The woman gestures for me to use the fitting room. I change quickly and step out.
Aarohi’s eyes widen the moment she sees me. She looks adorably flustered—and I almost smile. But I don’t. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, not now.
Holding my arms out slightly, I do a half spin. “Does it fit?”
“You look...” she clears her throat. “You look good. I mean...thislooks good.”
Then, just as fast, she turns away, already walking toward the assistant, muttering, “We need one more.”
The next one they bring out is a different beast altogether. Red with intricate gold embroidery and studded with tiny stones—clearly meant for the main wedding.
I change and step out again. This time, she steps closer.
Her hand lifts, like she’s about to adjust my collar—but it hovers there. No contact. Still, she’s so close I can practically feel the heat from her fingers.
“The shoulders...” she says softly. “It’s crooked on the shoulders.”
I turn toward the mirror and fix it myself, swallowing a sigh. What I wouldn’t give forherto do it for me. It’s like I’m starved for her touch.
Eventually, I pay up—we leave the store with twosherwanisand a yellowkurta, which she said is a must-have for thehaldifunction because everyone wears yellow.
Apparently,haldimeans turmeric. On the drive back, she explains how a special turmeric paste is applied to the bride and groom a few days before the wedding as a blessing and skincare ritual. Hence the yellow.
I nod and listen. But somewhere between her explanation and the way her eyes light up talking about the ceremony, I start imagining it.
What if this wasmywedding?
What if all these rituals... all this color, this warmth, this noise—was forus?
What if she was my bride?
The thought lingers like a ghost.
Once we’re back at the farmhouse and out of the car, the sun’s already setting. The shadows stretch long and the air is cooler now.
We walk toward the bride’s mansion in silence. That silence has wrapped around us for a while now. And then, as we step past the tall white columns near the veranda, she speaks.
“I don’t understand why I get soangrywhenever you say something sweet or confess shit,” she whispers.
I blink. I’d noticed it too, but I thought it was just leftover resentment. Hatred. The typical fallout. But this? This sounds... deeper.
“Maybe...” I begin without knowing how to say this. “Maybe you get frustrated with yourself because you don’t know whether I’m still manipulating you? That I’m not sincere?”
I mean it as a possibility, not a jab. And something in her frown tells me I’ve landed in the right spot.
She stops walking. Turns to face me.
“Are you?” she asks, voice barely above the breeze. “Sincere?”
Fuck. That’s a million dollar question, isn’t it? The one that underpins everything. The one that decides if she lets herself feel anything again. The one with the simplest answer—yes—but is the most difficult to deliver.
I stop and turn to face her as well. Heart pounding.
She’s looking at me like she wants to believe me, but there’s that flicker of doubt in her eyes—like she’s afraid she’ll be burned again. Like she’s bracing for betrayal. And Ihateit. Because I’m thinking that no matter what—she’ll always wonder whether I’m sincere or not.
Christ. I want to touch her, but I don’t. I’ve lost that privilege.
So I do the only thing I can—I tell her the truth. As plainly and rawly as I can.
