The house was a chaotic orchestra, someone yelling for safety pins, a pressure cooker whistling like it had opinions, and a Bluetooth speaker playing Mehendi Hai Rachnewali for the fifth time.
Radhika opened one eye and found three aunties in her room—not hers, not invited, but there all the same.
"Beta, don't sleep now," one of them chirped.
"You'll get puffiness in the photos!"
Another was holding up a lehenga like it was a sacred text.
"This embroidery is Lucknowi, no? Very classy. And such a soft color, not like those Instagram brides."
The third was applying lip balm to her mouth, but staring directly at Radhika's face.
"You'll cry today, na? You seem like a sentimental type."
"I cry when people put glitter on my eyelids without warning," Radhika muttered.
Nobody laughed.
They just handed her over to the makeup artist like a political prisoner.
Thirty-five minutes later, she sat on a stool in front of her mirror, surrounded by makeup, jewelry, and women arguing about where to pin the dupatta.
Her reflection looked like someone else.
The hair was perfect.
The eyeliner was sharp enough to cut through generational trauma.
Her lehenga shimmered like she owed it money.
But under all of it, she still felt oddly weightless.
Not sad. Not scared.
Just... floating.
Like she was watching someone else's wedding in third person.
She heard her mother's voice outside the door. Orders were being issued, snacks were being routed to relatives, and a floral canopy was being panicked over because it was 'a little too off-white.'
Someone called out, "Where's the bride?"
"She's where you left her," Radhika muttered to herself.
"Under five kilos of silk and secondhand wisdom."
A small knock broke the moment.
It was her cousin Mahira, peeking in with a soda bottle and a wicked grin.
"You alive in there, Mrs. Almost Rai?"
"Barely."
Mahira walked in, handed her the drink, and sat on the bed.
"They're doing the baraat prep. Horses, drums, the full circus. You ready for your big-fat-bollywood moment?"
Radhika stared at her reflection.
Then sipped the soda.
"I'm not ready."
Mahira raised an eyebrow.
"But I'm willing," Radhika added.
"And weirdly... calm."
"That's basically readiness with character development," Mahira said, raising her soda in salute.
Radhika smiled.
Outside, someone shouted.
"The groom's side is here!"
Inside, Radhika stood up.
And walked toward the door—not like someone being pushed, but like someone finally choosing to step forward.
***
"Smile a little," someone said.
"Fix your turban."
"Look proud—she said yes!"
Rishit adjusted the brocade fabric wrapped around his head for the third time and offered the nearest uncle a nod that said, I'm fine, please stop parentally hovering.
He stood near the gate, where the baraat was assembling like a military parade accidentally dipped in glitter.
There were drums, horns, too much marigold, and an uncle in sunglasses dancing with the coordination of a malfunctioning ceiling fan.
Next to him, Danish sipped from a disposable coffee cup like they were at a casual brunch.
"So, Big day."
"Groundbreaking observation."
"Are you nervous?"
"No."
"Are you pretending not to be nervous?"
"Yes."
Danish grinned.
"Honest. I like it."
Rishit glanced down at his sherwani—cream with gold accents, neat but not loud.
His mother had wanted red.
He'd quietly insisted on something simpler.
"Still no horse?"
Danish asked.
"Refused it. Told them I walk better than I ride. Also, I don't trust animals that wear glitter."
Someone shouted from the front gate that the dholwala was finally here. The volume tripled.
"Tell me you at least wrote her a line, a note, a poem, something Rishit-y."
Rishit didn't answer right away.
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his sherwani pocket and held it up.
"Whoa, what is that?"
"A message."
Rishit replied, tucking it back in.
"You're going full Bollywood?"
"No singing. Just... intention."
Danish gave a soft chuckle.
"She picked a good one."
Rishit turned toward the house, watching the crowd funnel toward the entrance.
"I just hope," he said quietly, "she still feels like herself when this is over."
"Dude," Danish replied, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"With you? She probably feels more like herself than she ever did."
A call went up.
"Groom's side! Get ready!"
The music hit its peak.
And through it all, Rishit stood still, steady, hands folded behind his back—not dazzled, not overwhelmed.
Just waiting.
For her.
***
The mandap looked like something Pinterest would be proud of—twinkling fairy lights, hanging jasmine, and a small bonfire that threatened to cook everyone seated within three feet.
Radhika sat down beside Rishit, her red dupatta pinned like a protective forcefield.
She could barely feel her legs under the weight of the lehenga, jewelry, and expectations.
Her nose was full of marigold smoke. Her brain was... surprisingly quiet.
The pundit began chanting.
Sanskrit rolled through the air like an ancient spell no one quite understood, except maybe the grandmother who was silently mouthing the verses along with him.
Rishit shifted slightly beside her.
Not nervously.
Just—present.
She glanced sideways. He was staring straight ahead, focused. Hands joined, posture respectful, expression composed.
She nudged his foot gently with hers under the fabric.
He looked at her, just slightly.
Raised one eyebrow.
She resisted the urge to grin.
The fire crackled.
The chants echoed.
The ghee sizzled.
Someone's phone went off—Tujhme Rab Dikhta Hai—and was immediately silenced with great shame.
The pheras began.
They stood together. Walked the sacred circle. Step after step, bound by a thin thread and the loud blessing of five dozen relatives holding smartphones.
Radhika was aware of everything.
The sweat at the back of her neck.
The jasmine was sticking to her earring. The pundit reciting verses at 1.5x speed. Her aunt was weeping like she'd lost a beloved drama serial.
And through all of it, one thing stood out.
Rishit.
Every time she looked up, he was steady. Calm.
And once—between the third and fourth round—he looked directly at her.
Just looked.
And gave the tiniest smile.
Not for the cameras.
Not for the guests.
Just for her.
And for the first time all day, Radhika didn't feel like she was playing a part in someone else's story.
She felt like she was finally co-writing her own.
***
The car was waiting outside, decorated half-heartedly with leftover flowers and more sentiment than design.
Inside the house, things had shifted. The ceremony was over. The energy had thinned.
Everyone moved a little slower, like they were afraid to step on the silence.
Radhika hugged her cousins, thanked the aunties, and posed for a final photo with Mahira, who whispered, "Still time to run. I have a scooter."
"I'll steal your helmet," Radhika whispered back.
Then came her parents.
Her mother hugged her first, tight, bone-deep, no words.
Then she pulled back and fixed Radhika's dupatta with trembling fingers.
"Just remember, if you ever feel lost... your old room is still yours."
Radhika didn't trust herself to speak. She nodded instead.
Her father stepped forward next. He didn't cry. Of course not. He adjusted his watch and said.
"You left your old charger in the study. I'll keep it safe."
Radhika smiled.
That was his version of 'I love you.'
Then he surprised her.
Just as she turned toward the door, he reached out and placed one hand on her head, gently.
She didn't cry.
Not because she wasn't sad.
But because—for the first time—she felt full and forward-facing, not torn in two.
She stepped into the car. Rishit was already inside, silent and respectful.
As the car pulled away, she didn't look back dramatically or press her hand to the glass like a soap opera heroine.
She just stared ahead.
And whispered, more to herself than anyone else:
"Okay. Let's begin."
***
The final goodbyes had been said. The photographers had packed up.
The overly emotional aunties had been driven home, dabbing their eyes as if they'd just watched a national tragedy.
Now it was just them.
The car pulled up in front of the modest apartment they'd agreed to rent—neutral walls, a new lock, two sets of keys. No flowers. No rose petals. Just peace.
Rishit stepped out first, removed his sherwani jacket and slung it over one arm, then opened the door for her without ceremony.
Radhika stood there for a second in her lehenga, shoes in one hand, hair escaping from three different pins, and said, "Well. This is romantic."
"I vacuumed," he offered.
"That counts."
Inside, the lights were soft and warm.
A small kitchen on the left. Couch still covered in bubble wrap.
Two mugs on the counter—one that said Design Like a Rebel, the other: Excel is my Love Language.
"Yours?" she asked, pointing to the Excel mug.
"Obviously."
She walked in slowly, setting her things down like the walls might collapse if she moved too fast.
Then she sat on the couch.
Hard.
The silence was... not awkward. Not charged.
Just new.
He poured water into two glasses, handed her one, and said.
"You did well today."
She looked at him.
"You too."
They sipped.
The fan clicked above them.
"Everyone kept asking if I was nervous."
"Were you?"
"No. Just... observing."
"Same."
They sat for another minute in the quiet, both still in partial wedding clothes, both a little too exhausted to pretend.
She looked around.
"This place still smells like new paint."
"We'll fix that."
"How?"
"Live in it."
She looked at him again.
He wasn't watching her.
He was just... there.
Present.
Real.
And for the first time that day—maybe in the whole process—Radhika finally felt it sink in.
This was it.
This was hers.
Not a man to conquer or survive.
Just someone to come home to.
She leaned back.
He leaned, too.
Nothing was said.
And for now, nothing needed to be.