ใ โง ๐๐๐ง๐๐ค โง ใ
This was getting ridiculous. Absolutely, wildly, infuriatingly ridiculous. His game, this smug, deliberate little war he'd started, was spiralling out of control, and he had no one to blame but himself. Honestly, what was going on in that twisted head of his?
Ever since he announced this so-called "battle" between us, I was convinced I'd come out on top. Why wouldn't I? I was the rational one. I wasn't the one who lost composure every time we were in the same room. He was the one obsessed with proving he could break my control, bend my will, get under my skin.
He was the one who'd practically come in his pants during Haldi, the one who'd looked at me like he wanted nothing more than to drag me away from everyone else and make sure I remembered exactly who I would belong to. And he was definitely the one who almost tore a man apart during our graduation trip eleven years ago, just because we were making out.
So if anyone was spiralling? It wasn't me.
It was him.
Or at least that's what I believed, right up until he actually started living in the room.
After I'd falsely accused him, he'd walked out without a word, probably retreating to his study like he always did. But after that night, instead of disappearing until dawn, he came back. And the next night. And the one after that.
It became a routine. Quiet, predictable, and completely infuriating. He'd come home from work, step into the room, change, brush his teeth, and go to sleep. No fuss. No conversation. No reaction.
Only... anyone would assume that a person sharing a room with someone else would at least attempt to dress normally before getting into bed. But apparently, this level of common human decency did not apply to Aryan.
Because this man, this infuriating, impossible man, would simply change into the bare minimum and then get into bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The first night, I could only stare. I knew he was fit, sure, strong, broad-shouldered, the type of person who could lift me like I weighed nothing and throw me on the bed, but seeing him so unbothered, so comfortable in the space between us... It rattled me.
It reminded me of that moment during our mehndi, when he'd stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. I'd acted horrified at the time, as if the universe had wronged me personally. But the truth was that the sight had jolted something I had spent years pretending not to feel.
It reminded me of that night.
The graduation trip eleven years ago.
The night he'd gone after Amir.
The night I'd provoked him on purpose just to see how far he'd go.
And how far I would.
So when he walked out in his barely-there sleepwear that first night, I braced myself. I expected... something. Touch me in a suggestive manner, say something, entice me in a way or just try to be sensual. Anything that would confirm he was still playing this twisted game he'd started.
After all, he was the one who insisted I was just as affected by him as he was by me.
...Not that he was wrong.
But instead of doing anything, instead of even acknowledging the charged air between us, he would switch off the light, lie down beside me, and fall asleep.
It was maddening.
Each night stretched into an endless cycle of waiting for a move he never made.
During the day, I hardly saw him at all. We left for our separate workplaces, lived separate lives, and in the evenings, he'd always return before me. He would sit with the family, talking easily with everyone except me.
Dev Uncle would wait for me so we could drink tea together, and I'd join him after freshening up. Aryan would be right there, across the room, saying nothing, doing nothing, barely even glancing my way.
He didn't speak to me.
Didn't tease me.
Didn't try to provoke, charm, or unsettle me.
He wasn't even trying to win.
He wasn't trying to break me.
He wasn't trying at all.
And somehow... that was worse.
His silence was its own kind of weapon. The way he did nothing, absolutely nothing, was somehow worse than all the charged moments he used to ignite between us.
It left me restless.
It left me furious.
It left me feeling like every unspoken thought between us was a spark waiting to catch.
I wanted him to react. To slip. To show even a crack in that maddening, controlled facade of his.
Which is exactly why I did what I did yesterday.
Throwing my towel at him wasn't a grand strategy. It wasn't even logical. It was pure, unfiltered desperation, an attempt to shatter his composure and force him to reveal something, anything.
But all it did was make him retreat further into whatever game he thought he was playing.
Last night, when he finally came home, much later than I did, he didn't say a word. Just walked straight into his study and shut the door hard enough that the sound travelled down the hall. I was upstairs getting ready, and the moment I heard that door slam, I knew he wasn't coming out anytime soon.
Downstairs, I kept waiting for him to join us. For tea, for dinner, for a single moment with the family. But he stayed hidden away.
And when I returned to our room, pretending I didn't care at all, he still didn't acknowledge me. Not a nod, not a look, nothing.
As if he expected me to go running after him.
As if he thought I'd demand answers, ask why he was late, why he was avoiding me, why he was suddenly pretending I didn't exist.
Well, he miscalculated.
All he did was give me space.
And space was all I needed to make my next move.
A move that would, in hindsight, fail so spectacularly, it almost felt like the universe was laughing at me.
Because when I finally stepped out of the bathroom, heart pounding, wrapped in the red baby doll I'd convinced myself would shatter his composure, I found myself standing completely, painfully alone.
The room was empty.
He had left.
Again.
So I slept alone in the bed again.
He was the one who had started this ridiculous game. He was the one who had twisted something simple into something impossible.
If he had just stopped throwing around words like submit and own as if they were normal things to demand from a person, our marriage would have been consummated long ago.
Probably even before the wedding.
Because he was the only man who could ever have turned me on.
But no!
Which was exactly why I was standing at my own reception, mid-conversation with Maithili, acting like my husband didn't exist.
I hadn't spoken to him while we were getting ready. I hadn't looked up when he rolled the sleeves of his kurta and leaned over the sink to wash his face. I hadn't even let myself notice how his sherwani, deep, dark maroon and infuriatingly perfect, pulled colour from mine like we'd been designed to match.
I refused to give him that.
"It's finally the day when Jiju gets his reward for winning all the post-wedding rituals," Maithili said, twirling a glass of cranberry juice between her fingers like she was stirring trouble into it. The innocent red didn't fool me. It never did with her. There was definitely vodka in it.
I narrowed my eyes. "And how, exactly, do you know about his winning prize?"
Her mouth curled into a smug little smirk. "Shiva Di texted me."
"Oh, she did, did she?" I said, keeping my voice light even as my gaze slid past Maithili's shoulder, just enough to catch Shiva in my periphery, laughing with her in-laws.
"She's leaving tomorrow, isn't she?" Maithili asked.
Before I could answer, Rudra appeared as if the mention of leaving had summoned him. He walked straight into Mahi's space, wrapped an arm around her waist, and draped himself against her as if he belonged there.
Technically, he did, considering he was her husband and all, but that never stopped me from viewing him as a pest.
Mahi let out a startled yelp. "Rudra!"
He only grinned, unbothered, and tightened his hold in a way that made her look like she wanted to shove him away.
When would he realise that she hated PDA?
"Yep," I said, distracted, because my eyes had already betrayed me.
They found him.
My husband stood a short distance away, a drink in his hand, talking to Parth with that calm ease that made people think he was untouchable, like nothing could shake him. Like he hadn't spent the entire day building a silent, suffocating tension between us and then wearing it like a crown.
I glanced down at the watch on my wrist. The second hand moved with merciless patience, each tick pulling me closer to the one thing I couldn't dodge.
It was time to hold up my end of the bargain.
No one here knew the story behind my performance. They only knew the headline version.
She's dancing tonight.
The whispers, the smiles, the excited glances thrown my way, everyone loved a spectacle dressed up as a celebration.
But they did not know what it meant to me. What Aryan asking me to dance at the reception meant.
I was dancing after years.
No, after sixteen years, to be exact.
Somewhere along the way, the things I loved had stopped feeling like mine.
Reading while rain tapped at the windows. Dancing at random, earphones in, body loose, heart lighter. It had all gone quiet, one habit at a time, until I barely recognised the girl who used to do those things.
But tonight.
Tonight, because of a promise and because I never went back on my word, I was going to perform.
So when I started walking toward the stage, the lights shifted and sharpened, when the chatter in the hall thinned into anticipation, and I felt the weight of every eye turning to me.
The crowd was for me.
And, the performance was for him.
My first stage performance.
For my husband.
The thought tasted strange on my tongue. Sweet in a way I didn't want, bitter in a way I couldn't ignore because it wasn't just this. It was always this with him. So many of my firsts had his fingerprints on them, even when I pretended they didn't.
Since childhood.
Until now.
And the most maddening part was that there were still so many firsts left, unopened doors, unfinished lines, moments suspended in the air between us like they were waiting to be claimed.
Tonight was going to drag me to the end of one of them.
He'd made a challenge, wrapped it in arrogance, and called it a bet.
And I was not the one to lose it.
I curled my fingers into a fist once, hard, then forced them to loosen.
My eyes met his, and the air turned heavy.
He was in the front row, one leg crossed, sitting too easily for a man who had just pinned my attention to the spot. Like a king, yes, but also more than that. Like he already knew I would look for him. Like he'd been waiting for the exact second my gaze slipped through the veil.
The curtains were sheer. A flimsy strip of fabric pretending to be a barrier.
He watched me through it anyway, calm, unwavering, until it felt less like being seen and more like being claimed by the weight of his focus.
And when I didn't look away, when I held him right back, the hall dissolved into blur. Everything was fading until there was only him and the thin curtain between us, trembling as it could barely handle what passed through it.
Screw him.
And screw his challenge.
I was winning this.
The anchor's voice boomed through the speakers, bright and excited, announcing my entrance. Like the air wasn't charged with something private and dangerous.
The first notes of the song began to play.
The curtains stirred.
Then opened.
And I stepped out onto the stage, slowly, deliberately, letting the spotlight find me as if I'd been born under it.
I was born under it.
I was made for it.
For as long as I could remember, I had thrived under it, the light, the attention, the rush that came when the world fell quiet, and all that was left was me and the music.
And tonight... tonight, I was going to own it again.
The prize of winning the games was for him.
Because for me, for me, this wasn't a reward.
It was a reclamation.
And so I danced.
Like someone being given back to herself.
The first beat hit, and my smile came so easily it startled me, wide, real, unguarded. It spread across my face like sunlight, like my body remembered joy before my mind could interfere. I stepped into the Ghoomar the way Rajasthani brides have for generations, wrists soft, fingers precise, chin lifted, eyes bright.
My lehenga fanned out with every turn, a blooming circle of colour that made the spotlight feel like home. The ghungroos of my payal answered the rhythm like they'd been waiting all these years. My bangles chimed when I lifted my arms, and I laughed, actually laughed, when the crowd cheered at a spin that landed perfectly, when a beat dropped, and my feet found it without thinking.
For the first time in what felt like forever, being alone on the stage, being the centre of attention, and performing felt good.
I was dancing because it felt good.
Because it felt like breathing.
Because happiness, simple, uncomplicated happiness, was pouring through me with the music. The hall blurred into warm faces and glittering lights, and I let it. I let the noise become a soft, distant wave while I stayed right there in the centre of it all, smiling like the girl I used to be.
And when the song finally began to slow, I didn't want it to end. I rode the last notes like I was breathing again after dying.
The music stopped.
I stood there, chest rising and falling, breath warm in my throat, cheeks flushed, still smiling. Eyes closed for one extra heartbeat, as if I could hold the moment in place by sheer will.
Then I opened my eyes.
And everything changed.
He was there, front row, watching me like he'd been carved out of patience and restraint. At least, that's how he was before, at the beginning.
But now, now he was leaning forward. His elbows on his knees, his face resting on interlocked fingers and his eyes, his eyes still on me.
His eyes were locked on me with a focus so sharp it made the air between us feel charged. Like my dance hadn't entertained him; it had touched something. Like the smile on my face had been a spark thrown straight at him.
For a second, the world narrowed to a single line, from my pulse to his gaze.
The crowd's applause faded into a distant roar. The lights felt hotter. The stage felt smaller.
And I realised, with a sudden, sinking thrill, that he wasn't looking at a bride on a stage.
He was looking at me, the version of me that had been laughing and glowing and shamelessly alive.
The girl who I used to be.
As if, he missed the girl I used to be.
And finally, he was getting a glimpse of her.
The world rushed back in all at once.
Sound first, applause swelling, whistles, the anchor's voice turning delighted and loud. Then faces. My family, his family, our friends, people I hadn't even noticed were watching so closely. All of them standing, smiling, clapping like I'd given them something they didn't know they'd been waiting for.
I smiled at them.
Not the practised, obedient curve. This one was real. Bright. Still warm from the dance, from the music that had cracked something open inside me and refused to let it close again.
I stepped down from the stage, careful of my lehenga, and the moment my feet hit the floor, I was swept into a tide of hands and voices.
"Beautiful!"
"Absolutely stunning!"
"I got chills!"
"I can't believe you haven't danced in years, years!"
Compliments poured over me, soft and fizzy like champagne. Hands pressed briefly to my cheek, to my arm, to my shoulder, blessings and admiration. Someone hugged me, someone else insisted on taking a picture, and another person shoved a glass of water into my hand as if they could see the heat still roaring through my veins.
I basked in it.
I let it wash over me the way you let sunlight hit your face after a long winter.
And yet, even as I laughed, as I thanked them, a part of me stayed tethered to a single place in the room.
That front row chair.
Because he still hadn't moved.
Not once, not when the applause started, not when people stood, not when I stepped off the stage and walked directly into the crowd's excitement.
He hadn't gotten up.
He hadn't come to me.
He hadn't even given me the satisfaction of a reaction I could name.
So, discreetly, I let my gaze slide back toward where he'd been sitting.
I expected to find him there.
Leaning back, smug, victorious. The kind of expression that said you did it because I told you to. You did it because I won. And I will win again.
But the chair was empty.
A sudden coldness settled in my stomach.
My smile didn't falter.
But inside, something tightened.
The rest of the night dissolved into a blur because my husband ignored me again.
I did what I always did when I was forced to exist in public while something in private was splintering. I smiled. I mingled. I let aunties pinch my cheeks and cousins tug me into photos. I laughed at the right moments, nodded at the right comments, and held conversations that floated past me like smoke.
Every now and then, my gaze searched without meaning to.
And every time, it found nothing.
No sign of him weaving through the crowd toward me.
No stolen glance.
Nothing.
By the time the last event ended and the final goodbyes were said, my face ached from holding myself together.
And only then, only when the door to our room clicked shut behind me, did the weight of the night crash down fully.
I sank onto the sofa.
I stretched my legs out, flexed my toes, and slipped off my heels with a quiet, grateful sigh.
Then came the pins.
One by one, I found the tiny safety pins holding everything in place.
My dupatta, the pleats, the fabric tucked where it needed to stay perfect, and I pulled them free with careful fingers.
All night, he hadn't said a word to me.
Not during the reception. Not when I came off the stage. Not when we posed for pictures. Not when we walked past each other close enough for his sleeve to brush mine.
Not even in the car on the drive back, just the two of us, side by side, surrounded by silence that grew louder with every minute.
I was waiting again. Expecting, anticipating, bracing for a man who moved through my world like he could choose when I existed.
By the time I'd peeled myself out of the weight of my clothes and slipped into pyjamas, I was more tired than I wanted to admit. The room smelled faintly of jasmine and hairspray and the last traces of perfume from the reception.
I was about to climb into bed when the door finally opened.
He walked in as if he hadn't disappeared at all. As if leaving me to the crowd and the questions and the hollow space where he should've been was nothing. He didn't even pause, didn't look like he owed the night an explanation.
Something in my chest tightened.
I gave him nothing.
I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand and decided, out of pure spite, out of principle, that if he could pretend I didn't exist, then I could do it too.
I scrolled. I edited. I chose photos, trimmed videos, and adjusted the brightness, as if my hands still remembered the stage lights. I typed captions, deleted them, and typed them again, my thumb moving with stubborn purpose.
Story after story went up.
Fifteen, by the time I stopped counting.
It was ridiculous. A little desperate, if I was being honest with myself. But it kept me busy. It kept my mind from circling back to him, his silence, his absence, the way his gaze had felt like a brand and then vanished as if it had never been real.
Time dragged. Thick and slow.
And then, something unbelievable happened.
He spoke.
My head snapped up so fast my hair shifted over my shoulder.
I stared at him, genuinely startled.
For a second, I couldn't even remember how to breathe properly.
"What?" I managed, my voice sharper than I meant, because shock had turned into instinct before I could soften it.
He looked at me like nothing had happened, like he hadn't vanished from my line of sight the second I stepped off that stage, like he hadn't sat beside me in silence on the drive home.
In his hand was a jug of water. Clear glass, condensation beading along the side.
"I asked if you needed water," he said, voice calm, steady. "You've had a long night."
I stared at him.
At the neatly rolled sleeves. The composed face. The careful concern he was offering now.
Is this guy serious?
Then I let my gaze rise back to his face. "Oh. So you can talk."
One brow lifted. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I sat up straighter, phone still in my hand. "All night, you were ignoring me. Now you've decided to audition for Husband of the Year with... water?"
His mouth tightened, like he was trying not to react. "Do you want water or not?"
I blinked. "Listen to you. So practical. So caring." I tilted my head, sweet as poison. "Not a word about how I looked, or how I danced, but sure... offer me water."
His jaw clenched tighter. "Water," he repeated, more firmly. "Yes or no."
"Oh fuck off, Peasant," I hissed. "Take this glass and shove it up your ass for all I care."
I turned away before he could say anything.
I reached for the switch, clicked the lights off, and let darkness swallow the room.
Then I lay down with my back to him, pulling the blanket up, and forced my eyes shut.
If he wanted silence, he could choke on it and die.
.ยท:ยท.โง โฆ โง.ยท:ยท.
Write a comment ...