It was nine a.m., and the city was waking up around us.

Shops pulled open their shutters, a stray dog sprawled lazily in the shade nearby, cyclists weaved through the gaps between bigger, louder vehicles.

Everything was in motion outside, yet somehow, inside this car, it felt still.

I leaned my head slightly toward the window, letting the cool glass press against my temple. This was my first time going home after marriage.

I wasn’t excited, exactly. There was no bubbling anticipation, no heartbeat speeding up at the thought of walking through my parents’ door.

But there was… something.

A small, quiet relief at the idea of seeing my family. A comfort that didn’t flare like joy, but settled in me like a soft blanket I hadn’t realized I missed.

My eyes drifted, then landed on the man behind the wheel.

Sunlight spilled through the windshield, brushing the side of his face in gold. His gaze was fixed on the road, hands loose but certain on the wheel.

The picture of calm… if you didn't look at his shoulders.

That faint, stubborn tension in them. I’d noticed it for the past two days— basically since we got married.

This morning, I’d even caught him rolling them back, a fleeting motion that looked more like discomfort than habit. His spine was too straight, like it had forgotten what comfort felt like.

Is it just sore muscles from the gym? Or is it... something else?

“Do I have something on my face?” His voice cut through my thoughts, low and casual, but there was a hint of amusement there.

“No,” I said quickly, too quickly.

Wait.

He didn't—

How did he know?

“I was not staring at you, okay?” I blurted, defence rising before he could say anything more.

“Okay.” he replied.

The calm in his tone made me want to hurl a cushion at his head.

There was a pause, long enough to make me squirm.

And then—

“You were just looking at me.”

My head snapped toward him. “No— I... that’s not— I wasn’t—”

“Sure,” he said, without even glancing my way, as if humoring a child insisting the sky wasn’t blue.

I glued my eyes to the road ahead, pretending to be very interested in passing trees.

Two seconds later, I peeked.

Nothing. Just that calm, unbothered face.

Another two seconds, and I risked another glance.

Still nothing.... except maybe the tiniest twitch at the corner of his lips, the kind you only noticed if you were really looking. Which, for the record, I wasn’t.

My phone buzzed in my hand, snapping me out of... whatever that was.

Ananya.

I answered, pressing the phone lightly to my ear, waiting for her voice to spill through.

“You're coming home today?” she asked, skipping any sort of greeting.

“Yes,” I replied simply.

There was a pause on the other end.

For a moment, all I heard was the soft murmur of footsteps and the scrape of a chair against the floor. Then her voice came back.

“I just wanted to tell you bua is at home.”

So this was a heads up call? Absolutely normal for us.

“Why?” I asked, my voice just as flat as hers.

I didn’t like that woman.

Truth is, I didn’t like relatives at all.

I preferred my life far from their reach. No endless questions, no judgments disguised as advice, no pretending to smile when all I wanted was quiet.

“For Rakshabandhan, of course,” Ananya replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Rakshabandhan was still a week away. And yet, here she was.

“When will you reach?” Ananya asked.

“Twenty five minutes.”

“Are you at college?” I asked, catching the echo of chatter behind her voice.

“Yes, but I’m heading home now. Nobody told me you were coming today.”

This girl—

She was fifteen kilometres away from home.

“No. Go back.”

“But—”

“No,” I interrupted, firmer this time. “You’re not missing your classes for this.”

A brief silence, then reluctant, “Okay.”

“I’m hanging up now. If bua says anything to you, let me know.” Her voice held that quiet protectiveness she always had.

“Yeah. Bye.”

I hung up, the weight of the conversation settling into the quiet that followed.

I closed my eyes for a moment, the leather seat beneath me still warm from the sun, while the cool air inside the car coaxed me to sink deeper into its embrace.

I didn’t want this ride to end.

Because here, between the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the space where neither of us spoke, the world felt paused.

And I wasn’t ready to press play yet.

🪔

The car rolled to a slow halt in front of the Sharma house. My house. My old life.

And yet, standing on the edge of the moment, I didn’t feel like the girl who used to run up those steps two at a time.

I turned my head toward him, fingers fiddling with the end of my dupatta.

“You don’t… have to come in with me,” I said, the words spilling out before I could catch them and smooth their edges.

I looked up at him, searching his face, and that’s when it hit me—

Shit, that sounded rude. So I quickly corrected myself.

“I mean you can, if you... want to. But you don’t need to do any… formalities because…”

Because we’re married. Because everyone will expect you to.

I let the sentence dissolve into the air between us.

He held my gaze a beat too long, something unreadable flickering behind his calm eyes.

Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he said, “Alright.”

I pushed the door open, stepped out and walked toward the main door.

Halfway there, I couldn't help but look back at him.

He lifted his chin, the faintest of acknowledgments, before easing his foot onto the accelerator.

The car crawled forward, the low hum of the engine pulling him away from me.

I turned, my hand finding the old brass handle, the weight of home pressing against my palm like it always had, only this time, I wasn’t entirely sure which home I belonged to anymore.

Maa opened the door. Her face was soft, familiar, a shade more tired than I remembered.

She pulled me in without a word. I folded myself into her, breathing her in, soaking up the warmth like I’d been parched for days. Two days, technically. But the absence had been loud.

For a heartbeat, I stayed there, eyes closed, cheek pressed against her saree.

It was ridiculous, how quickly the knot in my chest loosened just by standing in this doorway.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of cardamom chai. My father glanced up from his newspaper as I stepped into the living room.

I forced a smile at him, but it barely touched my eyes.

He motioned for me to sit beside him, and I slid down quietly. His arm came around me in a side hug.

“Kaisi hai, beta?” he asked softly. I only nodded, words caught somewhere in my throat.

[“How are you, beta?”]

Pulling away, he asked, “Vedant nahi aaye?”

[“Vedant didn't come?”]

“He came to drop me, but he had an important meeting,” I lied, steadying my voice.

Before he could press further, my mother’s hand found mine, firm and insistent.

“Pehle meri beti mujhse baat karegi,” she said, guiding me gently away from the room.

[“My daughter will talk to me first.”]

Thank God.

She led me gently into the kitchen, where the soft clatter of cups and the warm aroma of brewing tea filled the air.

She moved with quiet grace, adding milk to the tea, and I stood beside her, feeling the familiar hum of home beneath my skin.

“Kaisi hai, Diya?” she asked, her fingers brushing lightly against my cheek— a touch that carried all the love I longed for.

[“How are you, Diya?”]

I held her hand tightly. “Acchi hoon, maa,” I lied once more, the words tasting hollow.

[“I'm good, maa.”]

“Ghar par sab kaise hain?” she asked.

[“How's everyone at home?”]

For a moment, confusion flickered through me, until i realised she was asking about my in laws.

“Toh ab vo ghar ho gaya mera? Ye mera ghar nahi hai ab, maa?” I whispered, forcing a smile that barely masked the ache inside.

[“So, that's my home now? This isn't my home anymore, maa?”]

“Pagal!” she chuckled softly, the warmth returning to her voice before it deepened with certainty.

[“Silly!”]

“Sabse pehle toh yeh ghar tera hi hai, aur hamesha tera rahega.”

[“First and foremost, this house belongs to you, and it'll always be yours.”]

Her words wrapped around me, and the sense of belonging returned. I felt home, if only for a moment.

She says she loves her children equally, but what am I to make of the quiet truth that she has always loved me the most?

It’s not bias. It’s something deeper, unspoken, woven into the way her hands reach for me just a little faster, the way her eyes soften more when they meet mine.

I understand why.

I see it now.

It's because she’s trying to fill the void.

Her love for me has been a soft balm, a whispered apology she never spoke aloud, an attempt to mend the wounds, a quiet compensation.

She always took my side, fiercely and without question. No one else did that.

And sometimes, I wonder... did she break too? Did she cradle a fragile grief inside her, knowing her firstborn had to bear a loneliness no mother ever wanted her child to carry?

I can’t shake this tangled knot of gratitude and guilt, twisting inside me.

How could I ever deserve such boundless love? I had no words to repay her, no gesture that felt enough.

So I hugged her instead, aching to cry into her arms, but I held back my tears.

Because if even one slipped free, it would open a floodgate she didn’t need, she’d see it as sadness.

She asked gently how everyone was with me. I told her everything was good and everyone treated me well, no need for pretense, becau

se every word was true.

As she poured tea into four cups, my eyes caught the fourth one.

“Ye kiske liye?” I asked.

[“Who's this for?”]

“Bua,” my mother said, her face twisting into a familiar grimace. I couldn't help but laugh quietly.

🪔

I sat down on the far side of the sofa, curling one hand into my lap. Silence stretched comfortably for a moment, until the air shifted.

Bua entered, sari pleats sharp, expression sharper. She settled herself beside Dad.

“Arey, Diya aa bhi gayi,” she said, her voice pitched in that falsely sweet register that grated against my nerves.

[“Oh, Diya, you’re already here!”]

Before I could even return a polite greeting, her gaze swept over me, head to toe.

“Beta, kurta kyu pehna hai? Aur vo bhi itna simple?” Her tone carried no question, only judgment dressed as curiosity.

[“Beta, why are you wearing a kurta? And such a simple one at that?”]

I kept my expression neutral, eyes fixed on my cup of tea. This was just the opening line. I knew her rhythm, the slow baiting, the little hooks disguised as conversation.

She didn’t wait for an answer. I wasn't going to give one.

“Saree kyu nahi pehni? Nayi dulhan ko toh bhari kapde, gehne pehente chahiye. Tum toh… kuch nahi pehni. Sasural wale kya sochenge? Ki maa baap ne kuch diya hi nahi?”

[“Why aren’t you wearing a saree? A new bride should wear heavy clothes and jewelry. And you… you’re wearing nothing. What will the in laws think? That your parents didn’t give you anything?”]

Her words cut through the air, sharp and unrelenting, as if I were sitting here stripped bare.

I caught the tension tightening my father’s features beside her. I knew what was coming, what she was stirring, what she was trying to provoke.

I said nothing.

Not because I didn’t have words,

God, I had too many, but she wasn’t worthy of hearing a single one.

I was going to wear whatever I wanted, and her unsolicited commentary wouldn’t change that.

Still, the ember she’d lit began to catch.

“Arey, kuch toh bolo,” she said, her tone light but carrying an unmistakable edge of command. “Ab teri shaadi ho gayi hai, Diya. Shaadi shuda aurton ki tarah toh rehna hi padega.”

[“Oh, say something.”]

[“Now that you’re married, Diya, you’ll have to behave like a married woman.”]

My blood boiled so fast it made my fingers itch. If my Dad hadn’t been sitting there, I might have stood up and shown her exactly what I thought of her outdated rulebook.

“Maa…” I turned to my mother, forcing my voice steady. “I'm tired. I'm going to my room.”

But before I could rise, Bua cut in, as if she owned the decision.

“Arey, abhi toh aayi hai. Thodi der hum sab ke saath baitho.”

[“Oh, you’ve just arrived. Sit with all of us for a little while.”]

Dad finally set his newspaper down. His eyes shifted to me. “Yes,” he said, voice clipped, “Sit with everyone. No need to spend the entire day locked in your room.”

Bua took a satisfied sip of her tea, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

Maa, sitting close, reached for me, her hand brushing mine in a quiet attempt to ease the sting. “She’s just arrived… speak to her gently.” Her voice was soft, almost pleading.

Bua finding the perfect opportunity. “Bhabhi, bura mat manna,” she began, every word dripping with fake politeness, “lekin aapke aaram se baat karne ka nateeja hai ye,” she said glancing at me.

[“Bhabhi, don’t take it the wrong way. But this is the result of you speaking to her gently.”]

“Aapne isko reeti rivaj nahi sikhaye kya? Dekho… isne sindoor bhi nahi lagaya hai,” she added, with a sharpness that stung.

[“Didn’t you teach her the customs? Look… she hasn’t even applied vermillion.”]

Her eyes landed on my forehead like she was pointing out evidence of a crime.

Dad looked at me, not with the softness I’d wanted when I walked in, but with the same discipline he’d used to set rules around our childhood. “Why haven’t you applied sindoor?”

For a moment, I just looked at him. The answer clawed at my throat: I didn't wear it because I didn't want to. As simple as that.

If I ever wear it, it will be for myself, and for my... for the person I choose to honor with it. Not for society, not because tradition dictates a married woman should. I will wear it because my heart wills it, not because anyone else demands it.

But the truth was loud and dangerous.

“I forgot,” I said. The lie slid out like grease. It was small and serviceable and I hated the taste of it.

Bua sharpened. “Haan bhool gaye, waise bhi aajkal ke bachche sab bhool jate hain. TV pe sab dekhte hain, sanskar kahaan se aayenge?” Her voice danced with contempt.

[“Yes, you forgot. Anyway, kids these days forget everything. They watch everything on TV. Where will they learn values from?”]

My mother was about to say something but before she could utter a word—

Dad’s eyes locked onto her, sharp and cold for just a heartbeat. “Tumne hi bigada hai bacchon ko,” he said, not to me, but to her. The same old refrain he always used— blaming her, holding her accountable for every inch of freedom her daughter ever dared to take.

[“You’re the one who spoiled the children.”]

Bua’s smile widened with the scent of him taking her side.

I felt something inside me go cold. It wasn’t about my kurta, or sindoor or any of this. It was about the fact that I had my own thoughts. That I didn’t bend without question.

Maa’s thumb pressed small, soothing circles into my knuckle. Her eyes met mine, soft and glistening, and the look said every thing she wouldn’t say out loud.

The room seemed to close in, the air thick with unspoken judgment. Heat pooled behind my ribs, a quiet fire born of scrutiny, and my palms slickened with the weight of their verdicts.

I thought of the moment in the car, when I had asked him not to come in with me, the choice had felt safe then, and now, watching the room, I was quietly grateful he hadn't.

Eventually, Dad headed off to work, and Bua retreated from the living room.

Maa placed her hand on my arm and squeezed it. An attempt to anchor me. I let her pull me into the small talk she arranged like soft bandages.

I let her steer the conversation to the neighbor’s lemon tree and my sister’s exams. Each ordinary word patched me in inches.

Yet beneath every teaspoon of small talk, a bruise still throbbed.

When I finally stepped into my room, it felt like I had walked into the crime scene of my own disappearance.

The bed still held the faint dip where I used to lie. The walls still remembered my laughter, my silence, my late night scribbles on crumpled paper. But I… I didn’t fit here anymore.

I stood in the middle of it all, feeling like a guest in the life I had once owned. The air smelled the same, yet it didn’t welcome me, it examined me.

I didn’t switch on the light. The pale glow from the window was enough to guide me to the farthest corner of the bed.

I folded into myself, knees to chest, my arms circling tight as if I could hold myself together with nothing but my own grip.

A tear slipped, hot and uninvited. Then another. And another. My vision blurred.

This was my biggest nightmare unfolding in real time. Not the marriage. No. This marriage wasn’t unbearable. I could live with it. Live with him— for the rest of my life.

But I couldn’t live with this… this constant reminder that I am somehow different now, measured by different rules, judged by a different scale, just because I’m married.

Tears burned my skin, hot and unrelenting. My forehead pressed to my knees. My breath came shallow, my chest heavy, and my kurta damp with what felt like years of grief trying to escape all at once.

It had only been two days. Two days since the garlands, the vows, the weight of a new surname that still tasted foreign on my tongue.

And yet—

I already felt like a stranger in my own skin.

The strangest thing? No one was cruel to me. Not really. And maybe that was worse. Because it meant my grief had no villain to blame, only this slow, invisible erasing of the girl I had been.

The tears didn't stop where they began. Because when you start grieving, you don’t get to choose the ghosts that show up.

Somewhere between those thoughts, the dam inside me cracked wider.

And now?

I was crying for the girl who had learned to survive instead of live.

I was crying for the nights I stayed awake studying under a dim light, trying to earn the right to feel proud of myself.

I was crying for every friendship that slipped away because life kept pulling me in opposite directions.

I was crying for the teenager who sat through nights of silence so loud it hurt.

And then I cried for the quiet misery of now, for the way my life feels like a house that’s beautiful from the outside, but inside, the walls echo with emptiness.

I realised that I have been collecting ache my whole life, folding it neatly, tucking it away, until the weight of it pressed so hard on my chest that the only thing left to do was finally let it spill.

And maybe, if I cried hard enough,

I could find the pieces of Diya I’d lost along the way.

By the time Aarav came back from school, I’d already dried my face twice.

The faint saltiness still clung to my skin, but I was quick to smile, quick to pull my voice into that airy, light register that didn’t sound like it had been crying for hours.

“Diya?” Aarav called, surprise in his voice as his bag thudded onto the couch.

He ran toward me, and before I could react, he threw his arms around me in a fierce hug. “I missed you,” he murmured, burying his face in my shoulder.

“I missed you too,” I whispered, resting my hand on his head.

Then, before I could process it, he lifted me effortlessly, spinning me around. “I’m not letting you go this time,” he said in all seriousness before laughing, his strength startling me.

“Okay, okay! Put me down!” I exclaimed, laughing despite myself.

I couldn’t help staring at him, astonished. How had he grown so fast?

Last I remembered, I was sneaking my four year old baby brother past the doctor, hiding him so he wouldn’t get a needle.

And now? He was almost seventeen, strong, lanky, and impossibly grown.

Ananya came in right after, hair slightly tousled from the day, her white medical coat draped over her arm.

The first thing she asked— eyes scanning mine— was whether anyone had said anything to me while she was gone.

Sometimes I hate how careful we’ve had to become. How, ever since we were teenagers, we’ve tiptoed through our own home, asking each other if everything was okay, if no one had upset the other while we were away at school or college.

I wish we didn’t have to live like that. I wish we could simply exist here, in our home, without bracing for the next sharp word or the quiet judgments that always seemed to hover in the corners.

After a while, we were sprawled across the living room. Aarav had found Jigra on the TV, insisting he’d been dying to watch it with me.

I’d never seen it before, but I settled in between them, Aarav leaning on one side, Ananya’s head resting against my shoulder.

The movie was good, more than good actually, but somewhere between the tense moments and the quiet ones, I caught myself looking at them instead of the screen.

Aarav’s jawline still had the softness of a boy, even though he pretended to be all grown up.

Ananya’s lashes flickered as she concentrated on the plot, and every so often she’d laugh without realizing she’d tilted her head deeper into my arm.

They didn’t know.

And I wasn’t going to tell them.

How my chest had been tight since I left this house two days ago. How even now, I couldn’t quite breathe the same way I used to here.

Aarav had his boards this year and Ananya was barely finding her footing in medical school. They already had alot on their plates. They didn’t need the weight of my unhappiness on top of it.

So I laughed when they laughed. I teased Aarav for sniffling at a sad scene. I nudged Ananya when her eyes went suspiciously shiny.

And when Aarav complained about my constant hair ruffling, I ruffled it even more until he swatted my hand away with a half smile.

This... this was what I had always been afraid to lose. Not just the house, not just my parents. Them. My babies.

I’d seen their scraped knees, their late night breakdowns over exam results, their first heartbreaks. I’d made Maggi at 2 a.m. when they were too upset to sleep.

I’d taught Aarav how to tie his tie on his first day of high school, and I’d stayed up sewing the hook on Ananya’s blouse the night before her farewell party.

And now here they were, growing faster than I could hold on to, still leaning into me without realizing how much I needed them to.

I reached out and pulled them both closer under the pretext of “watching properly,” my arms draped around their shoulders. Neither of them moved away.

The movie went on. My mind didn’t.

I wanted them to stay untouched. Let them keep their plates full with dreams and deadlines, not with my pain or anything else.

So I sat there, smiling at all the right moments, hiding my cracks in the spaces between scenes, memorizing the warmth of their presence pressed against me, and savoring this fleeting taste of home before it slipped away with tomorrow.

I was supposed to be on leave today. Yet, here I was, laptop open, papers strewn across the desk, halfheartedly answering emails and reviewing reports.

My body was in the room, but my mind was elsewhere. Every call I took felt slower, every decision weighed heavier. I couldn’t focus.

The coffee I’d poured an hour ago had gone cold, untouched.

I tapped pens against the table, scrolled through numbers I already knew by heart, and still the silence gnawed at me.

I tried to bury myself in work, to convince myself that productivity could drown out the unease in my chest, but it wouldn’t.

Every so often, I’d rub at my temples, clench my jaw, or stand to pace the length of the room.

Absentmindedly, I rose, my steps carrying me toward my room to grab my charger.

When I reached our room, the quiet struck me differently. It wasn't the soft silence her presence usually brought.

This silence was hollow, sharp around the edges, as if the air itself remembered her absence and recoiled.

The couch where she was sleeping this morning, where the faint warmth of her had lingered, was empty.

And then it hit me. She wasn’t here. Not on the couch, not studying quietly, not anywhere I could see. She had gone home, and I… I had dropped her there myself.

I ran a hand through my hair, dumbfounded, my own absurdity slamming into me. How… how had I walked all the way here without remembering? What the hell was I even doing?

The charger suddenly seemed pointless, an excuse I no longer needed. My fingers brushed against it, but I didn’t pick it up.

All I could think about was the empty space she had left behind, and the restlessness of not knowing how she was.

I was still lingering at the doorway when a familiar voice nudged at the edges of my thoughts. “Are you missing bhabhi?”

I turned to see Vivaan, a thick book clutched in one hand, and a boyish smile on his face.

Ignoring his question I stepped fully into the room, and settled on the couch. Vivaan followed, sliding in beside me with the quiet ease of someone who always knew he had a place here.

“Which one?” I asked.

He flipped the book open, eyes bright. “Thirty nine.”

I leaned over, scanning the case study. reading each detail carefully, while Vivaan leaned over my shoulder, occasionally nudging me with a comment or a question.

It wasn’t tricky, but it was long enough, detailed enough, to pull focus, to distract the mind from wandering elsewhere.

“Are you sure this is the right approach?” he asked, frowning.

I glanced at him. “It works. Just follow the numbers, don’t overthink the story.”

He huffed softly, satisfied but still skeptical. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” I said, keeping my tone firm, though I felt the faint pull of pride at being able to help him again.

He closed his book with a soft thud, leaning back against the couch like he’d just survived a battle. “Thanks, bhai. I think I finally get it.”

I nodded, watching him catch his breath, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing.

Then, almost shyly, he broke the silence. “Bhai… can we go bowling sometime?”

His voice was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure I’d have time for him anymore, like my world had changed now.

I froze for a moment, the words stirring something buried deep beneath the surface.

Bowling.

The smell of the polished lanes, the clatter of pins, his laugh echoing across the alley, me teasing him when he rolled gutter ball after gutter ball.

I remembered how he used to live here, how he used to drag me out of work and out of my head with the simplest of invitations, how we went bowling almost every weekend before he moved to London for his studies.

“Only if you’re free,” he added quickly, trying to soften it, like he was testing the waters.

“When did you start worrying about formalities with me?” I asked looking at him.

“No… I just thought… maybe you’re busy now,” he muttered.

“I’ll never be too busy for you,” I said quietly, letting the words land before pushing myself off the couch.

I grabbed my car keys from the table. “Let’s go,” I said, steady, though inside I felt the faint tug of nostalgia for all the times we’d just left on a whim.

“Wait… now?” His eyes went wide, disbelief and excitement colliding in his expression.

“Yes,” I nodded.

He left the book abandoned on the couch, and in the blink of an eye, his arms were around me, a tight hug that was both impulsive and instinctive.

“Thank you, bhai. Give me two minutes, I’ll grab my jacket.” he said, eyes glinting with that familiar mischievous spark I hadn’t seen in months.

“Take mine,” I offered, heading to my cupboard and pulling out my jacket for him.

A smile broke across his face as he swung it over his shoulders.

“Let’s go!” he breathed.

And just like that, the years melted away— he was seventeen again, reckless and laughing, and I was twenty three, feeling the pulse of those simpler days, the weight of everything else slipping just for a moment, leaving only us, and the quiet joy of being together.

🪔

The clock nudged midnight, but sleep felt like a distant country I couldn’t reach. I hadn’t even tried lying down, my body knew better than to pretend it could rest.

The balcony door slid open with a soft click, and I stepped out. The air was thick and heavy, carrying that sharp, electric scent that always hinted rain was on its way.

A humid breeze curled around me, tugging at my hair and pressing quietly against my chest.

I rested my hands on the railing, feeling the chill of metal against my skin, and let my thoughts drift, circling like the clouds above, restless and unsettled.

After a while, I stepped back inside, the room was warmer and still.

My gaze landed on the cat plushie tucked in the corner of the couch, half hidden beneath the throw.

I remembered the soft, almost apologetic way she had said it on our first night. “I can’t sleep without them… I hope you don’t mind.”

I crouched slightly, letting my fingers trace the curve of its stitched smile, and for a moment, the quiet weight of the night felt softer.

But then my thoughts betrayed me. Did that mean she was awake right now? Twisting, turning, restless in her bed because this little comfort wasn’t with her?

I didn’t pause to argue with my own instincts. I grabbed my car keys, slipped into my crocs, and left my room with her sleeping buddy.

The drive stretched long and quiet, thirty minutes of empty streets and streetlights.

The air smelled faintly of earth and impending rain, the heavy clouds above threatening the first drops at any moment.

Every honk made me tense, reminding me of the impossibility of knowing what awaited me.

And now, parked outside her house, I didn't know what to do. I had no plan. No rehearsed words. No way to announce myself.

I drew in a slow breath, fingers hovering over my phone before I finally typed.

Me: Did you sleep?

The reply came almost immediately, faster than I’d expected.

Ms. I’ll do a cab: no

I wasn't surprised, but still… it stung, the confirmation that she was still awake.

Me: Can you open the door for me?

A beat. Then her reply arrived, brief, almost cautious.

Ms. I’ll do a cab: im in my parents’ house

I blinked, momentarily thrown. Had she thought I meant the door at our place?

Me: I mean… your parents’ house.

Ms. I’ll do a cab: coming

And then I waited. Eight minutes. Eight minutes that stretched long enough to make my chest tight, heart thumping against ribs that suddenly felt too small.

When she finally opened the door, I felt the whole day, the restless drive, the unease, collapse into this one moment.

There she was— in her pjs, half lit by the porch light, quiet and hesitant.

I held out the plushie toward her, and without a second thought, she took it, cradling its soft face like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Then her gaze met mine.

“Did you… come all this way just for this?” Her voice was quiet, hesitant, almost guilty.

“You said you can’t sleep without it,” I replied simply, without any trace of reproach.

She let out a small, almost inaudible murmur. “He… can’t sleep without me.”

So it's a he...

“You didn’t have to drive all the way here for this,” she added again, eyes lowering, cheeks tinged with an unspoken apology.

But then I noticed— subtle, yet unmistakable. Her eyes were swollen, the delicate skin around them red and tender.

“Why are your eyes swollen?” I asked, my tone firmer than I’d meant it to be.

She blinked, startled. “I… slept a lot.”

A lie. So blatant it almost stung. The faint tear burns on her skin told me everything her words didn’t.

I looked at her for a moment longer, but I didn’t call her out. Not yet.

I just nodded, turning to leave, though every part of me wanted to stay, to sit her down, to make her tell me what had made her cry. But that’s not how this works. Not for us.

I hadn’t even taken a full step when something soft curled around my wrist.

I turned, and there it was, her hand, small and hesitant, holding me.

“Where are you going?” she asked, quickly releasing my wrist.

“Back,” I said, my eyes still on her.

“You’re not driving in this weather.”

The sharpness in her voice stopped me mid thought. Stunned. Did she just… order me?

My head tilted, half in disbelief, half in amusement. And she noticed it too, that flash of surprise in her eyes.

Honestly… I didn’t mind. I might’ve wanted her to use that tone more often.

“I meant… it’s about to rain. You shouldn’t drive in this weather,”  she added, softer this time.

But it wasn’t the weather warning, it was the insistence, the way she didn’t ask, she commanded. That’s what convinced me.

I opened my mouth to say something but she cut me off with a whisper that felt like it carried the weight of the night: “Stay the night.”

I blinked at her, and for once, saying nothing felt like the only answer.

She led me toward her room quietly, careful and deliberate, like a teenager sneaking someone in, as if we weren’t legally married.

The quiet between us hummed with a tension that wasn’t sharp, just… heavy with proximity.

The door swung open, and I stopped mid step. Her room… it was a cocoon, glowing warmly like it had swallowed the day and decided to keep only the soft parts.

The glow from her fairy lights bathed the walls in gold, the sheer curtains swaying gently as if breathing, the faint scent of cocoabutter, her scent, floated in the air.

I could almost hear her personality woven into every corner, soft, deliberate, comforting, a little whimsical.

It was her. Entirely.

Then she spoke, shattering the spell. “We’ll have to share the bed.” The glow of the lights reflected in her eyes, a softness I hadn’t seen before.

“Or… you can sleep here. I’ll go sleep with Ananya,” she added quickly, awkwardly twisting her fingers.

Did I have a problem with sharing a bed with her? Absolutely not. Not as long as she was comfortable.

But would I let that answer show so easily? Also no.

“It’s your bed,” I said softly, deliberately echoing the exact words she had used when she refused the bed in our room. “I don’t want to invade your personal space.”

Her eyes flickered up to mine, half offended, half stunned.

“Well,” she said after a beat, voice carrying the fainte

st trace of a scoff, “I don’t have a couch… or a personal space, so you're good, I guess.”

“But if you’re not comfortable, I—”

“I am.” The answer was out before she could finish, my gaze holding hers until she looked away.

“Do you have a preferred side?” Diya asked, her tone deceptively casual.

“Whichever side you don’t,” Vedant replied without missing a beat.

She walked over to the bed, wordlessly claiming the left by placing the lone pillow she owned on the right, his side.

Her other three pillows were miles away, lounging in the comfort of the Malhotra mansion.

Vedant’s gaze lingered on the pillow. And when he realised she did it for him, he gently picked it up and set it neatly on the left instead.

Diya looked him in the eye and without breaking the eye contact— a miserable attempt to intimidate him— she slid the pillow back to his side.

He didn’t blink. He moved it back to hers, slow and deliberate, like a move on a chessboard.

She returned it again.

He countered.

The pillow shuttled back and forth between them, no words, just their eyes locked in a stubborn duel neither would surrender.

When they finally got tired of each other's elder sibling syndrome, with a simultaneous exhale of mock defeat, they both said—

“Let’s just share the pillow.”

The words overlapped, landing in the space between them, softer than either intended.

The mattress dipped first under her weight, the faintest creak breaking the hush between them.

He waited a second longer before joining her, the bed sighed under him and for a fleeting second he did too.

Diya laid down first, facing the wall. Her hair spilled in dark waves across the edge of the pillow, a faint trace of her shampoo drifting toward him.

She hugged her cat plushie and tugged the blanket up to her chin, leaving half of it neatly folded for him— polite, distant. He followed suit, the shared quilt becoming an awkward treaty neither wanted to break.

He hesitated for a beat longer than necessary before lowering himself onto the same pillow.

The edge of his shoulder brushed hers, light and accidental, but his pulse jumped all the same. He swore she felt it, because her breath hitched in that moment, barely audible but deafening in the stillness.

Vedant shifted, trying to find that perfect neutral distance— close enough not to seem avoidant, far enough not to… burn.

But the mattress was narrow, and every time he exhaled, his breath skimmed the back of her neck in quiet, traitorous warmth.

He could feel her, every shallow inhale. Could hear the subtle drag of air through her lips.

Diya turned slightly, the movement so small it might have been nothing… except it brought her head closer to his face. The soft brush of her hair grazed his jaw.

Vedant swallowed, eyes closing briefly.

And somewhere in the dim glow of golden dots, where skin met the ghost of skin, his heartbeat betrayed him, loud, steady, and hopelessly synced to hers.

“Do you want me to turn off the fairy lights?” she asked softly. It wasn’t really about the lights, she was just trying to make him comfortable.

His head shifted on the pillow. “No. It’s okay.”

They let the quiet settle after that, breaths evening out, both pretending they weren’t hyper aware of the space they shared.

Then came the rain, soft at first, tapping against the windows, then heavier.

A sudden crack of lightning tore through the night, illuminating the room in white for a heartbeat.

Diya flinched, just slightly.

He noticed.

After a quiet lull, her voice brushed the air. “Are you scared of lightning?”

Her voice was so gentle, so careful, it nearly undid him. Like she wasn’t just asking about the storm outside, but the ones he carried within.

If he said yes, she was going to draw the blinds, keeping the light from spilling into the room.

His eyes stayed closed. “No.”

“Okay.”

And just like that, no more words passed. Somewhere between the rain’s rhythm and the low hum of fairy lights, they drifted, softly and unknowingly, into sleep.

🪔

It was around three a.m, the rain didn’t stop. It poured as though the sky had split open, its steady drumming against the windows filling every corner of the room.

The air shifted with it, cooler, sharper, the kind of chill that crept under doors and settled in bones.

The blanket fought to hold in the heat, but the weather had turned greedy. The chill found its way in anyway, through the spaces between them, through the inches they kept.

But in the quiet between heartbeats, the body always knows what it wants. And hers, still tucked neatly on her side, shifted without thought, seeking heat the blanket couldn’t promise.

At first, it was small. A sleepy tilt of her head closer to the warmth beside her.

A faint rustle of the sheets as her knee brushed his. Her arm moved almost lazily, sliding into the space between them until her hand found the slope of his shoulder.

Vedant stirred. Not quite awake, not quite asleep, just somewhere in the drowsy blur where the body moves without permission.

His head turned fractionally toward hers, and in the process, his arm, heavy with the weight of sleep, slipped beneath her.

Her face nuzzled into the curve of his throat. The blanket rose to their necks with a faint pull, trapping the shared heat between them.

A breath. Then another. The soft exhale of her lips ghosted against his skin, and though his mind floated in dreams, his body understood, his arms looped around her shoulder blades, pulling her into the breadth of his chest.

It was a slow tangle, their legs brushing first, then curling together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Every few minutes, one of them would shift, a small, instinctive adjustment, closing whatever sliver of space remained.

His thumb rested lazily at her spine. Her fingers curled against the nape of his neck, holding on like he was something steady in the drifting sea of sleep.

By the time the storm outside had settled into a softer patter, they were twined so wholly it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

And for the first time since the wedding, their bodies sank into the quiet luxury of a mattress.

Because while Diya had chosen the couch, unwilling to trespass into what she thought was his space—

Vedant Malhotra had quietly chosen the floor, two nights in a row, because he couldn't close his eyes on a soft bed knowing the woman who left behind her home, her world, her everything was sleeping alone on something harder.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

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