Deepak let out a big sigh, his eyes fixed on the window. Outside, the serial lights blinked in alternating colours—red, green, blue, yellow—like some festival was going on.

He’d seen such decorations countless times during temple utsavams and poojas. Banana saplings tied neatly to the main door, the strong smell of phenyl and agarbatti mixing in the air after a fresh mopping of the floors, and people chatting loudly but all in good spirit, full of life and noise.

From the window, the night sounds came in—the steady chirping of crickets, the low hoot of an owl, and the faint clinking of bangles.

Her bangles.

She was sitting on the bed, not saying a word, facing the wall.

Her earlier words echoed in his ears.

"I don't want to live with you..."

He swallowed hard. This was their first night—what everyone calls consummation night. But for Deepak, that didn’t mean anything physical. What he longed for was something deeper. A connection. A friend.

Growing up, Deepak had always felt alone. Not physically—his parents were around—but emotionally. There was no one to vent to about those small, frustrating moments. Friends came and went. He wanted someone of his own. Someone constant.

He had gone through the arranged marriage route. His parents had shortlisted around 50 profiles—matrimony sites, relatives, referrals. He had met at least 14 girls before Priya.

She didn’t seem very interested. When he first saw her, she sat with a blank face, clearly uncomfortable. Her eyes kept shifting around the room, avoiding eye contact.

Must’ve been the saree—these days, most girls wear kurtis or jeans. Suddenly making them wear heavy silk, maybe her amma’s saree that didn’t even fit right… no wonder she felt awkward. But the lavender colour gave her a soft glow. Nothing dramatic.

Just... gentle.

In these arranged setups, girls are expected to act out a whole performance. Smile sweetly, wear makeup, pretend to be shy. Real feelings? No one cared.

She had barely said two words. While his parents asked the usual—“Do you know cooking?”, “You’re okay shifting to Chennai?”, “Career plans after marriage?”—she just nodded. Her mother kept nudging her to smile, to speak louder. Deepak noticed. It wasn’t just the saree. It was the whole setting.

He’d spoken to her privately, out of basic decency. Just little conversations.

“You’re okay with this marriage, no? No pressure from your side?” he had asked her. She just nodded.

And in front of both families, she said yes. Clearly.

They exchanged rings and glances even during engagement. But there wasn't any courtship romance. She was guarded.

No phone calls or messages. She told that her family was a bit old-school, they wouldn't allow.

Even Deepak's parents wanted him to wait till marriage.

Village customs.

So what was this silence now? And why?

She hadn’t moved for nearly 40 minutes. Just sitting like a statue, turned away. Not even adjusting her pallu. It was like she had left the room mentally.

"At least say something," he muttered, trying to keep calm. "I'm talking to a wall or what? Say na!" His tone sharpened.

He couldn’t believe it. So much planning, effort. Five lakhs gone into the wedding, split equally. That too after cutting corners. And now this?

He heard her breath quicken. Her bangles made a louder ching-ching sound. She wasn’t asleep. But still, not one word.

He stared harder. "If you don't open your mouth now, I swear I'll create a scene. Don't test me," he said, stepping closer. His footsteps were slow. Heavy.

He bent down slightly. With his fingers, gently but firmly, he lifted her chin.

Her face turned. Eyes wide—caught between shock and fear. His own face was tight—eyebrows drawn, jaw clenched. His eyes burned with questions. Rage? Helplessness?

Even he didn’t know.

She blinked. Then suddenly, she pushed his hand away. Not roughly—but firmly.

Enough to say: Stop.

Deepak lay on the floor with just a thin blanket and a pillow pulled from the cupboard’s top shelf. The floor was cold, sending a slow chill up his spine through the cotton vest and pyjamas. But it wasn’t the cold keeping him awake.

It was the storm inside his head.

On the bed, Priya lay on her side, one hand propping her head, earphones in. Her phone screen glowed faintly as she scrolled, changed tracks, and adjusted volume. Muffled beats—maybe English songs or lo-fi playlists—leaked out occasionally.

She was in her own world.

She hadn’t said a word since pushing his hand away. No explanation. No follow-up.

Deepak turned on his side and buried his face into the pillow. Then turned again, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. His body was tired, but his mind wouldn't stop.

This was supposed to be a new beginning. A fresh chapter. Even without love, wasn’t there supposed to be an effort? A basic willingness to try?

Instead, she’d built a wall the moment they entered the room. No talking. No checking in. No sign she acknowledged him.

He didn’t expect overnight romance. But he had hoped for respect. For kindness.

Had he missed something? Had she been forced after all, just pretending to be okay? Or was there something she was hiding—someone?

He hated thinking that. But silence fills in the blanks with the worst possibilities.

He’d done everything right. Spoken respectfully. Got her consent. Didn’t demand anything. They’d split wedding expenses. He even told his parents not to rush her into joint family life.

So what more was he supposed to do?

Now here he was—newly married, lying on the floor like an outsider—while she enjoyed her playlist like nothing had changed.

He glanced at her. Her face was blank, eyes flickering toward him for a second before going back to the screen. No guilt. No curiosity. Just cold stillness.

Deepak exhaled sharply and closed his eyes—not to sleep, but in surrender.

He wanted answers.

But all he had was silence.

***

Priya lay on her side, curled up at the edge of the bed, and a blanket pulled to her chin. The glow of her phone and the flickering night bulb near the bathroom door were the only lights. Her earphones played a soft vlog. But she wasn’t listening.

Her mind raced.

She didn’t dare look at the floor where Deepak lay. When he lay down without another word, a strange mix of relief and guilt hit her. Relief—because he didn’t touch her. Guilt—because maybe he didn’t deserve this.

But how could she explain?

The panic. The discomfort. The tightness in her chest from just sharing a room with a man—even one who hadn’t done anything wrong.

She kept the phone close, pretending to scroll. Trying to make the air feel lighter.

It didn’t work.

Every breath felt heavy. Every small rustle from him below made her skin prickle. He hadn’t spoken since she pushed his hand away. He probably thought she was rude. Cold.

Let him think that, she told herself.

What choice did she have?

This marriage—this entire setup—was never her choice. She hadn’t waited for a wedding night. She hadn’t dreamed of wearing red bangles or sitting shyly on a decorated bed. All she had wanted was freedom. Space. A life of her own.

Back home, she was watched constantly. Her mother started dropping marriage hints at 22. "We're getting older, what will people say?" "Marry now, good boys will get taken." "You can study later—after marriage."

No one asked what she wanted.

When Deepak’s proposal came, her parents suddenly turned sweet. Her mother even made her favourite sambhar daily. That was her first clue—something big was being decided. Again.

She’d met Deepak just once. He seemed serious, but polite. He asked if she was okay with the wedding. She had nodded yes—not because she was okay, but because she didn’t have the strength to say no.

This was her ticket out.

Now she was here. Married. But still caged.

Just in a different house.

She kept her eyes on her phone though the screen blurred. Her chest was tight. She barely breathed.

She heard him shift again.

Was he asleep? Maybe.

She risked a glance. He lay still, arm over his forehead, eyes closed.

She exhaled—softly.

He had been decent. He hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t forced her. Maybe… he didn’t want this marriage either.

That gave her a sliver of hope.

Maybe, if she stayed distant, stayed cold, he’d get the message. He’d back off. Ask for a divorce. That happened, right?

And if that happened…

Oh, what a feeling.

To be free.
To wake without dread.
To live without answering anyone.
To go back to college, take up that course, start earning.
Rent a little place with white curtains and potted plants.

No one to question her.

She closed her eyes, just for a minute, imagining that life. The weight on her chest lifted slightly.

Just slightly.

She would wait. Endure. Watch.

And if Deepak was who she hoped he was…

He would let her go.

Let her be.

Let her breathe.