2. 𝘗𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘚𝘜𝘙𝘌

Tridha

The house feels different when guests are expected.

Pragati announces guests the way she announces decisions; already made.

"They'll be here by seven," she says lightly, adjusting her earrings. "Veer's family. And a friend."

Sunita oversees everything with sharpened precision the placement of plates, the temperature of the curries, the way the staff moves. Pragati floats around the living room in a silk saree, laughter rehearsed, confidence effortless. Ameena stays close to me, her hand brushing mine occasionally, grounding me without words.

And Abhiman looks... hopeful.

The doorbell rings. 

Veer arrives first, familiar and comfortable, already halfway to being family. His parents trail behind him—pleasant, polite, curious in the way people are when they walk into a house like ours. And with them comes his friend. 

I notice him because he notices me first. The kind of man who smiles like he means it, who fills silences without forcing them. He offers a polite smile, respectful, curious, careful. 

"Mrs. Singhania," he says to Sunita, grinning, "this house is intimidating. I'd be nervous if I lived here."

Sunita laughs despite herself. "You flatter too much."

"Only when it's deserved," he replies smoothly, already earning a look of approval.

"And you are?" Ameena asks.

"Akshay," he says, placing a hand on his chest dramatically. "Professional guest. Occasional troublemaker."

She laughs, genuine. "You'll fit right in."

By the time he reaches me, the room already feels lighter.

"And you must be Tridha," he says, eyes warm, curious. "The quiet one. Every family has one."

I smile politely. "That obvious?"

"Only because quiet people usually notice everything," he replies, shameless and amused. "Dangerous talent."

I shake my head, amused despite myself.

Introductions happen. Tea is served. Compliments are exchanged- about the house, the food, the way our family carries itself. 

Dinner passes easily—stories, laughter, teasing. Akshay talks too much and listens just enough. He compliments the food, flirts harmlessly with Ameena, pretends to be afraid of Abhiman's sharp gaze.

At some point, he turns to me again.

"So," he says casually, "teacher, right?"

"Yes."

"Brave profession," he nods. "I once tried explaining math to my cousin. Traumatized both of us."

I laugh softly.

Veer's mother watches the exchange with obvious interest. "You know," she says lightly, "Akshay has a habit of talking too much. It's nice when someone listens."

"I think Tridha balances people well," Pragati adds quickly, too quickly.

The words slide into the room unnoticed—but I feel them land.

My heartbeat stumbles.

When the guests finally leave, the house exhales.

Sunita is the first to speak. "He's a nice boy."

Pragati nods eagerly. "Very. And educated. Well-mannered."

Abhiman joins in, thoughtful. "You seemed comfortable around him."

"I was polite," I reply gently.

Sunita waves a hand. "There's nothing wrong with being friends, Tridha."

Pragati leans forward. "Just friends. Getting to know someone. It's time."

Abhiman looks at me then, concern softening his voice. "You've been holding on for too long."

I breathe in slowly.

"I'm not holding on," I say calmly. "I'm just not ready to replace something meaningful with something convenient."

Silence.

"You can't let one chapter decide your whole life," Abhiman says.

"I'm not," I reply. "I'm choosing when to turn the page."

Sunita sighs, disappointed. Pragati looks unconvinced.

"I'm not saying no to happiness," I continue, voice steady. "I'm saying no to being rushed into forgetting."

That should have ended it.

It doesn't.

Sunita exhales sharply. "This is unnecessary drama" she says. "You are just emotional."

"I'm not" I reply quietly. "I'm certain."

Pragati scoffs. "You can't keep living in the past forever."

Abhiman steps in then. "Tridha, you told me you were struggling. That doesn't mean you close every door."

"I didn't ask for doors to be opened without my consent", I say.

"This is disappointing," Sunita says flatly.

"I know," I reply.

And I leave for my room.

Not in tears. Not in anger.

Just... tired.

I close the door gently and sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled into my palms.

The world keeps asking me to move on.

As if love is a switch you turn off.
As if memories dissolve on command.
As if holding on is weakness instead of survival.

I am not refusing marriage.

I am refusing to betray the part of me that loved once- fully, fiercely, without safety nets.

And if that creates drama—then let it.          

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Show some love muffins 🫶🏻🧁