Shruti's POV
The muted hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound in the room. Its rhythmic whirring filled the heavy silence like an indifferent heartbeat, uncaring, unchanging. Shruthi sat curled up on the worn-out sofa in front of the turned-off television, arms hugging her knees so tightly that the joints ached. Her eyes stayed fixed on the black screen, its blankness mirroring the void she felt inside. She stared, as if the screen might flicker to life and show her an answer—a way out, a reason, anything. But it stayed lifeless, offering no such mercy.
The house felt hollow. Too hollow. The kind of silence that made every small sound feel louder than it should—like the faint ticking of the wall clock, the soft creak of the wooden furniture as it settled, or the distant bark of a neighbor's dog. Yet inside her head, her thoughts roared. A storm, wild and relentless, tearing at her from the inside. Each memory, each doubt, each unanswered question thundered in her mind, louder than any sound in the empty house.
"So this is how it is, huh?" she thought, her lips twisting into a bitter smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The taste of the words in her mind was like rusted iron, sharp and metallic. "My parents don't want me anymore."
The thought wasn't new. It had crept into her heart long ago, but today, it felt heavier, final, like a door closing for good. Her gaze shifted to the family photo on the shelf nearby. It was faded from sunlight, the frame slightly chipped at the corner. She was maybe seven in that picture—still small enough to be lifted onto her father's lap, still foolish enough to believe in fairy tales like 'family.' Her mother's smile in that photo looked different now, when she looked at it as an adult. It wasn't warm—it was tight, forced, like she had been smiling for the camera, not for her child. Her father's hand rested on her little shoulder, but the memory of that touch felt cold. The whole picture, once a snapshot of happiness, now felt like a lie frozen in time.
"They were both young when they got married," she reminded herself. She'd overheard relatives say it countless times, as if youth excused everything. As if being young gave them the right to ruin each other—and her. She had always known, deep down, that she was an accident. A mistake neither of them planned for, but one they'd been too ashamed to walk away from.
"Accidents can become love… can't they?" she wondered, but the answer echoed back at her like a cruel joke. Not in her case. Not ever.
Her chest tightened. She pressed her forehead to her knees, trying to shut it all out. The thoughts kept coming anyway.
"They didn't see me as their daughter. Just a responsibility. A task to check off. A piece of luggage they couldn't wait to leave behind in the station's waiting room."
She pictured it—herself, small and forgotten, sitting alone on a bench as the trains came and went. No one came back for her.
Her mother had moved on. Married again. Her stepfather barely acknowledged her presence. Polite when necessary, but distant, like she was a guest overstaying her welcome. Her father? Dating someone younger than her mother. Shruthi didn't even bother to keep track of the names anymore. New faces came and went, none of them lasting long enough to matter.
Her life, for the last two years, had been chopped into pieces. Three days at her mother's apartment—small, neat, and sterile. Three days at her father's duplex—larger but colder, filled with things that didn't feel like hers. And Sundays? Sundays were the worst. Sundays were the day no one wanted to fight over. She would crash at Pragathi's house, pretending it was for fun, pretending she didn't mind. But every time, deep down, she felt like a stray dog looking for shelter.
And now this.
"Now they want to marry me off. Like… like that's the solution." The bitterness in her mouth grew stronger.
At eighteen.
A laugh, dry and humorless, escaped her lips before she could stop it. The sound startled her in the quiet, like it belonged to someone else.
Her breath fogged up the glass of the coffee table as she leaned forward, the cool surface grounding her in the moment.
"My dad said the guy is coming to see me this Sunday," she said aloud, testing the words on her tongue. They sounded absurd. Foreign. Like they belonged in someone else's story.
Her fingers found a loose thread on her sleeve and began picking at it mindlessly.
"Arjun. Nineteen. Lives in Vizag with his dad." She tried to summon a face, but none came. Just a vague blur. "His father's a mutual friend of both my parents. I've probably met him before. Maybe. I can't remember. I can't even remember his face."
Her father had told her—casually, like it didn't matter—that Arjun's mother had died five years ago. An accident. Shruthi had paused at that. She'd felt a twinge of something then. Sadness? Pity? Maybe the faintest connection.
"Does that make us the same? Both of us missing parts of our family? Both abandoned by what should have kept us safe?" But was that even fair? Was she projecting her own emptiness onto him?
Would he be kind because of it? Or would he be just as broken?
And, of course, her father had added that Arjun's family was "financially sound." That was meant to sweeten the deal. They'd pay for her college. Her dreams wouldn't have to die with her freedom.
She should be grateful.
And she was. Somehow, beneath all the anger and fear, she was grateful. Grateful that she might still have a chance to study. To build something for herself. Education was the only thread left tethering her to hope.
The only thing that felt like it still belonged to her.
But marriage? A stranger?
"It's still two days till he arrives," she whispered, pushing herself up from the sofa. Her legs felt heavy, like they'd forgotten how to move. The weight of everything bore down on her shoulders, making each step toward her room feel like wading through water.
She collapsed onto the bed, the mattress groaning under her weight. The pale light from the window spilled across her face, soft and cold. She turned her back to it, curling into herself, as if she could hide from the world that way.
"I hope he's a good guy," she thought, her throat tight. The words were almost a prayer. "I don't want to feel avoided. Or unwanted. Not by my husband too. Please…"
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, warm against her cheek, and sank into the pillow.
"Please, God… let him be kind. Let him see me. Let him want me. He's my last chance. If even he doesn't like me… what's the point of hoping anymore?"
The sob that escaped was small, but it felt like it shattered something inside her. The pillow muffled the sound, swallowing it whole, as the night outside crept closer and the storm within her raged on.
Arjun's POV – (One Day Earlier)
The evening breeze tugged at Arjun's jacket, the cool salt-tinged air rushing past as he sped down the coastal road. The city of Vizag blurred by, a mosaic of flickering lights and the soft glow of dusk-orange washing over grey buildings. The rumble of his bike echoed in his ears, steady beneath him, but not steady enough to drown out the noise in his head.
"What's so urgent that he had to drag me home early?" Arjun muttered under his breath, squinting against the wind. His fingers gripped the handlebars tighter as his brows furrowed. "Don't tell me… he's getting married or something. I've had that feeling for a while now. The man's been acting weirder than usual. What are you up to, Mister Subbarao?"
The thought made him smirk despite himself, but unease simmered beneath it. His father had been distracted lately—half-finished sentences, thoughtful silences at dinner, phone calls he ended too quickly when Arjun entered the room. Something was definitely brewing.
He turned into their neighborhood, easing off the throttle. The narrow lanes felt familiar, like an old blanket he could wrap himself in. Kids played cricket with a battered tennis ball and wooden sticks, shouting with unfiltered joy. A woman in a green saree knelt at her doorstep, her fingers expertly weaving rangoli patterns in white chalk, pausing only to smile at him as he passed. The scent of curry leaves and frying onions drifted through open windows.
Home.
He parked the bike, the engine's hum fading into the quiet of the evening. The house stood there like it always had—modest, two floors, with paint peeling a little at the corners but sturdy as ever. As soon as he stepped inside, the familiar scent of incense mingled with the comforting bitterness of filter coffee filled his lungs. It was like stepping into a memory.
"Dad?" Arjun called out, kicking off his shoes and dropping his keys into the metal bowl by the door. The clink echoed in the hallway. "I'm here early, just like you asked. What's the big mystery?"
Subbarao sat on the sofa, looking oddly formal, like he was about to chair a meeting. His fingers drummed a nervous rhythm against the wooden armrest, a rhythm Arjun had never heard before. His father always had steady hands. Today, they betrayed him.
"Come, sit," Subbarao said, voice unusually soft.
Arjun eyed him, suspicion rising, and flopped down on the opposite sofa, stretching his legs until his feet almost touched the edge of the coffee table. "Okay… You're freaking me out. Just say it already."
Subbarao opened his mouth, hesitated, then tried again. "The thing is…"
"You're getting married?" Arjun interrupted, unable to resist the jab, a crooked grin spreading on his face.
Subbarao's expression twisted, and he swatted at Arjun's arm like a reflex. "No, dumbass. You are!"
The room went still. For a heartbeat, all Arjun could do was blink at him. Then the absurdity of it hit, and he laughed—loud, incredulous, and a little desperate. "Wait—what? What did you just say? You're joking, right?"
"You heard me." His father wasn't smiling.
Arjun's grin faded. He sat up straighter. "I'm nineteen, Dad! Nineteen!"
Subbarao crossed his arms, his expression firm. "And?"
"I haven't even finished college! I'm in the middle of my degree!"
His dad sighed, as if he'd expected this. "It's with your parents' consent. And I've already spoken to the girl's father. It's settled."
"You picked a bride for me? Without even telling me? Behind my back?" Arjun's voice rose, but it was more disbelief than anger.
"You don't even have a girlfriend," Subbarao said, tone casual like he was pointing out that Arjun had forgotten to lock the gate.
"That's beside the point!" Arjun threw up his hands.
Subbarao tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smirk. "What, you're holding out hope for some mystery girl to fall into your arms on the beach?"
Arjun groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Why don't you get married instead? You're still young. What are you, forty-five? Forty-six? Why are you trying to marry me off?"
Subbarao's smirk softened. His eyes dropped to the floor for a moment. "Because I've seen you these past five years. You're always trying to look after me. Always trying to be older than you are. Always putting yourself last. And I'm telling you—you don't have to. You deserve someone by your side."
Arjun stilled at that. The words hit somewhere deeper than he expected.
"You don't have to worry about me anymore. I'm earning on my own now," he said, quieter this time. "I'm handling things."
"Earning doesn't mean you should live alone." Subbarao's voice had softened, but the conviction in it was clear. He stood and began pacing, hands clasped behind his back. "Listen. There are two reasons I want this. First—this girl. She needs a new start. Her parents are divorced, and from what I've seen… they've never really been parents to her. She deserves better. And I thought—you've always had a kind heart, Arjun. Maybe you could give her that better life."
Arjun's irritation dimmed. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching his father pace.
"And the second?" he asked, his voice steady now.
Subbarao sighed, raking a hand through his greying hair. "I'm being transferred. Mumbai. The letter came today. July. I can't take you with me. This house will be yours. But I don't want you here, alone. You're responsible, yes—but no one should have to be alone all the time. This marriage… I know it's sudden. I know I should've spoken to you earlier. But this is the one thing I ask of you."
The room fell quiet. Even the ceiling fan seemed to slow.
Arjun leaned back, exhaling long and slow, his eyes tracing the faint cracks on the ceiling. The weight of it all settled on him—the girl, the house, his father leaving, the future shifting beneath his feet.
Finally, he spoke. "When you say it like that, how can I argue with you?"
Subbarao's face broke into a wide, proud smile. "You won't regret it, son. I swear to you."
Arjun shook his head, a crooked grin returning. "Do you at least have a photo of her? Or am I supposed to fall for a mystery?"
Subbarao laughed, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "I… might have forgotten to ask."
Arjun groaned. "Seriously, Dad? What if she takes one look at me and runs the other way?"
"She won't," Subbarao said, confidence shining in his eyes. "She's quiet. But I know you. You'll get through to her. You always do."
Arjun rubbed the back of his neck. The thought of a girl—a stranger—becoming his wife, his partner, felt unreal. Like a story someone else was living. But at the same time, a strange curiosity stirred.
"Okay, old man. I'm going to bed. I need to sleep off this insanity."
"Already nervous, huh? Blushing?" Subbarao teased, his grin boyish.
"Shut up, old man," Arjun muttered, but he smiled as he said it.
Later that night, in the quiet of his room, Arjun lay on his back, the ceiling above him swimming in shadows. The hum of the city was distant now, like the world was holding its breath. His mind, though, was full of flickers—questions, doubts, and strangely, wonder.
"Marriage… huh? That's huge. Who are you, girl?" His thoughts softened, turning inward. "What have you been through? What kind of eyes will you have when you look at me? Will they be sad? Strong? Tired? Hopeful? I guess I'll know soon."
A breeze from the window stirred the curtains, and he turned to his side, the faintest of smiles lingering on his lips.
"I'm waiting," he whispered into the darkness, not knowing that miles away, a girl named Shruthi lay awake, her heart heavy with the same fears, the same fragile hope.
To be continued…