Shreya’s POV
It has been two years since my marriage, yet nothing has unfolded the way I once dreamed it would. Not even close.
I had carried so many soft, foolish expectations in my heart — a home filled with warmth, a husband who would notice the little things, a love that would feel… real. But somewhere along the way, those dreams began to blur.
Sometimes I feel like I am slowly losing myself. My own emotions feel too heavy, like they are quietly drowning me from the inside. Lately, whenever I eat, I end up vomiting. I don’t even understand why. I just know that sometimes I feel an odd disgust toward myself, and it scares me more than I admit.
And then there are the dreams.
Those frightening, restless dreams that wake me in the middle of the night, my heart racing, my body trembling.
Sometimes they make me physically ill. Sometimes they leave me sitting in the dark, hugging my knees, trying to calm my own breathing.
But my husband has never asked me why this keeps happening.
Not once.
He has never rubbed my back when I was sick.
Never held me when I was shaking.
Never woken up — not even after hearing me cry.
I care for my husband deeply… more than I probably should.
But does he care for me?
Does he love me?
Because in two years of marriage… he has never said it.
And the truth — the quiet, painful truth — is that I have never really felt married.
Is this how husbands and wives live?
I don’t know.
From what I have seen, they stand beside each other. They argue and then make up. They laugh. They hold hands
without thinking. They support each other when one of them falls sick. They hug like the world cannot touch them.
I notice these things.
I remember them.
Because none of them… ever existed between us.
I got married… for my father.
Till today, he has never asked me for anything. Never demanded, never forced. He only ever gave — love, comfort, protection… everything a daughter could wish for.
Maybe that is why I couldn’t refuse him that day.
I still remember it so clearly.
My father has always been a strong man — unshakable, unbreakable in my eyes. But that day… he was lying on ahospital bed, looking smaller than I had ever seen him.
And I was scared.
So scared that for a few moments, I didn’t even have the courage to enter his room.
When I finally stepped inside, a nurse was drawing his blood. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled the air. My fingers
curled tightly as I stood there, frozen.
Then he saw me.
His tired eyes softened instantly.
He gestured for me to come closer and asked the nurse to leave us alone.
That was it.
The moment I reached him, I broke.
I threw my arms around him, hugging him tightly, as if holding him would somehow make him better. His weak arms
wrapped around me in return, still protective even in that fragile state.
“My princess,” he whispered gently, “mujhe tumse kuch baat karni hai.”
(My princess, I want to talk to you about something.)
I pulled back immediately.
“Papa, abhi aapki tabiyat theek nahi hai. Hum baad mein baat karenge.”
(Papa, your condition isn’t good right now. We’ll talk later.)
But he slowly shook his head.
“Abhi… mujhe abhi baat karni hai.”
(Now… I want to talk now.)
Something in his voice made my chest tighten.
Then he said the words that changed everything.
“Agar main tumhari shaadi kisi se kar doon… to kya tum karogi?”
(If I get you married to someone… will you do it?)
My breath hitched.
“Papa… main abhi sirf 18 saal ki hoon…”
(Papa… I’m only 18 years old…)
He gave me that same soft, loving look.
“Princess, maine yeh nahi kaha ki main abhi tumhari shaadi kar raha hoon. Main bas pooch raha hoon… kya tum
karogi?”
(Princess, I didn’t say I am marrying you right now. I’m just asking… will you do it?)
My throat closed.
I couldn’t speak.
I couldn’t refuse him.
I couldn’t watch the tears gathering in his eyes.
So I didn’t say a single word.
I just… nodded.
Then Papa told me he had already fixed my marriage — with his best friend’s son, Yuvraj.
When Uncle Rishabhaccepted the proposal, Papa looked happier than I had seen him in months. Aunty Priya was overjoyed too, alreadytreating me like her daughter-in-law before I had even stepped into their house.
Everyone seemed certain this was perfect.
Everyone except the one person who mattered.
Was Yuvraj happy with this marriage?
Because throughout every function, every ritual, every crowded celebration… he never once tried to talk to me. Not properly.
Not privately. Whenever our eyes met, he would only give a small, polite smile — distant, unreadable — and then look away as if nothing about this was personal to him.
After the wedding, Aunty performed my griha pravesh and gently led me to his room, her voice warm as she said Yuvraj would come shortly. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure the whole house could hear it.
I walked inside, sat carefully in the middle of the bed, and pulled my chunari over my face exactly the way my bestfriend Sneha had instructed me, her teasing voice echoing in my head.
But then…
A sudden, cold thought slipped into my mind.
What if Yuvraj forces himself on me?
The idea sent a sharp shiver down my spine, my fingers tightening in the fabric of my veil as my heartbeat climbed higher and higher in the suffocating silence.
After some time, the bedroom door finally opened, and Yuvraj walked in.
I quickly came out of my spiraling thoughts and looked up at him. He had already changed — now dressed simply in a shirt and lowers — looking far too calm for someone who had just become a husband.
My heart started racing again.
He walked toward me slowly and sat down in front of me. Gently, he caught my dupatta from both sides and lifted it away from my face.
I immediately lowered my gaze to my lap.
When I saw his hands moving toward me, my whole body stiffened, a faint tremble running through me… but he stopped. Instead, he quietly lowered his hands back.
“You look like a goddess in this wedding attire,” he said softly, his eyes fixed on me.
My cheeks burned instantly.
Despite everything, I couldn’t stop the blush that spread across my face.
“You won’t say anything to me?” he asked gently.
Before I could react, he took my hand in his and began slowly caressing the back of it with his thumb — not forceful…just careful, almost patient.
“Aap bhi ache lag rahe the,” I replied in a low voice.
(You were looking good too.)
“Really?” he asked, a faint teasing note in his voice.
“Hm…” I murmured without looking up.
“Okay then… you should change. You must be tired. Go and get comfortable,” he said.
But his eyes were still on me.
I tried to stand — but my hand was still in his.
He noticed.
“Kya hua?”
(What happened?)
I didn’t speak. I simply lifted the hand he was holding, silently signaling him to let go.
The moment his grip loosened, I quickly got up and hurried toward the closet.
Behind me, I heard his soft laughter.
My ears burned hotter.
After changing into a pink night suit covered in small flowers, I quietly returned to the bed.
He was already lying on the right side. Carefully, without making noise, I slipped onto the other side and closed my eyes. Exhaustion was finally catching up to me.
Sleep was just beginning to pull me under……when suddenly someone gently turned me toward them.
Warm breath brushed my neck.
For a split second, my heart jumped in surprise — and then I realized.
It was my husband.
And somewhere between nervousness and exhaustion…
I drifted off to sleep.
____________
Present
Shreya POV
When I finally pulled myself out of the tangled web of my thoughts, the clock was already showing 6:30 PM.
Panic flickered softly in my chest.
I should get ready for the party… otherwise Yuvraj would definitely say —
“Tumhe bhi abhi taiyaar hona hai jab main ho raha hoon? Pehle nahi ho sakti thi kya?”
(You’re getting ready now when I am? Couldn’t you have done it earlier?)
He would scold me — not loudly, not harshly… but enough to make that familiar heaviness settle inside me.
Better to be ready beforehand.
Because no matter what happens…
It is always me who ends up feeling bad.
---
Now I was ready.
Saree perfectly draped. Hair softly pinned. Minimal makeup — just the way I preferred.
As I walked downstairs, the sharp sound of Yuvraj’s car horn echoed outside the house.
My steps automatically turned toward the door.
I opened it.
And his eyes…
His eyes were already on me.
Slowly — deliberately — his gaze moved from my head to my toes, taking in every detail.
“You are looking beautiful… as I said earlier, love,” he said smoothly.
I simply stepped aside, silently signaling him to come in.
He walked inside and settled onto the sofa with the ease of someone who owned every space he entered.
I quietly went to the kitchen and brought a glass of water for him.
Placing it in his hand, I sat down on the same sofa — but at a careful distance.
Always a careful distance.
“Maine aapke kapde nikaal diye hain… aap jaake ready ho jaiye,” I said softly.
(I’ve taken out your clothes… you should go get ready.)
But instead of getting up…
He suddenly leaned sideways.
And before I could react —
He rested his head in my lap.
“Let me rest for a while… my love,” he murmured.
My breath hitched.
For a moment, I just looked down at him.
Almost unconsciously, my fingers slipped into his hair, gently caressing the soft strands. His face shifted slightly,pressing against my bare stomach, seeking comfort as if it belonged to him by right.
And then…
My eyes caught something.
A faint mark.
Right there… on his neck.
Thin. Curved.
Like…
Nail marks.
My fingers stilled.
Slowly, quietly, my gaze dropped to his hands.
His nails were clean.
Trimmed.
Neatly cut.
Not long enough to leave that kind of mark.
Which meant…
They weren’t his.
My heartbeat started to pound — slow and heavy.
“Yeh aapke gale pe kaisa nishaan hai?” I asked quietly.
(What is this mark on your neck?)
In an instant, he sat up.
Too quickly.
His hand flew to his neck, fingers brushing the exact spot — but he still didn’t look at me.
Not once.
Not even for a second.
I kept staring at him, unblinking.
“I was feeling itching there… so I just scratched it with my car’s key. Toh uska nishaan reh gaya hoga,” he said casually.
(It was itching, so I scratched it with my car key. That must be the mark.)
My brows pulled together slightly.
“But woh… nakhun ka nishaan zyada lag raha hai,” I said slowly.
(But it looks more like nail marks.)
He exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face.
“Nahi yaar, aisa kuch nahi hai. Tum bhi zara sa bhi aaraam nahi karne deti ho. Aata hoon main ready hoke,” he muttered, already getting up.
(No, it’s nothing. You don’t even let me rest for a minute. I’ll be back after getting ready.)
And just like that…
He walked upstairs.
Leaving behind silence.
And doubt.
I lightly smacked my own forehead.
“Main hi pagal hoon… zyada sochti hoon,” I muttered under my breath.
(I’m the crazy one… I overthink too much.)
Still…
The mark on his neck refused to leave my mind.
I sank back into the sofa, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly —
But my thoughts…
Were nowhere near the screen.
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