You didn’t react.

Not when the garland was slipped around your neck. Not even when you marked her parting with sindoor, bright and final, like a wound that would never heal.

Your father had placed a heavy hand on your shoulder and whispered, “She’s sweet, beta. Gentle. Like a child. You’ll take care of her, won’t you?”

Sweet. That's what everyone kept calling her. Sweet.

But standing beside Amaira, a woman with the body of a bride and the soul of a little girl, all you felt was dread.

Your dreams of a partner you could talk to for hours, someone sharp, someone who’d challenge you, walk with you — not behind you, not beneath you — vanished.

All because she'd never hurt you, they said. All because her family is close to yours, and you won’t find a girl more pure.

You didn’t want purity. You wanted a person. A woman, not a doll.

Amaira had giggled during the pheras, watching the fire like it was a birthday candle. She clapped softly when the priest said, “Saptapadi sampann hui.” And you… just stood there.

When you finally reached the room, she was already there.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, hair tied in two uneven ponytails, her lehenga bunched up awkwardly around her. She had hidden something behind her back. Her eyes sparkled like she'd been waiting all day.

You hesitated at the door.

"I made you something!" she chirped, barely able to contain herself. "But you have to close your eyes!"

You didn't move. Just watched her.

She pouted, then lit up again. “Okay okay, I’ll just show you! You’re no fun.”

From behind her back, she revealed a card—made of chart paper, too much glitter, and lopsided stickers. In the center, a drawing: two stick figures holding hands. One wore a tie. The other had a flower in her hair.

She held it out to you with both hands, eyes wide with hope.

“I made it for you,” she said, voice soft and proud. “Because you chose me. No one ever chose me before. Not really. But you did. So this is a gift. For my bestest friend.”