Shruti's POV
Sunday arrived like an unexpected letter—one she'd been dreading and longing to open at the same time.
The morning air was a little warmer than usual, sunlight streaming through the curtains in soft, golden patches that danced across the floor. Yet, the breeze that slipped in through the half-open window carried a strange chill, as if it knew the weight of the day. Shruthi stood before her mirror, fingers gently adjusting the delicate net sleeves of her pink lehenga. It shimmered faintly in the morning light, its silver embroidery catching every ray, like it was trying to dazzle her into believing this was a happy occasion.
Her first expensive outfit. The fabric felt alien under her fingertips—too fine, too grand for someone like her who was used to hand-me-downs and budget buys. She smoothed the skirt over and over, as if trying to erase the knots in her stomach.
"Do I look good?" she whispered, searching her reflection for reassurance. Her voice barely reached her own ears.
The girl in the mirror stared back, nervous eyes wide, cheeks flushed from both the heat and the anxiety twisting inside her. She traced the embroidery with a fingertip, the intricate patterns almost too pretty to belong to her.
"I should look good. This is the most expensive thing either of my parents have ever given me," she thought bitterly, the corners of her mouth twitching, caught between a smile and tears. "Maybe because I'm leaving them soon… Maybe this is their parting gift. A goodbye wrapped in silk and sequins."
The thought coiled around her heart, tight and unkind. It hurt more than she wanted to admit. She swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the warm air.
Arjun. The name echoed in her head like a distant drumbeat.
She hadn't seen his photo. Her father hadn't offered, and she hadn't asked. Maybe she didn't want to. Maybe it was easier not to form an image, not to build hopes or fears on something as fragile as a face.
"I wonder what he looks like," she murmured, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "Will he look at me and turn away? Pretend to smile just to be polite? Or… is he just like me? Here because he has no choice?"
Her heart ached at that thought—the idea of standing before a stranger who might be just as lost, just as trapped.
She took a breath and twirled once before the mirror, wanting to feel like a heroine in a film, just for a moment. But the skirt flared too wide, her earrings jingled too loudly, and the sudden motion sent a rush of nervous energy through her that made her heart race faster. She stopped, gripping the edge of the dressing table to steady herself.
"What am I doing? This isn't a fairy tale. This is real."
Her mind flitted to Pragathi's voice in her head: "Just breathe. Act normal. Smile a little. Don't overthink."
But how did one act normal at their own arranged marriage meeting?
A sharp knock at the door made her jump, snapping her out of her spiral.
"Shruthi!" her mother's voice came, slightly strained, forced into sweetness. "Come out. They're here."
Her heart thudded in her chest, loud enough she was sure her mother could hear it through the door. She wiped her damp palms on the pleats of her skirt, gave herself one last glance in the mirror, and opened the door.
Her mother stood there, a steel tray balanced carefully in her hands. Two cups of steaming tea sat on it, wisps of fragrant steam curling into the air between them. Her mother's face looked tired under the careful smile she wore—a mask for guests, not for Shruthi.
"Here," she said, her voice clipped at the edges. "Take this. Go give it to them. And… keep your head low. Don't stare too much, understand?"
Shruthi nodded, though inside, she wanted to protest—how do I not stare at the boy who might become my husband?
Her fingers closed around the tray, the metal cool and solid beneath her trembling hands. She took slow steps out of the room, every muscle tense, as if she were balancing the world and not just tea. Her heartbeat seemed to pulse through her fingertips, making the cups rattle slightly on the tray. She willed them to be still.
The living room felt larger than usual, as though it had expanded just to make this moment harder. She kept her gaze down at first, focusing on her steps, on the gentle clink of her bangles, on not tripping over her lehenga's heavy folds. But as she neared the center of the room, curiosity overcame caution, and her eyes flicked up—just a little, just enough to see him.
And there he was.
A tall boy—no, a man really—dressed in black from head to toe. The color suited him, made him look even taller, even more striking. His posture was relaxed, confident but not arrogant. There was an ease in the way he sat, but not laziness. His face was composed, unreadable, as if he, too, had built walls around his thoughts. But it was his eyes that caught her most. Deep, dark, and quiet—like a sea at night, holding storms beneath the surface.
"He's so handsome." The thought came before she could stop it, the words catching in her chest like a gasp.
She faltered for half a step, the tray wobbling just slightly. Calm down, Shruthi. Don't drop the tea. Don't embarrass yourself.
Her confidence, so carefully stitched together that morning, unraveled in an instant. She felt small in front of him, like she was standing under a spotlight she hadn't asked for.
What is this? A marriage proposal or a model audition?
Is this how actors feel in front of cameras? Because I swear, I've forgotten how to walk straight.
She moved toward him, every step measured, too aware of the sound of her anklets, too aware of how her heart was beating far too fast for comfort. She held out the tray, and as he reached for the cup, their fingers brushed—just for a second.
Goosebumps shot up her arm. She hoped desperately that her face didn't give her away.
"Thank you," he said, voice lower, deeper than she expected. The kind of voice that stayed in your ears after the words were gone.
Her breath hitched, but she managed a small nod, lowering her eyes quickly as she handed the other cup to his father. She felt like her hands might betray her, shaking from the weight of everything—the tea, the moment, the future.
She sat down carefully across from them, adjusting her lehenga so it didn't trip her, willing herself to breathe.
He looked at me. Did he notice how nervous I am? Did he see my hands trembling?
God, what if I seemed silly? What if he's already made up his mind?
She kept her eyes low, but part of her longed to look up again—to see if he was still watching her, to see if his face held any answers.
But for now, she sat still, caught between fear and the tiniest flicker of something she hadn't expected—hope.
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Author's POV
The living room felt unusually quiet—too quiet—for such a big occasion. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, filling every corner, making even the softest sound seem louder than it was. The ceiling fan creaked gently as it turned, and somewhere outside, a street hawker's distant call floated through the open window before fading into the stillness. The cups of tea on the table sent up delicate curls of steam, their fragrance mingling with the faint smell of incense that always seemed to linger in the house.
Everyone waited. As if the right words might magically appear if they stayed silent long enough.
Shruthi kept her eyes down, staring at the intricate pattern of the rug beneath her feet, her fingers nervously smoothing the edge of her dupatta. Her heart thudded in her chest—too fast, too loud. She could feel the weight of every gaze in the room, especially his. Or maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she just wanted to believe he was looking at her.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Arjun's father cleared his throat and spoke, his voice breaking through the hush like a pebble dropped into a still pond.
"How are you, dear?" he asked, his tone gentle, polite—an uncle trying to make a frightened girl feel at ease.
Shruthi lifted her gaze just enough to meet his eyes briefly, offering a small, practiced smile. "I'm fine, uncle," she said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper. It wavered slightly at the edges, but she managed to keep it steady. "How are you?"
"I'm doing well," he said with a warm nod, his smile kind, reassuring.
The exchange was simple. Ordinary. But in that moment, it felt monumental to Shruthi—like the first pebble that might set everything in motion.
And that was when Arjun really looked at her.
Not the quick glance he'd given when she entered, not the polite flicker of attention that custom demanded. This time, his gaze lingered, curious and thoughtful, as if trying to read the story hidden beneath the nervous girl in front of him.
He noticed the way she sat, back straight despite the weight of what this moment meant. As if she had wrapped herself in invisible armor made of grace and quiet determination. Her hands were folded neatly over her lehenga, but he could see how tightly her fingers clutched the fabric, as if it was the only thing anchoring her.
Her earrings swayed gently with each breath she took, catching the light—tiny silver stars trembling on the edge of falling. He watched the way her lashes lowered again, shielding her eyes like curtains drawn over a window, hiding whatever storm or calm lay behind them.
For a moment, the room seemed to blur around her. The voices, the furniture, the polite tension between the elders—all of it faded into the background as he took her in.
To be continued...