नन्हीं उम्मीदें, डर की परछाई,
दो अजनबी, एक नया सफर छुपाई।
माँ-बाप की तानों के बीच बसी खामोशी,
दिल की दुनिया में अब शुरू हुई नयी रोशनी।
The summer heat of Mumbai clung to the walls of the Mehra household like an unwelcome guest. Trisha sat on the edge of the worn sofa, fingers folded neatly in her lap, her posture too rigid for someone her age. At twenty-one, she should have looked carefree, maybe a little nervous, but instead her face carried shadows deeper than her hollow cheeks betrayed.
The sound of her mother's voice echoed from the kitchen. "Sit properly, Trisha. Don't hunch like that—what will people think?"
People. That was always the obsession in the Mehra family. People's opinion. People's whispers. People's judgments.
Trisha adjusted herself without arguing. She knew better than to push back.
Her father, Vinod Mehra, cleared his throat as the Khannas walked into the living room. Rajat and Priya Khanna looked polished and confident, as if even the monsoon humidity couldn't wrinkle their expensive clothes. And behind them, tall enough to fill the doorway, stood Abhineet Khanna.
At six feet two, he was almost too striking. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, and eyes that carried a kind of stillness that was both unsettling and magnetic. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't look unkind either. Just unreadable.
Trisha dropped her gaze quickly, but not before she noticed how the silence around him seemed deliberate, as though he had mastered the art of being present without saying a word.
Her mother began fussing, offering sweets and tea, her tone suddenly sugary. The hypocrisy made Trisha's chest tighten. For as long as she remembered, her parents had only known how to scold, belittle, or accuse her. But now—now that a wealthy family was here—they could transform into doting hosts.
"Our daughter is very talented," Anjali Mehra chirped, setting a plate of mithai on the table. "She runs a little bakery business from home, you see. Very hardworking."
The word hardworking dripped with false pride. Trisha's hands tightened in her lap. The bakery was the only part of her life that was hers, but her parents paraded it like a trophy when it suited them.
Rajat Khanna nodded politely, but his eyes flicked to Abhineet as if to say, Well?
Abhineet finally stepped forward, his gaze steady on Trisha. Not examining, not judging—just looking. For reasons she couldn't explain, her breath caught. She expected questions, a polite introduction, maybe even the standard "tell me about yourself" that arranged meetings demanded.
But he said nothing.
Instead, he sat down across from her, hands resting calmly on his knees. His silence was unnerving, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that demanded nothing, that left her oddly at ease.
"Would you like to ask her something, beta?" Priya Khanna prompted gently.
Abhineet's eyes didn't waver. His lips curved, not into a smile, but into the faintest acknowledgment. Then, his deep voice—measured, controlled—filled the space.
"Do you like what you do?"
It was the last question she expected. Not about her cooking skills, or her habits, or her willingness to adapt to a new household. Just—did she like it?
Her throat tightened. She glanced at her parents, who were watching with hawk-like intensity. For a moment, she wanted to nod and give a safe answer. But something in Abhineet's gaze, steady and unreadable yet strangely patient, made her whisper the truth.
"Yes."
The word came out small but certain.
For the first time, his eyes softened, as though he understood the weight behind such a simple affirmation.
Vinod Mehra cleared his throat, clearly impatient. "She's quiet, but she'll learn. Very obedient."
Trisha's nails pressed into her palms. Obedient. That was all they ever saw in her. Not her talent, not her dreams. Just obedience or failure.
Abhineet's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the word. He didn't comment, but Trisha noticed. Somehow, she knew he had caught the sting hidden behind her father's casual remark.
The conversation drifted to finances, family backgrounds, and rituals. Trisha zoned out, her eyes fixed on the floor tiles. Her parents were laughing, charming, performing. If the Khannas had walked in a day earlier, they would have heard shouting, accusations, maybe even the cruel reminder that it was her fault Manya was gone.
The thought of her sister sent a cold ache through her chest. Manya—the perfect daughter, the one her parents still mourned while punishing Trisha for simply existing. The scar of that blame was something she rarely touched, but it pulsed now, raw and heavy.
A cup of tea appeared before her. She looked up to find Abhineet holding it out, his large hand steady, his gaze unreadable but... aware. She hadn't even realized her mother had left to fetch more trays. Somehow, he had noticed her detachment when no one else did.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He gave the smallest nod, like words weren't necessary.
The meeting ended with polite smiles and assurances that both families would "discuss further." As the Khannas rose to leave, Abhineet's gaze lingered a moment longer on Trisha. She couldn't decipher it, but it wasn't curiosity, and it wasn't indifference either.
When the door shut behind them, Anjali Mehra turned on her daughter instantly.
"Did you see how you were sitting? Like a scared little girl. You'll embarrass us before them."
Trisha lowered her head, swallowing the familiar sting. She wanted to say that she hadn't been scared. That she had spoken the truth, maybe for the first time in her life. But she stayed silent.
Because silence was safer.
Still, a flicker of something unfamiliar lingered in her chest. The memory of steady eyes, a simple question, and a tea cup placed gently before her.
For the first time, she wondered if silence could be understood, even without words.
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✨ End of Chapter 1 ✨
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