The shower wasn't just hot. It was a pause.

The first solid thing I'd felt all day- steam curling around my skin, water hammering into my shoulders, the ache in my neck easing little by little.

The wedding had drained me. Not just physically- though the sherwani digging into my skin for hours had been a form of punishment on its own- but mentally, emotionally.

The rituals are exhausting.

Pretending to be present while feeling absolutely nothing? Even more so.

I hadn't expected it to feel like this.

Like I'd gone through something irreversible.

I wrapped the towel around my waist and the moment I reached for the door, muscle memory kicked in- and then so did the hesitation.

I don't live alone anymore. The thought landed heavy.

I wasn't used to second guessing myself in my own room. But there I was, hand hovering over the doorknob, suddenly aware of my presence, of hers.

With a slow exhale, I turned back and changed in the bathroom itself. A first in... well, ever. Not because I cared, but because I didn't want to make her uncomfortable.

I stepped out wearing my t-shirt and sweatpants- familiar and comfortable.

But the sight that met me... stopped me, head tilting as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.

She was crouching on the floor, adjusting the heavy folds of her lehenga as she unzipped the suitcase. The fabric rustled around her, pooling at her feet.

And then... pillows?

I blinked. Once. Twice.

She pulled out a white pillow. Then another. And a third. For a second, I just stared. My brain struggled to catch up.

Then came a small, orange stuffed animal. A cat, I think. Its fur was slightly dulled, the kind of worn texture that only comes from years of being held.

She picked it up like it had a heartbeat only she could hear. There was no urgency in her movements, like she'd done this before.

A blanket followed- thin and neatly folded, the kind meant more for comfort than warmth- and then a soft pair of nightclothes.

And then... nothing. That was it?

I haven't attended many weddings, but I'm pretty certain pillows and blankets don't usually find a place in the bridal suitcase.

She zipped the suitcase shut, stood up and turned- freezing when her eyes met mine.

She didn't flinch. But I saw it anyway. That flicker of alarm in her eyes, like I was some kind of intrusion.

I didn't say anything. Couldn't, really. My mind was still stuck somewhere between the absurdity of the moment... and the fact that my new roommate looked really small with all those soft things around her.

For a beat, the room was still- except for the whirr of the ceiling fan and the weight of something we both couldn't name.

Then she looked at the pillows and said, softly, "I can't sleep without them. I hope you don't mind."

Her voice was quiet, not hesitant, just... cautious. Like someone who is used to explaining themselves.

How could I mind something so... harmless? But I didn't know how to answer without making it a thing, so I just nodded.

She didn't wait for anything more. Just picked up her clothes and walked to the washroom without another glance.

And then it was just me.

Standing in my room. Our room.

It looked the same. Same walls. Same bed. Same lighting. But did it feel the same? No.

Because now there was a quiet pair of feet that avoided eye contact. A bundle of pillows that didn't belong to me. A presence that somehow made everything louder and quieter at the same time.

The door clicked shut behind me. I leaned against it for a second, the silence finally mine.

The lights in here were soft. The mirror above the sink fogged slightly- evidence of the shower he'd just taken. Warmth curling faintly against my skin. And the scent of his shampoo- fresh, clean, unfamiliar- floated through it all.

I leaned against the sink.

I hadn't exactly planned to let him witness it- my slightly ridiculous but absolutely non negotiable sleeping kit.

Three pillows. And that was me being generous. I usually need four. One for my head, one to hug, one as a wall, and the last as emotional support. Tonight I'd trimmed the team down. Marriage made me compromise, you see.

I unhooked the heavy blouse first, letting the embroidery slip off my shoulders. The lehenga followed- heavier on the way off than it ever was while wearing it. I stepped out of the mess of fabric.

The second I changed into my night clothes my body just... relaxed.

I washed my face slowly. The kajal, the foundation, the lipstick... they melted off one by one, spiraling down the sink like pieces of a person I was forced to be all day. I didn't recognize the woman in the mirror until she was barefaced again.

The pins in my hair slipped out, one by one, until the bun gave up and the strands fell around my shoulders. I ran my hands through them, eyes fluttering shut. It felt like breathing for the first time all day.

But comfort never stayed long. Just as I reached for the door, something in me hesitated.

A sharp click.

Not from the lock.

From the past.

This was our first night. The thought dropped into my chest like a stone, heavy and cold. And suddenly, my breath wasn't as easy. My grip on the doorknob faltered.

I knew he wouldn't do anything. I knew that. He wasn't that kind of man. But logic doesn't always win when fear decides to play god.

I remembered the stories. Not the ones told at weddings- but the whispered ones. The quiet truths passed from older cousins in kitchens and behind closed doors.

I'd seen it- too close to home.

The way "first night" was spoken of like a ritual, not a choice.

Women- soft, unsure, newly married- finding themselves alone in bedrooms they didn't want to be in.

Wives being taken, not asked.

Whispers of them "adjusting." Of them being "claimed."

Pregnancies months into marriages that began just like mine.

No one ever warned you that fear could be inherited. That trauma could be contagious even if it wasn't yours.

I pressed my forehead to the cool door and breathed. In. Out. Reminding myself of who I was. Of who he was.

I trust him.

I know, I know- it's too soon.

But my body betrays me.

It loosens around him. Breathes easier. It trusts him without asking me first.

I don't understand it- this quiet sense of safety where there should only be distance.

When I finally stepped out, it wasn't with confidence. It was with exhaustion. The kind that had nothing to do with aching shoulders.

He looked up the moment I did. His expression unreadable. Blank, but not cold.

"I'll take the couch," he said, voice even.

I glanced at him- head to toe- then at the couch. He thinks he can fit in that?

He caught the flicker in my eyes. "Don't worry about that."

It wasn't just that.

The idea of taking his bed felt... invasive. He didn't have to be the one making space in a situation neither of us asked for. I wasn't here to be a burden on him.

"It's your bed. I'll take the couch."

He looked like he wanted to argue- lips parting, shoulders twitching- but he didn't say anything.

Just walked to the nightstand, picked up a water bottle, and placed it on the table beside the couch.

I set the pillows down one by one- soft thumps against the couch fabric. I lowered myself into the nest I'd made, pulling Honey close to my side.

I adjusted the edge of the blanket under my toes. Pulled it up. Then pushed it down again. My hands were restless.

The room was quiet, but my mind wasn't. It wanted to revisit everything that shifted in a single day- from my room to mandap to this unfamiliar ceiling.

But every time I tried to reach for a thought, my limbs reminded me how heavy they felt.

So I turned toward the backrest, curled into the corner like it knew me.

The ache in my chest was... still there, low and constant. But my breathing slowed, and sleep found me.

🪔

Do you sometimes deeply hate your siblings?

Because right now, I was about five seconds away from kicking my brother out the window.

"Aarav," I mumbled, face buried in the pillow, voice thick with sleep, "if you're here to steal my charger again, I swear I'll shave your eyebrows in your sleep."

A gentle nudge on my shoulder again.

Ugh.

I blindly flailed an arm and grabbed the pillow next to me. With all the strength of someone who had slept exactly six hours, I launched it behind me. "Go away! It's Sunday. You legally can't bother me till noon!"

Soft thud. And silence.

No dramatic groaning followed.

No flop on my bed.

No "wake up, zombie."

Which was weird.

Because if there's one thing Aarav never does, it's be quiet when he's been mildly injured by me.

I reached for another pillow to launch, eyes still shut, but something about the air tugged at my senses. Different. Unfamiliar. This is not the scent of my room.

My brows furrowed. Wait.

Why was my alarm even on? I'd turned it off for the weekend. Something was off.

I blinked open one eye, squinting against the morning light. My hand froze mid throw, pillow still in the air.

It wasn't my brother.

It was... him.

The pillow dropped from my hand instantly.

So did my soul.

It didn't seem like he'd just woken up. He was still in the same clothes from last night, but now his hair was damp at the edges, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to his temples.

His chest rose in calm, steady breaths, like he'd just come back from a run or something. And it looked like he'd been standing there for a while.

I blinked at him. Twice.

He cleared his throat, glancing at the alarm still screaming on the table beside me. "Your alarm was ringing," he said, voice heavier than I remembered it last night.

Right. My alarm. Because I forgot to turn it off. Because I forgot I wasn't home. Because I forgot everything for a blissful six hours of escape.

"Oh."

That was all I could manage. My voice cracked halfway through it.

My body went rigid, like my muscles had just remembered everything. The wedding. The night. The couch. The fact that this wasn't my bed, or my house, or my life anymore.

Embarrassment prickled up the back of my neck. "Sorry. I thought you were..."

"My brother," he finished for me.

God. Is there a polite way to dissolve into thin air?

"I didn't mean to throw it at you, okay?" I mumbled, weakly defending myself.

"Okay." He replied.

A pause. Then, with mild accusation- "You could've called me."

"I did," he said, deadpan. "Twice. You told me to rot."

I closed my eyes, mortified.

"I'm sorry, I-"

The alarm shrieked again, cutting me off like it had a personal vendetta. He walked over, casually tapped my phone, and silenced it without a word.

Then looked back at me.

"You can go back to sleep." he said, like it was just another Sunday, "I'll pretend this never happened."

He grabbed his clothes from the wardrobe and made his way to the bathroom- barefoot, annoyingly composed.

But just before stepping in, he paused.

Didn't turn around.

"Next time, maybe just... use words first. Pillows second." He added quietly.

God, why do all my first days have to be cursed?

First day of office? Took the CEO's private elevator like I owned the building.

First day of marriage? Assaulted my brand new husband with a pillow and told him to rot.

And then he disappeared,

leaving me to bury myself under the blanket, wondering why my heart decided this was the perfect moment to break into a sprint.

🪔

The house felt paused. It was a barely seven. The kind of hour where even the air felt like it was walking on tiptoes.

I moved through the hallway on cautious feet, the cotton of my kurta brushing lightly against my skin, as if even the fabric knew not to disturb anyone.

The place around me was unfamiliar- rooms I didn't recognize, shadows that didn't feel like mine. Everything was neat, untouched, too quiet.

Last night had already weighed me down. I was carrying enough emotional baggage, and I wasn't about to drag two more literal suitcases on top of that. So I asked Ananya and Tara to send my stuff in the morning instead.

I was not in the mood to dress up for a life I hadn't chosen. And I Didn't have it in me to wear a saree. So I'd slipped into a light kurta- simple, soft, easy.

The living room glowed with that drowsy gold of early morning. My dupatta slipped from my shoulder again, I tucked it back, more out of habit than care.

As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I was met with exactly what I'd been praying for.

Dark. Quiet. Empty.

Perfect.

I stepped in slowly, let my fingers rest against the edge of the cool marble counter for just a second. Let my shoulders drop. For once, there was no one watching, no expectations breathing down my neck.

I had time. I had space. And I had no idea what I was doing.

I pulled out my phone and typed: Pehli rasoi easy recipe.

A video popped up almost instantly. The thumbnail had a woman in a bright saree, smiling like she already knew I was about to cry. Still, I tapped play.

"Sabse pehle beta, hume ghabraane ki koi zarurat nahi hai-"

[First of all, dear, there's no need to panic.]

Too late, aunty. I'm already failing at step one.

"Meri pehli rasoi mein bhi main bohot ghabraayi thi, lekin sab aasan ho-"

[Even I was very nervous during my first rasoi, but everything turned out easy-]

I hit pause. "Thank you for the pep talk, aunty," I muttered under my breath. "Now kindly stop narrating my anxiety."

I pulled up ChatGPT, my last line of defense and typed:

"Easy pehli rasoi recipe ASAP."

It didn't ask questions. Just got to the point.

Step 1: Heat ghee in a pan.

I opened the nearest shelf, and for once, the universe didn't hate me- there it was. Ghee. Front and center.

Next: a pan. After rummaging through the lower cabinets, I found something... vaguely pan like. A little too heavy, but beggars weren't choosers today.

I placed it on the stove and flicked the burner on.

Two spoonfuls of ghee went in.

It melted slowly, lazy and golden, like it had all the time in the world. Unlike me.

Step 2: Roast vermicelli in ghee.

Which, small issue- vermicelli isn't the kind of ingredient that just casually sits in plain sight.

And if you're someone who knows you can't cook, you also know that vermicelli has this special talent for hiding during emergencies.

So I decided to hunt for it.

Just as I was elbow deep in despair, a low voice behind me said-

"What are you looking for?"

I flinched hard, very aware of the sudden presence behind me- and the fact that I wasn't exactly killing it in the kitchen.

I turned slowly.

He was standing there, in a pale blue striped shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The shirt was supposed to look casual but didn't quite manage it on him.

His hair neatly combed but with a slight wave, it looked like he ran his fingers through it moments ago. His jaw looked freshly shaven.

And though his expression was unreadable, there was a quiet question sitting behind his eyes.

"Vermicelli," I replied, as my soul quietly crawled back into my body.

He didn't say anything at first- just stepped forward, reached above my head and pulled out a container from a shelf I didn't even check.

He handed it over.

"Are you here for the pehli rasoi thing?" he asked, his tone was dry, but not cold. More like he was trying to keep his irritation at bay.

"Yeah," I said, unscrewing the lid and praying I didn't look as flustered as I felt. "Sort of."

He didn't hide his reaction. The faintest scoff left his throat, quiet but sharp. "You don't have to do this," he said after a beat. "I don't believe in these rituals."

"Me neither. I'm not doing it for the rituals." I replied, calmer than I felt.

A flicker of confusion or maybe curiosity passed through his expression. "Then?"

I paused, fingers tracing the edge of the container.

"I wanted to make something for... Dadu." My voice came out softer than I meant.

I haven't seen dadu since I was four. The wedding doesn't count. It was loud, and he was tired.

When I looked up, his expression had shifted. The usual sharpness in his features had dulled just enough.

He blinked, looked away briefly, then back at me. "What are you making?"

What was I making?

ChatGPT had started spitting out steps and I just followed them... I don't know what I was making. And I still haven't seen step three.

"Vermicelli," I said, hoping the answer sounded more solid than it felt.

His head tilted slightly. "Vermicelli what?"

I blinked.

Right. Of course it's not a complete answer.

I stepped forward, grabbed my phone, and quickly asked the one at fault- "Wtf are we making with vermicelli, and ghee?"

The reply came instantly.

I turned back to him. "Vermicelli kheer," I said, trying to sound like that had been the plan all along.

He looked at me for a second too long, then gave a single nod.

"Can I help?" he hesitated before asking.

I shook my head. "I don't need help."

He didn't take it as a cue to leave. Instead, he moved closer, gaze flicking from the stovetop to me.

Then, without a word-

Click.

The flame went out.

"Clearly." He muttered.

Smoke puffed up from the pan. And the ghee... it smelled wrong now.

"Do you know how to make it?" he asked carefully.

That's offensive. I'm not completely useless in the kitchen. I had survival skills.

I've made rice.

Fried rice.

...Okay, that's the end of the list. But still. I'm a fast learner!

"Almost." I said, reaching to stir the pan again even though he just turned it off. My pride needed something to do.

His lips quirked. "Right."

I turned the stove back on, pretending his presence wasn't curling into my nerves. He didn't stop me this time- just leaned against the counter and watched.

Quietly.

I dropped the vermicelli into the pan. It scattered with a hiss, some sticking to the base before I quickly stirred.

His eyes followed my every movement, silently judging. Or maybe imagining how badly I'd mess this up. Either way- annoying.

He still hadn't moved. Still leaning there with his arms crossed.

"I'm roasting it," I said, not looking at him. "In case you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

Pause.

"It's just... browning a bit too fast."

I bit back a retort and lowered the flame, moving the spatula calmly. The ghee had stopped misbehaving. The aroma was turning richer, warmer.

"Dadu loves it sweet," he said quietly, like he'd read my thoughts.

I glanced at him. "How sweet?"

"Dentist appointment level."

My lips betrayed me first- curling up before I could stop them. I didn't laugh, but I wanted to. And from the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the edge of his mouth twitch too, barely.

I turned back to the pan. I had no idea what came next. And I wasn't about to type "next step vermicelli ghee pls hurry" into ChatGPT while someone with actual eyes was watching.

"Milk," he said, like it should've been obvious.

I blinked at him.

He didn't explain, just turned, opened the fridge, and pulled out a carton, then he placed it beside me on the counter.

"How do you know?" It flew out before I could catch it- half genuine curiosity, half instinctive defense.

"I've made it before." He replied, unfazed.

There was always something unsaid hanging between his words. I hated how curious it made me. But I didn't say anything.

I was still hopelessly staring at the milk, no clue what to do next. Naturally, Mr. I've made it before, told me to pour it.

So I did, letting the milk join the golden strands and bubble softly.

"Stir it," he said after a pause, voice low. "It sticks if you don't."

I wasn't fond of being told what to do. Bossy people annoyed me. But he wasn't bossy. Just oddly quiet and annoyingly right. His tone wasn't commanding either, it was... gentle. So I stirred.

He moved behind me, reaching for the sugar tin. Without a word, he placed it beside me.

It was weird. How easy this felt. Domestic. Like... we'd done this before.

We hadn't.

But the air was thick with that strange illusion. As if the kitchen had slowed time just for us. And outside these four walls, nothing existed. Not the pressure. Not the rituals. Not the fact that I was technically married to this man.

Just the scent of simmering milk, and the comfortable silence, we both didn't need to fill.

"Do I add the sugar now?" I asked, frowning slightly as I peered into the pan. The milk had started to bubble along the edges, but I wasn't sure if that counted as boiling yet.

"Wait till it rises," he said, tilting his head the way people do when they're trying to explain something simple without making you feel dumb. "Keep stirring."

My hand hesitated on the spatula. Just for a second. I adjusted my grip and focused harder. "It's boiling now," I muttered a little defensively.

He stepped forward and reached for something on the upper shelf. I kept my eyes on the stove.

But from the corner of my eye, I saw him pull out a chopping board and start slicing some dry fruits. He was a little too good at this

"Add the sugar," he said softly, glancing at me.

I measured it carefully and poured it in. The scent shifted. Then he handed me the dry fruits.

"Simmer it now," he murmured, reaching over to lower the flame. Our arms brushed.

I stepped back like the stove had gotten too hot, letting out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. We stood there for a moment, just watching the kheer do it's thing.

Then he dipped a spoon in, blew on it once and passed it to me.

"Taste it."

I blinked at him. Then looked at the spoon in my hand. Just a bite. I should've taken it.

But something in my chest coiled up at the thought of food. My appetite hadn't really returned since yesterday. Or maybe even before that.

I shook my head gently. "You taste it," I said, holding the spoon up to him. "You practically made the whole thing."

He looked at me. Quiet. Then leaned in slightly and took the bite off the spoon.

My brain blanked for a moment.

He was about to say something, maybe tell me how it tasted- when a knock broke through the kitchen's stillness.

We both turned sharply, like teenagers caught red handed.

At the door stood his mom and chachi, framed perfectly like they'd been standing there for a while.

His mom held a small basket of marigolds but her expression was far more focused on our awkward stances than the contents.

"Oh ho," His chachi said with a smile so wide it should be illegal this early in the morning. "Kheer toh ban rahi hai, lekin yeh kya chal raha hai yahan?"

["Sure, you're cooking kheer... but what else is cooking here?"]

My hands instantly dropped to my sides. He stopped leaning on the counter, suddenly more formal than necessary.

"Hum mandir kya gaye, yaha toh MasterChef chalu ho gaya." She added, eyes twinkling with mischief.

["We just went to the temple, and suddenly it's MasterChef in here?"]

My face heated instantly.

What? No- this was not that. Not even close. I wasn't even cooking properly. He was just... helping. A little.

God, why did they have to say it like that? I tightened my grip on the spoon.

His mother hadn't said much yet, but the amusement in her eyes was impossible to miss. "We thought you'd still be asleep. It's barely seven."

"I... I usually wake up early," I said quickly, avoiding her gaze. No way was I explaining what I did to her son when he tried to wake me up.

"Yeah." He muttered "Very early."

I turned to glare at him, heart thudding. He just looked at the stove, acting way too innocent for someone who just tried to throw me under a bus.

His mother smiled gently. "You don't have to wake up early and come to the kitchen, beta."

I nodded, lips pressed tight.

She turned to leave, pausing only at the doorway, "And if you two are done feeding each other, we'd like to use the kitchen too."

They walked off with the quiet laughter of women who knew exactly what they were doing.

I pretended to adjust the stove knob, though I could feel my ears burning. He stepped back slightly, pretending to wipe his hands on a towel that didn't need wiping.

And then because the universe is cruel-

Our eyes met- just long enough to jolt something unnamed. We recoiled instantly, suddenly intrigued by anything that wasn't each other.

🪔

The dining area hummed with life— the kind that only big families know. Even the silences had sound. A spoon clinked against a plate, someone laughed, the rustle of a newspaper floated in the background.

I perched carefully at the edge of the chair, like sinking back would somehow root me too deeply in a place I wasn’t ready to claim. My fingers were laced too tightly in my lap.

And then, a scrape of a chair beside mine.

It was him.

He slid into the seat with ease— no hesitation, no pause. Like the chair had been waiting for him.

It clearly was his usual spot. Meera aunty’s gentle insistence earlier made perfect sense. This is why she had asked me to sit here.

Suddenly, I was hyper aware of everything.

Every breath felt monitored. Like if I blinked wrong, someone would notice. If I shifted too suddenly, the table would tilt. I was terrified of doing something too clumsy, too odd, too… me.

It’s strange— how rooms can feel full and still make you feel like a guest. Not because anyone made me feel unwelcome. But because I hadn’t yet figured out how to exist here without second guessing every move.

So, I stayed quiet. Trying to shrink without seeming like I was shrinking.

I was still debating whether to reach for the water or just sit and breathe, when a voice broke through the noise.

“Good morning, bhabhi!”

“Bhabhi,” the voice called again. And again.

It took me a second too long to realise the person was addressing me. I looked up to see his younger brother calling me.

“Good morning, bhabhi!” he repeated, deliberately this time.

I blinked, caught off guard, then scrambled for a response.

“G-Good morning,” I said, awkward and a beat too late.

He smiled from across the table, “I wished you three times, you know.”

“I— uh— I didn’t realise you were talking to me,” I admitted.

He chuckled. “I forgot to tell you my name yesterday. I’m Vivaan.”

I nodded, trying to hold onto the name while pretending I wasn’t still thrown off by the casual bhabhi.

I fixed my gaze on the glass in front of me, willing my nerves to settle. And that’s when I heard it.

“E-dant!” A high-pitched squeal, unmistakably familiar.

Mr. Malhotra turned instinctively. So did I. Because I already knew who it was.

Misha.

She was perched in her dad's arms, practically vibrating with excitement.

“E-dant!” she squealed again, eyes locked only on one person— completely oblivious to everyone else in the room.

Atharv bhaiya sighed, shaking his head as she wriggled to be put down, her tiny arms reaching toward the person sitting right beside me.

His lips curled into a faint smile— quiet, but genuine— as he took her in his arms.

“Goo Mo Nin,” Misha chirped, her voice all sugar and slur, barely forming the words.

I swear I’d never heard a cuter version of “Good morning” in my entire life.

He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, murmuring back, “Good morning.”

The sight was… warm. Too warm. The kind that nudged a little too close to the parts of me I’d been trying to keep untouched.

Misha giggled, her tiny fingers reaching for his face, tugging at his nose, squishing his cheeks. He let her— soft in a way I hadn’t seen before.

And then, just like that, her eyes found me.

She stared at me for a moment. Curious, cautious. Like she was trying to figure out whether I was real… or made up.

And before I could even brace for it—she lunged. Straight at me. Arms out, like she’d made up her mind.

Completely ignoring her beloved “E-dant.”

My breath caught.

Mr. Malhotra looked somewhere between amused and mildly betrayed as he handed her over.

She studied my face, her tiny fingers pressing gently against my cheek.

“E-yaa?” she babbled, head tilted in innocent curiosity. Like she wasn't used to seeing me here, at this table, with everyone else.

“Hi,” I whispered, barely trusting my voice.

Without warning, she tucked her face into my neck. Then came the softest giggles as she began her little game of peek a boo, hiding, peeking, hiding again— right against my skin.

And just like that, the tension in my chest loosened. I realised I wasn’t nervous anymore. Not with her in my arms.

“Misha, this is so unfair!” Vivaan groaned. “You just met bhabhi and you're already playing with her?”

Everyone turned to him, bemused.

“I’ve known you since the day you were born and you didn’t even recognise me the other day!”

Misha ignored him completely. Her attention stayed fixed on me. She leaned back slightly, tugging at something near my collarbone with surprising focus.

I looked down.

My mangalsutra.

She was holding it, her little fingers twisting the black beads like they were a puzzle.

And that’s when it hit me— I hadn’t even noticed it was there. It had been around my neck all morning, but I hadn’t felt it.

Now, it sat heavy. Not in weight, but in meaning. Still, I tucked that feeling away. I wasn’t ready to unpack it yet.

Instead, I looked at the one person in the room who made me forget to be anxious. Who made me feel like maybe I belonged, just a little.

A moment later, Tanya appeared beside us, offering me a warm smile before turning to her daughter. “Planning to have breakfast on badi maa’s lap today?”

Badi maa.

The words were unfamiliar. But somehow, not uncomfortable.

Misha grinned and nodded in response.

“Accha?” Tanya smiled, lifting her gently from my arms. “And how will she eat, hmm?”

Misha just giggled, loud and unapologetic.

The breakfast was served. Plates passed. Conversations floated.

And my throat tightened.

Back home, no one questioned it when I skipped meals. But here... I couldn’t quietly vanish from the table. I couldn’t pretend I’d already eaten.

And I didn’t want to sound rude. Didn’t want to explain myself. I didn't even know how to.

So, I forced myself to eat. Bite by bite. Smile by smile.

Mr. Malhotra sat beside me in silence, eating without a word. Always the contrast— quiet and composed— in this otherwise vibrant family.

Then came the moment I’d been lowkey waiting for.

Dadu took a bite of the kheer and paused. “Meera… ye seviyaan kisne banayi hai?”

["Meera, who made this seviyaan?"]

Meera aunty smiled knowingly, her eyes flicking toward me.

“Diya ne banayi hai.”

["Diya made it"]

I froze mid breath.

I wanted to correct her— say it hadn’t been just me. That he had stood there with me, helping without a word.

But I didn’t know what to call him in front of his family. I couldn’t say Mr. Malhotra in front of everyone. And anything else felt too intimate, too unfamiliar on my tongue. So I couldn't tell them.

“Diya,” Dadu said. My heart lurched.

I looked up, managing a small nod—polite, cautious.

“Bohot acchi banayi hai,” he said warmly.

["It's really good."]

I smiled, unsure how to accept a compliment that didn’t feel fully mine.

"Tere kitchen set wali chai ki yaad aagai," he added with a chuckle.

["Reminded me of the tea you used to make with your toy kitchen set."]

“Dadu…” I muttered, my voice somewhere between a groan and a plea, silently begging him not to go there.

But it was too late. Laughter erupted around the table.

I buried my face for a second, cheeks burning— but somewhere beneath the embarrassment, it felt… oddly nice.

“Is this some kind of inside joke? Mujhe bhi batao,” Vivaan asked, looking thoroughly betrayed.

["Is this some kind of inside joke? Tell me too!"]

“Haan haan,” Meera aunty

quipped. “Aur late aao, saare inside jokes miss kar diye hain tune.”

["Yes yes, and keep showing up late— you’ve already missed all the inside jokes!"]

Vivaan turned to me, all dramatic puppy eyes. “Bhabhi, aap batao na.”

[“Bhabhi, you tell me, na.”]

I opened my mouth, unsure what to even say.

But Dadu stepped in with a grin, saving me. “Lambi kahaani hai,” he said. “Baad mein bataunga.”

[“It’s a long story,”]

[“I’ll tell you later.”]

Vivaan slumped back with a theatrical sigh. “Okay…”

Everyone chimed in with praises—complimenting the kheer, saying how much they liked it.

And him?

Still silent. Still eating.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t mention how he’d stood beside me. How he’d guided me through every step.

He should’ve told them.

But he didn’t.

And then— chaos.

Out of nowhere, everyone began handing me wrapped boxes, envelopes, tokens of welcome.

I was stunned. I tried to refuse, but—

“Beta, mana nahi karte,” Kavita aunty said gently. “Ye shagun hota hai.”

[“Beta, don’t say no,”]

[“This is shagun/blessing.”]

So I took them, whispering thanks, not really knowing what else to say or do.

“Bhai!” Vivaan called out, practically glowing with mischief. Mr. Malhotra looked up, cautious. “Aapka gift kaha hai?” he asked, far too innocently.

["Bhai, Where's your gift?]

Mr. Malhotra blinked, caught completely off-guard. At this point, I was more worried about him than myself.

“Don’t tell me,” Vivaan gasped in mock horror  “you didn't know you have to get bhabhi a gift? For this very obvious ritual?”

Mr. Malhotra just stared at him, visibly unprepared for this ambush.

“Vedant bhai ko chhodo, tujhe kaise pata?” Atharv bhaiya asked.

[“Forget Vedant bhai, how do you know all this?”]

“Bhai, maa ke saath maine bohot saare serials dekhe hain, mujhe sab pata hai.” He said proudly.

[“Bhai, I’ve watched tons of serials with Mom — I know everything.”]

“Hey Bhagwan,” Meera aunty sighed, laughing. “Is ladke ka kuch nahi ho sakta.”

[“Oh God, This boy is hopeless.”]

I looked down at the gifts in my lap— bright paper, careful ribbons, things I hadn’t asked for. Then up at all of them—laughing, teasing, loud.

It was too much. Too kind. Too unfamiliar.

I didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know what to do with any of this.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Are we getting to the "good conversations" now? Sabar ka phal meetha hota hai natkhats 😽

How was the chapter? What was your favourite part? Tell me everything! 🎀

Also saw a few people commenting that they finally found a good book but the author disappeared. Lol.

First— thankyou, I'm glad you liked the book. Second— I wasn't inactive, I was busy writing this long chapter that you're reading right now 👀

It takes time to write the "good book" in question, you see :)

Please be patient with me guys 😔 I don't like it when you don't trust me 🥀💔

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Thankyou for reading.

- M 💌