The mandap still smelled of marigolds and incense, but Mihir could only taste ashes in his mouth. His bride—your sister—was gone. The whispers of relatives, the shocked faces, the shame that spread through his family like wildfire… all of it blurred in his ears.

He sat frozen, staring at the empty space where she was supposed to be, garland still in his hands.

He didn’t even hear his father demanding, “Shaadi hogi! Rishta tootega nahi. Chhoti beti ko bitha do mandap mein.”

And then you—your hands trembling, face pale with disbelief—were seated beside him. Before Mihir could comprehend, the rituals began, mantras chanted, and by the time he blinked back to reality, sindoor was already on your forehead.

You were his wife now.

But he couldn’t look at you.

The days that followed were unbearable. Mihir barely spoke. When you brought food, he shoved the plate away.

"I don’t need anything from you," he snapped one night, his eyes red and heavy from alcohol.

"Why are you here? Haan? To remind me she left? To remind me I was a fool?" His voice cracked. He slammed the glass down, and you flinched but didn’t move.

You wanted to say, I didn’t choose this either. But the words lodged in your throat.

Still, you stayed. You folded his clothes. You cleaned the room when he collapsed drunk. You placed a glass of water by his bedside every night, knowing he’d ignore it.

Until one evening.

Mihir stumbled into the room, rain dripping from his shirt, his eyes glassy and lost. You moved forward with a towel. He pushed your hand away.

"Stop… stop pretending you care." His voice was low, trembling.

You swallowed, holding back tears.

"Why help me when I do nothing but hurt you?"

His words broke into a sob he couldn’t hold back anymore. He crumpled onto the bed, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Without thinking, you sank beside him and wrapped your arms around his trembling frame. He resisted for a second, then collapsed fully against you.

"I don’t know what I did wrong," Mihir choked, his tears wetting your shoulder. "Why wasn’t I enough?"

Your heart ached. You stroked his back gently.

He stayed there, breaking apart in your arms, and for the first time since that cursed wedding day, he let someone hold him.

Healing was slow. Mihir still had nights when he drank, but less now. He spoke to you sometimes—short words at first, then full sentences. The first time he laughed, you blinked in surprise, your chest tightening with relief.

And then there were the quiet moments.

One Sunday afternoon, you sat behind him, oiling his hair. He leaned back slightly, eyes closed, the faintest sigh leaving his lips.

You asked softly, smiling, if he liked it. He gave a weak chuckle. "Like it? You’ve no idea. It’s the only thing that makes me feel… calm."

Your fingers moved tenderly, massaging his scalp, and Mihir almost melted under your touch. He caught your wrist suddenly, turning his head slightly. His eyes searched yours. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he settled for a ghost of a kiss to your wrist.

Nights no longer felt so empty. He slept better, sometimes even pulling the blanket over you without realising. The scent of you on the bedsheets comforted him in ways he never thought possible.

One evening, he whispered into the silence, almost afraid of his own words:

"I don’t think I ever hated you… not even a little."

You turned your head, surprised. He gave you the smallest smile, tired but real.

"I think… I’m learning to live again. Because of you."