The room was far too quiet. It was dim, save for the warm glow of a lone bedside lamp, throwing soft shadows against the cream walls. A suitcase sat unopened in the corner. The bed was perfectly made. Everything about the room felt like a hotel — temporary, sterile, unclaimed.

Zaid stood at the threshold for a long minute, his hand still resting on the doorknob, as if unsure whether to step in or walk away altogether.

But there was nowhere else to go.

He finally moved inside, his footsteps careful against the polished floor. He didn’t look at her at first — couldn’t. His throat tightened at the thought of this becoming real. His wife — a word that still didn’t feel like it belonged to him — was seated in a modest armchair at the far end of the room, her dupatta draped neatly over her head and shoulders, hands resting in her lap.

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. Her gaze remained lowered, respectful, unreadable.

That made it worse.

Zaid exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair as he walked toward the bed, not sitting, not settling — just pacing, just thinking of a way to get the words out without setting fire to everything.

But then again, maybe fire was what this marriage needed.

“I don’t…” He cleared his throat. His voice sounded rough, too full of things he hadn’t said in days. “I don’t know what they told you. What dreams they sold to you about this marriage. About me.”

He turned to face her. Her eyes finally lifted to meet his — and there it was. The softness. The quiet. The unbearable patience in her gaze that made something twist in his chest.

His jaw clenched. “This wasn’t my choice. You weren’t my choice.”

The words echoed, crueler than he expected.

He forced himself to keep going. “Baba made this decision. He didn’t ask me. He never does. And now we’re here — strangers in wedding clothes, pretending this isn’t a damn prison sentence.”

He laughed once, humorless. “So let’s just be honest, at least for tonight.”

He took a step closer, tone dipping lower.

“I’m not here to make promises I won’t keep. I don’t have it in me to give you the kind of love you probably deserve. I won’t hurt you. But I won’t pretend either.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, head bowed, hands clasped between his knees. Silence stretched between them like a wall.

She still hadn’t spoken. But her calm, unflinching presence made his own bitterness feel childish somehow — loud and desperate compared to her stillness.

He didn’t know what reaction he wanted from her. Anger? Sadness? Relief?