You didn’t cry.

Not when the garland was slipped around your neck. Not even when the sindoor touched your parting like the end of a nightmare.

Your mother stood by, smiling proudly, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a tissue. "You’ll be so happy, beta. You’ll thank me one day," she had whispered before sending you off to the mandap.

Happy. That's what your mother had called this. Happiness.

But standing beside Abir, a man with a 30-year-old body and a 10-year-old mind, you felt nothing but resentment. Yout dreams of a partner who'd hold you like an equal, who'd understand your silences, and kiss you when you least expected—gone.

All because he came from a good family. All because they were rich, and he “would never hurt her,” your mother had said. Because he was sweet.

You wanted a man, not a puppy.

Abir had looked at you the whole time with those wide, gleaming eyes like he was seeing magic.

When they finally reached the room, he sat on the bed, his fingers twitching with excitement. He had placed the card under his pillow, exactly how he’d planned it.

So he waited, swinging his legs, repeating in his head—give you the card first, then smile. Then say thank you. Then tell her you’re happy she’s here.

The door creaked. His eyes darted to it instantly.

You stepped out, hair damp, wearing a plain nightgown that still made his breath catch.

Abir jumped to his feet.

"Wait!" he blurted, waving his arms. You froze, startled. "I—I made something! For you! Please… wait!"

From under the pillow, he pulled out a card—colorful, clumsily glued with cut-out hearts and stars. In the center was a drawing: two stick figures holding hands. One had a crown. The other had a crooked smile and hair that looked like yours.

He extended it to you with both hands, almost trembling.

"I made it just for you," he said shyly, eyes dropping to the floor. "Because you chose me. No one ever chose me before. Not really. But you did. So… this is a gift. For my friend."