Fourth, the priest chanted of respect and trust.

Vedant exhaled slowly, as if sealing a promise into the fire. He closed his eyes briefly processing everything that has happened and everything that was happening.

The fifth round began, but the priest raised a hand suddenly. Vedant stopped mid-step. So did Diya.

“From here, the bride will lead.”

Vedant’s gaze slid toward Diya, something unreadable flickering in his eyes; curiosity, maybe awe.

Diya hesitated, only for a moment. Then, slowly, she stepped ahead of him.

The fifth circle began under the gaze of a hundred eyes she didn’t feel. Only the fire existed, and the gravity of the man behind her — so close, he felt like a shadow stitched to her spine.

Her bare feet moved in rhythm with the mantras, and with each step, a vow rose in the air. Her heart thudded like it wanted to escape her chest, but she kept walking.

She didn’t look back, but she knew he was right there. Steady, quiet and watching her like he was reading something in her walk.

By the sixth round, Diya's steps slowed. Something about this one… this circle… made her throat tighten.

With this round she wasn’t just circling fire anymore. She was circling change, identity and name.

One more round… and she'll be closer to Diya Malhotra than she's ever been to Diya Sharma.

It wasn’t a happy thought. It wasn’t a tragic one either. It just… was, real and inevitable.

Vedant’s gaze stayed at her. He noticed the way her pace slowed and he adjusted his own pace accordingly.

The last vow — lifelong companionship.

They paused before the final circle. The priest said something, his tone suddenly gentler, as if even he knew the weight of this one.

They looked at the fire, then at each other.

It wasn’t long, just a second or two. But in that glance there was weariness, there was fear and there was… quiet acceptance.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something stirring.

They took the final step together. Feet slow, hands still apart but bound by ash, flame and silence.

And just like that they weren’t just man and woman anymore.

They were married.

They were husband and wife.

And the fire, the only witness that mattered, burned brighter.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐