It had been a week since Deepak and Priya moved into the small 2BHK flat in Chennai. The curtains were still the ones the landlord left behind-dusty brown with a faded floral print. A cardboard box near the shoe rack still remained unpacked. It wasn't a home yet. Just a space with two people, coexisting under the same roof, like parallel tracks of a railway line.

Every morning, Deepak's alarm rang at 5 AM. Not the shrill one on his phone, but the soft chime of the watch he'd worn since college. He got up without a fuss, careful not to make noise. He knew she was still asleep in the other room. Or maybe pretending to be.

The kitchen was his alone now. He'd boil water, make coffee-strong, with an extra spoon of sugar-and sip it standing near the window. The city was still half-asleep at that hour, with only the occasional milk van or newspaper boy zooming past.

After that, he'd prepare something simple-upma, poha, or just toast and chutney powder. Always a little extra. He placed a covered plate on the counter, next to the water bottle. For her. No notes. No questions. Just a silent offering.

She never came out.

At 7:10 AM sharp, he left for work. He always glanced once toward her door before leaving. Closed. Still. Like it had been all night.

Work gave him structure. The usual corporate nonsense, the buzz of meetings, tap-tap of keyboards, even forced small talk during lunch-it kept him distracted. Made him forget that he had a wife waiting at home, but not really waiting.

Evenings were quieter than he expected. The door was unlocked when he arrived. Her slippers were neatly placed. The flat wasn't messy-but it wasn't lived in either.

The kitchen told him more than she ever did.

The plate he left for her in the morning was always untouched. The food stale, sometimes covered with ants if he forgot to clear it. But the garbage bin? That was the only part of the house that changed every day.

Crumpled delivery packets, chutney sachets, half-used tissues from some paneer-based meal. Domino's, Swiggy, Zomato-she had variety. But none of it involved him.

No "Did you eat?" No "Shall we cook together?" Not even "There's food in the fridge."

She was present, but absent.

One night, after a long day at work, Deepak reheated some leftover rice and rasam from the weekend. As he stood at the sink, scrubbing the pan, he glanced toward the living room.

She sat on the far side of the couch, legs folded, scrolling on her phone, a blanket over her feet. Earphones plugged in. Maybe music, maybe a show. He couldn't hear anything except the slight buzz of the ceiling fan and the soft clink of the spoon he was washing.

He didn't interrupt her. He hadn't interrupted her all week.

Sometimes he wondered if she forgot he was even there.

They shared an address, nothing more.

He had imagined marriage differently. Nothing dramatic. Just someone to sit beside. Share a joke. Argue about nonsense. Complain about office politics. Fight over which movie to watch.

But this-this was like he was back in his bachelor days. Cooking for one, eating alone, cleaning up in silence.

The only difference? There was another toothbrush in the bathroom now. And sometimes, he saw her reflection in the mirror when they crossed paths at night.

He never asked her anything. Not about food. Not about how her day was. He didn't want to push her. He didn't want to hear, "I didn't ask you to care."

But the silence-this dry, polite, routine silence-was beginning to feel heavier than any fight.

After finishing dinner, he lay down on his mattress in the hall. A single pillow. A thin blanket. The fan creaked overhead.

His eyes stared at the ceiling.

Still no sound from her room.

He wondered, not for the first time-how long could this last?

And more importantly...
Was this what marriage was going to be?

Just co-living. Without the living part.

*****

It was a usual midweek afternoon at the office canteen. The smell of sambar, fried appalam, and overcooked rice filled the air. Employees laughed over bad coffee and complained about managers, while some, like Deepak, sat in silence, half-stirring his food without really eating it.

Harini spotted him from across the room and made her way over, balancing her lunch tray. "Eyy, what's with your face? You look like someone stole your lunch and dreams."

Deepak offered a weak smile. "Not hungry."

"Still adjusting to married life, ah?" she teased, sitting opposite him. "Come on, new bride and all... must be glowing in happiness."

He looked at her, then away. "Actually, not really. She... doesn't even talk to me."

Harini paused mid-bite, surprised. "Eh? What are you saying?"

Deepak ran a hand through his hair. "I cook breakfast every morning, leave some for her. She never eats it. Doesn't come out of her room. In the evening, I see food delivery packets in the dustbin. She eats after I sleep. I don't know when or what."

Harini frowned, setting her spoon down. "That bad?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "It's like she's living in the same house, but I'm invisible. We haven't even had a proper conversation since the wedding night."

Harini leaned forward. "You didn't... force anything, right?"

"No!" Deepak said quickly, almost offended. "She told me she didn't want to live with me. I slept on the floor. Still sleeping there."

She relaxed a bit. "Okay. Sorry, had to ask. So, she's just... closed off?"

"Exactly. No anger, no questions, nothing. Just silence."

Harini stirred her curry idli, eyes narrowing in thought. "You know, Deepak... some girls agree to marriages not because they want love, but because they need escape."

He looked at her, confused. "Escape from what?"

"Could be anything," she said. "Family pressure, emotional abuse, trauma... not everyone gets a happy home. For some girls, marriage is the only way out. You might be the safest person she's ever lived with, but she doesn't know that yet."

Deepak swallowed hard. "So, she didn't marry me. She married freedom?"

"Maybe," Harini nodded gently. "And right now, you're just a symbol of a system she doesn't trust yet. She's in self-defense mode, da. Everything you do might feel like pressure to her."

He stared at his untouched sambar rice, guilt now mixing with confusion. "I thought I was giving her space..."

"You are. And that's good. But silence alone won't build trust. You need to show her you're not the enemy."

He looked up. "How?"

Harini smiled, a plan forming in her eyes. "Take her out. No family, no wedding baggage, no expectations. Just a quiet dinner somewhere nice. Let her see you as a person, not a stranger who entered her life with garlands and thali."

"You think she'll come?"

"You can try. Don't make it serious. Just say, 'Hey, want to eat out today?' If she says no, fine. Try again another day."

Deepak hesitated. "But what do I even say to her?"

"Nothing deep. Just normal things. Order food. Talk about the weather if you must. But let her breathe. Let her feel normal."

He nodded slowly, feeling something shift inside. "You really think I can fix this?"

"I think you can give it a chance. And she'll see you're not toxic. You're trying. That matters."

He smiled faintly. "Thanks, Harini."

She stood up with her tray. "And please wear something that doesn't look like your Appa's office uniform, okay? Make it casual."

He laughed-genuine, this time. "Okay okay. Noted."

As she walked away, Deepak opened his phone and searched for quiet restaurants in T Nagar. His fingers hesitated before typing.

Then, he locked the screen.

Tonight, he would ask. No expectations. No pressure.

Just two people trying to share a meal. Maybe even a moment.

Maybe... the silence would break, even if just a little.

*****

The evening sun was still hanging low, casting a golden-orange hue across the Chennai skyline as Deepak unlocked the door of his flat. He had come home early-half an hour before usual-thinking maybe he could talk to her. Just try, like Harini said.

The keys jingled softly as he pushed the door open, expecting the familiar silence.

But today, the house wasn't silent.

A soft rhythmic sound echoed through the hall. Not music from a phone or a movie, but something else. Anklets. Fast. Sharp. Graceful.

He stepped in quietly, closing the door without making a noise. The sound came from the bedroom, faint but steady. Out of instinct, he leaned slightly toward the hallway wall, walking like a thief in his own home.

And then he saw her.

The bedroom door was half open. Priya stood in the middle of the room, facing the mirror, her duppatta tied tightly around her waist. Barefoot, eyes focused, hands precise. Her feet tapped the tiled floor in rhythmic patterns, silver anklets jingling in perfect beats. Her brows furrowed in concentration, her lips counting the taal under her breath.

She looked... alive.

Deepak had never seen her like this. Not in the marriage functions, not during the train ride, not even once since they moved in.

There was no sadness, no walls around her-just rhythm, grace, and quiet passion. For ten minutes, he stood frozen, watching like a boy peeking through the classroom window at the annual day rehearsals.

And then she stopped.

As if sensing his gaze, Priya turned.

Her eyes widened for a second. Her mouth opened in a little gasp. Her face-already flushed from the dancing-went a deeper shade of red. She looked like a schoolgirl caught sneaking sweets before dinner.

Deepak smiled and clapped his hands slowly.

She blinked, startled, and immediately turned to grab her dupatta off the side, trying to drape it properly.

"I didn't know you dance," he said gently, stepping inside.

"I... I don't," she mumbled, not looking at him.

"Oh please," he grinned, "don't lie like that. You just gave a full ten-minute solo performance. If I had roses, I'd throw them."

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

He took a few more steps and leaned slightly on the doorframe. "It was beautiful. Really."

Priya's eyes flicked up to his, unsure. The silence stretched, not heavy this time, just... new.

He cleared his throat and pulled out his phone from his pocket. "I was going to ask you something today... before this surprise performance."

She tilted her head.

"Would you like to go out for dinner? There's this place nearby. 'Pans and Masala'. Heard it's quiet. Good food."

Priya looked away for a second, biting her lip. He could sense her thinking-wondering if this was a trick, if he had expectations, if this was something else.

"No pressure," he said softly. "Just dinner. You don't have to talk if you don't want to. Just... maybe sit across the table from me instead of across the hallway?"

Her eyes widened again, surprised at the line. She looked at him. Really looked. And for the first time, her eyes weren't guarded.

She gave the faintest nod.

Just one.

It was enough.

He smiled. "Cool. I'll go change. And don't worry-I won't dress like an insurance agent this time."

She let out a small laugh. Barely a sound. But it was the first laugh he'd heard from her.

And that was more than enough for one evening.

*****

A/N: What might be making Priya adamant???
Pop your guesses here --->