If the gods ever paused to admire their own creation, tonight would be that moment.

The couple stood together- husband and wife now. Not by choice, perhaps. But by fire, and fate.

Vedant didn't look groomed for the occasion-he looked carved for it. The ivory sherwani didn't elevate him; it tried to keep up.

The fabric hugged his broad shoulders, but underneath the traditional layers, he still carried the sharpness of tailored suits.

The soft cream safa sat perfectly atop his head, adorned with a delicate kalgi.

And yet, it was his face that drew the eye- the sharp cut of his jaw, clean shaven as always, lips that weren't smiling and the quiet intensity of his deep brown eyes that held no celebration.

And beside him... stood fire dressed as grace.

Diya didn't look like a girl afraid of marriage. She looked like a woman enduring it.

Draped in a deep crimson lehenga, adorned with temple motifs and steeped in traditional glory.

Her hair was tied in a loose bun, though a few soft waves slipped free, resting near her face.

A veil placed with grace over her head, framing her delicate features. Bambi eyes lined with kohl. She looked nothing short of ethereal.

But she didn't wear the usual softness people expected from a bride. There was no trace of a blush. Only detachment.

Together, they walked toward their families, the priest had finished his final chants. The rituals were done. The fire had witnessed it all.

Now came the blessings.

They bowed their heads, touched feet, heard the murmured words of elders whose voices carried both affection and expectation. It was tradition. They were prepared for it.

But nothing could've prepared Diya for what came next.

The hardest part of any wedding.

The goodbye.

The bidaai.

She wasn't sad.

Or maybe she was just too good at pretending she wasn't.

She had promised herself she wouldn't cry in front of everyone. That when the time came, she'd walk without shedding a single tear.

Her father pulled her in- his eyes rimmed red, his hold firmer than usual. The same man who had asked her to say yes to this marriage now stood with trembling hands, as if handing over a piece of his own soul.

The weight of raising a daughter and then letting her go was never truly light.

Diya didn't blink. Didn't cry.

But the second she folded into her mother's arms, something inside her fractured- silent and cruel.

And just like that, every promise she made to herself shattered.

The tears came anyway. Quiet, uninvited, stubborn. They slid down her cheeks, but her face stayed still- expressionless, like even grief had to be quiet now.

And in that stillness, the memories came rushing in.

The way her mother fixed her school collar every morning. The call of her voice echoing through the kitchen.

The warmth of her presence.

Then came the ache- sudden, sharp, merciless.

She wouldn't see her mother every day anymore. Wouldn't come home to her asking how her day was. Wouldn't hear the jingle of her bangles or that soft scolding wrapped in love.

She held on tighter.

Her fingers clutched her mother's saree like they could stall time.

Her mother sobbed. And Diya hated it.

She could never stand tears.

Not in her mother's eyes.

Not in anyone's.

Because love, to Diya, meant protecting people from that kind of ache.

Even if it meant drowning in it herself.

Vedant stood near her. The wedding knot clung to them like a verdict, heavy binding and final.

He lowered his eyes, not out of detachment, but reverence.

Because he knew- this was a moment she wouldn't want witnessed. Not by him. Not by anyone. So he didn't look.

Then she moved toward the girl who had shared her childhood, her secrets, her laughter.

With each step, something inside her cracked until her heart wasn't whole anymore, just sharp edges trying to hold form.

Vedant followed, and with every tear Diya didn't let herself cry,

he found himself quietly unraveling too.

Ananya broke down the moment their arms wrapped around each other. She clung to Diya. The weight of absence hit all at once. And it knocked the breath out of her.

But Diya?

Diya stood there like a dam cracking.

She didn't sob.

She didn't wail.

Just tears spilling quietly.

She wanted to break.

To run.

To fall into the familiar refuge of her bedroom and cry until her ribs hurt.

But elder daughters don't fall apart.

They fold quietly.

They hold others while their own heart cracks.

They bleed behind closed doors and call it maturity.

She let Ananya cry.

Let her grief soak into the fabric of her blouse.

And then- she pulled away.

Her hands trembled as they reached for Ananya's cheeks, wiping her tears like she could erase pain with touch.

Then came Tara- clutching a crumpled tissue, wiping her own tears like they had caught her off guard.

She wrapped Diya in an embrace that didn't feel like friendship.

It felt like family.

Beside her, Varun stood with tissues in hand. He stepped forward, his presence quiet but grounding.

He placed a steady hand on Vedant's shoulder. Vedant met his eyes, and in that glance, Varun gave him a knowing nod.

A brother's way of saying, "I've got you, you're not alone in this."

Diya buried her face in Tara's shoulder,

finding that familiar refuge again-

the one that had soothed every pre exam breakdown, every college anxiety.

"I'm always going to be there for you, okay?" Tara whispered into her hair.

Diya didn't reply- she just nodded.

Her face soaked in tears, her throat too choked for words.

Then, slowly, she pulled back.

Her eyes scanning searching-

"Aarav?" she whispered, barely above breath.

Tara lifted her chin toward the corner.

Diya followed her gaze.

And there he was

Her bratty little brother who had teased her endlessly,

who had once said he'd throw a party when she finally moved out.

Who had joked that her husband better be ready to deal with her drama.

But now?

Now he stood alone in the corner,

eyes fixed on the ground.

as if not looking at her would make it less real.

Diya moved.

Her knees nearly gave out-

not under the weight of her lehenga,

but under everything else she was carrying.

Vedant walked two steps behind her.

She reached him.

Aarav.

He spotted her too, and the second he did, he turned. Tried to walk away, like distance could shield him from the truth.

Diya halted.

"I'm going," she called out.

Aarav stopped.

Froze.

Then turned.

His face- flushed, tight with tears he had no idea how to hold in-

And in the next breath, he was running toward her.

He crashed into her like he used to as a kid- clung to her with the desperation of a little brother losing the only person who ever made the world feel soft.

Diya's hands moved instinctively- one cradling his head, the other trembling against his back.

Holding herself together was becoming impossible.

But she didn't fall apart.

Not yet.

She remembered carrying him when he was Misha's age,

feeding him, scolding him, shielding him.

They fought like siblings do, but she loved him like a second mother.

And now...

no more fights for the remote.

No one to barge into her room uninvited.

No "Stop being dramatic."

Just an echo of everything they'd been-

and the impossible ache of walking away from it.

What tore at her the most wasn't just leaving- it was knowing her siblings would have to face life without her shield.

No one to stand between them and the world. No one to protect them the way she always had.

Aarav refused to let her go. Every time someone tried to pull him away, he'd shake his head violently, yanking their hands off like a child guarding his most precious thing.

It was only when their mother gently stepped in that he loosened his grip.

Diya cupped his face with trembling hands and wiped his tears, even as hers kept falling.

When they reached the car, the air was thick with sobs- everyone was crying, even Vedant's mother, her heart heavy with the ache only a mother could understand.

Tear streaked faces surrounded them, blurred by grief and love.

But Diya? Numb.

Since Aarav's hug, not a single tear had dared fall.

She stepped into the car, and Tara carefully gathered the folds of her lehenga and helped her get in.

Diya didn't glance back. Not even once. She knew if she did... she'd shatter. And this time, she wouldn't be able to gather herself again.

I didn’t want to get married.

Didn’t want to become a husband.

Didn't want any of this.

Yet tonight, everything I swore I’d never do— everything I was so sure I wasn’t meant to be—

I became exactly that.

Voluntarily.

My thoughts were all over the place— scattered and loud. Because deep down I knew I was being a hypocrite.

This marriage was supposed to mean nothing. That was something we had agreed on.

From the very beginning, it was clear: this was for the families. A formality. Nothing more.

Yet here I was, feeling things I had no business feeling.

I told myself it didn’t matter who stood next to me at the mandap. I would show up exactly like this— detached and indifferent.

But when I met her for the first time... I felt criminally relieved. That even if this marriage wasn’t what I wanted, even if the timing and the reasons were all wrong—

But, if it had to be someone, I was quietly glad it was her.

And maybe that’s where the hypocrisy began. Because now that it’s done— now that she’s mine on paper— I can’t pretend like this doesn’t matter.

And this thought alone is rattling something I thought was unshakable.

I've mastered detachment. I’ve trained myself to feel nothing, to stay unaffected.

But with her?

It’s like all my walls forget how to stand.

I can survive a marriage I didn't want.

Walk through life wearing the mask of a husband without flinching.

But the idea of her hurting? That gets to me.

It makes me want to shield her from the entire world. From the people, the memories, the expectations… from everything that brought her to the edge like this.

And I don’t know why.

I don’t understand where this need to protect her comes from. It’s just there, uninvited and unavoidable.

Someone nudged me— snapping me out of it. Told me to get in the car. I did.

And there she was.

Hands folded in her lap, her body still, her veil drawn over her face. Not out of tradition. No. She just wanted something— anything— to hide behind.

The fabric was netted— thin enough to blur her, but not enough to hide her. Her eyes were fixed on her hands, like they were the only safe thing to look at.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t saying anything. Because she breaks quietly. Like it’s a crime to let anyone hear the sound.

It ruins me.

This version of her ruins me.

And I don’t know what’s worse—

wanting to hold her

or knowing I have no right to.

I didn’t even realize I was staring— until

“Please don’t look at me.” she said softly.

My eyes darted away quickly.

“Sorry, I—” my own thoughts interrupted me.

Why would you stare at her?

I know, right? What the hell was I doing?

The car began to move.

And she… she didn’t look back.

Not even once.

She sat there like stone— every emotion packed tightly beneath that veil.

My doubts, my resistance— they shrink into nothing, when I look at her, and realize she’s grieving something I’ll never fully understand.

My hesitation about this marriage? It feels embarrassingly small, it doesn’t even come close to the kind of ache that’s silencing her.

Then—

I heard a choked sob, quiet, like it escaped without her permission.

I couldn’t take it.

I asked the driver to stop the car.

“We don’t have to go today if you don’t want to... you can—” My voice faltered when I saw tears slipping down her cheeks.

She shook her head before I could finish. Like staying here even a second longer would break her beyond repair. And with her head movement, more tears spilled— trembling, uncontrolled.

The car started moving again. I sat there, useless. My hands curled into fists, nails digging into my palms— because I didn’t know how to help her.

And I wanted to. So badly.

I told myself to give her space...

But a part of me— a part I’m trying hard to ignore— just wanted to pull her close and let the world shut up for a while.

She tilted her face upward, clutched her eyes shut. Like maybe if she squeezed hard enough, the pain would stop leaking out.

But when she couldn’t stop them, she covered her face with her palms.

And all I could do was sit there.

Frozen. Fuming. Useless.

Wanting to fix what I couldn’t even touch.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my handkerchief—

and just waited.

Waited for her to let her guard down, even if just for a second, so I could do something. Anything.

After a few seconds, her hands dropped. Her face still hidden under that netted veil.

I extended the handkerchief toward her.

She looked at me through the veil.

A long, quiet stare.

She took it but... she didn’t look away.

Diya had never held eye contact with me for more than five seconds— she always broke it first. Always looked away before it got real.

But today? She was searching... searching for something in my eyes.

And when she looked away it felt like she couldn't find it. Like I’d somehow failed her without knowing how.

Her breathing shifted, subtle but sharp. And before I could speak, before I could even form a thought—

"Can I hold your hand for two minutes?" she asked, voice urgent.

I was still processing the question when my body moved on its own. I held out my hand. Palm open for her.

She took it instantly— clutched it like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

Her fingers were trembling and cold.

I closed my hand around hers— trying to offer warmth. Trying to be something I had no idea how to be.

If holding my hand made her feel even a fraction better…

God, I'd sit here for hours.

But then she pulled away. "It’s not working," she muttered under her breath.

Then she lifted her veil— sweat glistened on her forehead despite the air conditioning.

Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, one after the other.

And with every breath, every second, my heartbeat spiked. She wasn’t okay.

“Stop the car,” she whispered looking at me— desperate and pleading.

I didn’t think. Just told the driver to pull over.

The second we halted, she glanced at the knot resting between us before she removed the veil completely from her head, letting the fabric fall quietly onto the seat and reached for the door handle.

I moved. I was used to this now— her sudden need to run, to escape. I took the knot in my hand along with her veil and got out before she could.

She didn’t resist, didn’t say a word. She just let me help her out, tears still sliding down her face. Each one felt like a punch to my chest.

She didn’t run this time. Didn’t storm away or fold into herself. She just stood there… a few steps away from the car.

The road was narrow and quiet. No headlights. No horns. No city noise. Just the quiet hum of trees lining both sides, shadows stretching into the dark.

I followed her. Unsure whether to give her space or stay close. Unsure of anything, really.

“Please don’t look at me,” her voice cracked. Then a sob slipped out.

I looked away.

Not because she asked me to—

But because I couldn’t bear to see her like this either.

She started crying— really crying— and a strange relief washed over me. At least she wasn’t bottling it up anymore.

But God, what kind of comfort is that? When another part was aching seeing her like this.

"Diya" I said, stepping closer, barely above a whisper.

She shook her head violently, her breath was coming in uneven, panicked waves.

"Please, Mr. Malhotra... don’t look at me."

Mr. Malhotra.

I’ve never hated my own name more.

"Do you want to go back? We can still—" I tried.

"No," another shake of head, tears dripping down her chin like her body couldn’t carry the weight of them anymore.

Her breathing turned ragged— like every inhale burned, like she was drowning on dry land.

Cries turned into gasps, agonizing sobs crashing against her ribs and then it hit me—

This wasn’t just grief. She was panicking. Could it be a... panic attack?

I rushed, stepping closer, my hands gently gripping her arms.

"What’s happening? Diya, talk to me. What’s wrong?"

"I— I can’t breathe," she choked out, grabbing her chest.

I didn’t think— just ran, grabbed the water bottle from the car, popped the cap, and rushed back.

I held it to her lips, my palm supporting the back of her head. She drank— barely two sips.

“Better?” I asked, keeping my voice even and calm. But inside, worry was clawing at me, because I didn’t know what I’d do if she said no.

She shook her head,

and then came the dagger—

"Please go away… I’ll come back in 5 minutes… I’m okay."

She wasn’t. Not even close.

And I knew that tone. That desperate attempt to sound sane just to be left alone in the mess.

"You don’t have to say anything. You don’t even have to look at me. But I’m not going anywhere."

I told her before holding both her hands.

Why did it have to happen now?

Why now, when I was holding it together the entire evening? Why when I finally convinced myself I could survive this car ride in silence?

I sat there, eyes fixed on nothing, fingernails digging into my palm just to feel something real.

But it wasn’t enough.

It crashed out of me— the tears, the tremble in my throat, the heaviness that had been clawing at my ribs all evening.

And of course… of all people, it had to happen in front of him.

He refused to leave me alone— not even for five minutes. Didn’t walk away even when I was constantly pushing him away.

He kept checking on me— asking if i could breathe properly, if I wanted to go back.

I didn't answer, because how do I tell him? That I wanted to disappear from this world— just for a minute, an hour, forever maybe.

That it feels like my chest is made of glass and someone’s tapping on it constantly, waiting for it to shatter.

That the only thing worse than feeling like this… was someone witnessing it.

Because when someone witnesses your undoing, you can’t pretend it didn’t happen. It becomes real. Tangible.

I cried in front of him.

Still am.

And honestly, that alone should’ve been enough to send me burrowing into the nearest pit, never to be seen again.

But no— I didn’t stop there.

I asked to hold his hand.

I asked— like some fragile, trembling thing hoping that maybe, just maybe, if I looked at him, if I held his hand, it would anchor me again.

Like it did on the stage when he extended his hand without me asking. When the world blurred and the noise was too loud, his hand was the only thing that made it all hush. It worked then.

But in the car?

I held his hand tightly, he let me hold it. Didn't pull away, even though I was probably hurting him with my grip.

But it didn’t work. The panic didn’t fade this time.

I tried to stop the sobs, swallow them down, bury them somewhere dark—

But I couldn’t. My lungs betrayed me— there was no air, no oxygen, just this suffocating tightness pressing down on my chest.

And just when it felt like i might collapse,

his hands moved.

His touch slipped from my arms to my hands.

He took my trembling palms into his steady ones.

“Breathe with me,” he said.

His voice was low, careful.

I couldn’t even look at him.

I just nodded.

Then he took a breath. Deep, steady, patient.

So I tried.

Inhaled— shaky, uneven, like dragging air through thorns.

Exhaled— like I’d been holding it in for years.

Then again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

His thumb brushed lightly over the back of my hand.

My breaths didn’t come easy at first.

They stuttered, caught in my throat. But he didn’t rush me.

Didn’t speak again.

Just… breathed.

And slowly, like a storm that finally tires itself out, I stopped trembling.

The air stopped hurting, the panic eased, my breathing settled just enough to be steady again.

But the tears… they had a mind of their own.

They didn’t stop. Not even when I begged them to.

And I wasn’t even crying over anything specific. Not some memory. Not some regret. I didn’t want to go back to anything— I wasn’t even sure where back was anymore.

And standing in front of me— the man who didn't want this marriage either, wasn’t repulsed by the wreck I had become.

He just held my hands.

But I couldn’t stay like this.

I didn’t deserve to stay like this.

So I pulled away.

His fingers didn't resist.

They just... loosened gently.

I didn’t dare look at him.

“I’m fine now,” I whispered.

Lie number fifty-eight tonight.

And I hated that I was getting so good at lying to the only person who saw me this clearly.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to make me feel better with words that would’ve only bruised more than soothed.

The wind brushed against my wet cheeks reminding me that I had just shattered all over him.

Pathetic.

Embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, fingers curling into my palms. I didn’t know what else to say. Or how to unburden him of the wreckage I had just dumped on him without warning.

I started rambling. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. I always do this to you. This isn’t your job. I know this marriage isn’t real, I know you didn’t sign up for— for me—”

“Diya...” he said, low and firm, tugging me back to earth.

“Stop. Please stop.”

I froze, mouth still parted, heart thudding embarrassingly loud.

He looked at me, brows drawn but gentle. “I don’t know the ‘always’ you’re talking about,” he said. “And you didn’t do anything. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

That should’ve comforted me. It didn’t.

It just made the knot in my chest twist tighter, because what do you say to someone who’s not mad at you when you’re mad at yourself?

So I blurted the safest, dumbest thing I could think of. “Can we just… pretend that didn’t happen?”

He blinked, tilting his head slightly, like I’d just asked him to solve world peace. “Pretend what didn’t happen?”

I glanced at him, confused— and mildly panicking.

“You drank water. We stood outside for some fresh air,” he said, voice even, face unreadable.

“Pretty uneventful, if you ask me.”

I stared at him.

“Unless you’re talking about that brief episode where someone mistook my hand for a stress ball.” His lips twitched.

My eyes widened in horror. “Stop—”

“But since I don’t remember any of that…” he said, now almost smirking “you’re off the hook.”

I wanted the ground to open up. Swallow me whole. Send me to Jupiter. Anywhere but here.

This wasn't him.

Not the way his smile curled—half-hearted, almost reluctant, like he wasn’t used to offering it but still did… probably to make me feel better.

He didn’t want this either, but he didn’t cry in the middle of nowhere, didn’t fall apart or reach for things he had no right to need.

How am I ever going to pay him back?

For not making me feel smaller than I already do.

For not looking at me like I was a burden when I already feel like one.

I don’t know why that hurt more than if he had walked away.

Because now I owe him a version of myself I don’t even know how to be.

And I’m scared I’ll never be enough to return the kindness of a man who doesn’t even believe he’s kind.

Diya hesitated, clutching the handkerchief in her hand like it was the only thing tethering her to this world.

“Do I…” her voice was soft, unsure, “look okay?”

Vedant didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on her face— steadier than she could handle, quieter than she could decode.

He stepped closer and without saying a word, he gently reached out and took the handkerchief from her hand.

It was still damp near the edges, wrinkled from her grip, but he unfolded it with deliberate care.

Then slowly raised it to her face.

He dabbed at the corner of her eye first— soft, almost hesitant. He moved slowly, wiping the streak of tears down her cheek, brushing near her jaw. Then he moved to her forehead, her sindoor was smudged.

He fixed it.

And then, without needing to ask, he reached for a loose strand of her hair and tucked it gently behind her ear.

Diya stood still, she didn't expect him to do this.

Vedant didn’t step back immediately. His eyes held hers for just a second too long.

Then—

“You look more than okay,” he said softly.

It wasn’t about appearance. To him, she still looked divine, even with smudged sindoor and tear streaked face. But she didn't want the world to see her like that so he fixed her.

He held out the veil he’d been carrying reverently all this while.

Diya took it from him and unfolded it slowly, then, in one fluid motion, she raised it over her head.

And just then—

A soft tug.

The knot between her veil and his stole pulled taut for the briefest second, like the fabric was trying to remind them that they were married now.

They both felt it but decided to ignore it. Diya adjusted the veil delicately over her head— this time leaving her face uncovered.

“Let’s go?” he asked, unsure if she was ready yet.

She just nodded.

🪔

At the Malhotra mansion, grief gave way to ritual. Joy painted the walls, laughter echoed through the corridors, and every face lit up with excitement as the newlyweds arrived at the threshold.

The family gathered near the entrance ready to welcome the bride.

Meera Malhotra, now her mother in law in name if not yet in sentiment, stepped forward with the aarti thali— its flame flickering, mirroring Diya’s own emotions.

Circling the fire three times before them, Meera welcomed the couple in.

A crimson dot was pressed onto their foreheads.

A small pot filled with rice sat at the edge of the doorway, a symbol of prosperity— hers to usher in.

Diya lifted her lehenga delicately, placed her right foot forward, as told and then gently nudged the pot.

The rice spilled forward like a soft avalanche, the grains scattered across the white marble.

Next came the ritual of imprinting her first steps into the house.

A shallow dish filled with deep crimson aalta was placed before her— its surface still, waiting.

Without a word, Diya stepped forward. The coolness of the liquid was grounding.

Vedant stepped in beside her, he didn't realise when his hands reached out to lift the edge of her lehenga so it wouldn’t trail through the color.

Diya didn't notice either.

She stepped onto the white cloth stretched before her, leaving behind vivid red footprints— her entrance etched with every step.

By the time she reached the end, cheers rang.

Meera pulled her into a warm, motherly hug. No words, just a tender embrace that lingered longer than expected— like she wanted Diya to feel the welcome, not just hear it.

One by one, the family gathered around her. Smiles. Hugs. Words of affection she wasn’t sure how to hold yet.

Then came Atharv, stepping forward to touch her feet.

Diya quickly stepped back. “You’re elder to—”

Before she could finish, Atharv's mother interjected with a gentle laugh, “Beta, he might be older in age, but in relation, you’re his bhabhi now. Let him.”

Atharv bent down and touched her feet, the gesture full of reverence. “Welcome home, bhabhi.”

Diya offered him a small, polite smile— still learning how to react to being called that.

Before she could process it, another voice chimed in with dramatic flair.

“Mujhe toh nahi rokengi na, bhabhi aap?”

[“You won’t stop me, right, bhabhi?”]

Vivaan strode past his mother with a mischievous glint in his eyes and bent down with exaggerated ceremony to touch Diya’s feet.

“Welcome, bhabhi,” he grinned.

Diya looked at him— she was sure they'd never met before, yet something about his face tugged at her memory. The sharp lines, the eyes... they reminded her of Vedant.

“I’m the coolest member of this family." Then, tipping his chin towards Vedant, "He’s my elder brother."

And just like that, the resemblance stopped hiding.

“I wasn’t at the engagement. Exams and all, you know?” he explained.

“But we can totally be homies,” he added with a wink. “We’re of the same age after aaall—”

He didn’t get to finish that sentence. His mother reached out and tugged his ear with a practiced grip.

“Same age?” she asked sweetly, her tone laced with warning.

Vivaan winced. “Same-ish?”

His mother gave it another playful twist. “Zyada hi smart ban raha hai yeh,” she muttered under her breath before looking at Diya.

["He's acting a little too smart."]

“Maa, do saal ka hi toh farq hai!” Vivaan whined dramatically, rubbing his ear.

[“Maa, there’s only a two-year difference!”]

Laughter broke out around them. Diya found herself smiling again— this time a little less politely, a little more genuinely.

At the edge of the room, Dadu sat watching it all with a heart full of quiet contentment. His eyes lingered on Diya and Vedant.

“Mere bacche thak gaye honge,” he finally said, voice gentle but final. “Baaki rasme kal kar lena. Abhi unhe aaram karne do.”

[“My kids must be tired,”]

[“Do the rest of the rituals tomorrow. Let them rest for now.”]

Relief passed through both Diya and Vedant like a shared breath.

No more lights. No more rituals. No more pretending.

Meera stepped forward with a reverent calm, her fingers reaching for the sacred wedding knot that still held Diya’s veil and Vedant’s stole together.

She cradled the entwined fabrics in her hands, folding them gently. The knot rested between the folds, secure and symbolic, meant to kept carefully.

Tanya led Diya away, her footsteps soft against the marble, guiding her towards the bedroom that no longer belonged to just Vedant.

Meanwhile, Meera turned in the opposite direction— towards the temple tucked in the quietest corner of the house. The aarti thali in her hands still glowed faintly with the remnants of the flame.

Just as she reached to place it down, she heard familiar footsteps.

“Maa,” Vedant’s voice came low, almost unsure.

Meera didn’t turn immediately. “Tu gaya nahi?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious, eyes still focused on placing the thali in its rightful spot.

[You didn't go yet?]

“I… want to talk to you,” Vedant said, standing just a few feet behind her. His voice carried the weight of something unspoken.

At that, Meera turned fully, reading her son’s face with that motherly instinct no words could bypass. She softened instantly.

“Hmm… bol,” she said, giving him her undivided attention now.

[Yes... say]

“Can you… not ask Diya to call you anything?” Vedant asked, the words fumbling out like he hadn’t rehearsed them a dozen times already.

Meera arched an eyebrow, amused at his awkwardness.

“I mean…” he rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flitting to the side, “Can you not ask her to call you Maa?”

For a moment, Meera just looked at her son. The boy who’d grown into a man with walls so high, even the warmest things needed permission to climb them.

A small smile tugged at her lips.

“I wasn’t planning on asking her to call me anything,” she said gently. “She’ll call me what she’s comfortable with."

Before he could say the other rehearsed sentence, Meera spoke.

"Yes, I will tell everyone else too." She reassured him.

Vedant gave a silent nod, quietly grateful that his mother understood him even without words, then turned and walked away.

The faint sound of suitcase wheels against the staircase caught his attention.

“I’ll take it,” Vedant said, his voice polite but firm. The staff hesitated, but Vedant had already stepped forward and lifted the suitcase from him.

He braced himself for the usual weight of a luggage. But the bag felt oddly… light. Like it was almost empty.

He frowned. "Did she forget to pack something Or… everything?" He thought to himself.

But he didn’t dwell. Just carried it up, barely putting any effort.

When he reached the room, the door was wide open. Diya did it on purpose, to avoid any scope of awkwardness when he enters.

So when Vedant stepped into the room, he didn't say anything. Didn't clear his throat. Didn’t announce his presence.

Just stood there, still.

Watching her.

She was near the mirror, halfway through removing her bangles— those red ones that clinked softly every time she moved.

Her fingers hesitated mid air when she noticed his reflection. Not startled. Just… aware.

He placed the suitcase down near the wardrobe. The dull thud echoed too loud in a room that hadn’t yet decided what it was— a beginning or a boundary.

Diya didn’t turn around completely. Only tilted her head slightly, just enough for him to know she’d seen him.

He closed the door now.

Then moved to the wardrobe, pulling out a plain t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants as if this was just another night.

And without a glance in her direction, he made his way to the washroom.

When he returned— hair damp, a towel slung loosely around his neck— he stilled at the doorway.

His gaze drifted across the room, lingering… confused.

Then faintly amused at the sight in front of him.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Umm… sorry? Yeah, sorry for the delay.

The reason? Surprise, surprise— I fell sick. LOL. Perks of having a chronically ill author, I guess?

Anyways, I genuinely hope you liked the chapter, because I have no idea what I’ve done.

Opinions, criticism, hate— everything’s welcome. Just let me know how it’s going, cause I literally can’t tell (I’m sick in the head and literally.)

Anyways love y’all 🤍

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Thankyou for reading.

- M 💌