Shruti's POV
Sunday arrived like an unexpected letter—one she'd been dreading and longing to open at the same time.
The morning air was a little warmer than usual, sunlight streaming through the curtains in soft, golden patches that danced across the floor. Yet, the breeze that slipped in through the half-open window carried a strange chill, as if it knew the weight of the day. Shruthi stood before her mirror, fingers gently adjusting the delicate net sleeves of her pink lehenga. It shimmered faintly in the morning light, its silver embroidery catching every ray, like it was trying to dazzle her into believing this was a happy occasion.
Her first expensive outfit. The fabric felt alien under her fingertips—too fine, too grand for someone like her who was used to hand-me-downs and budget buys. She smoothed the skirt over and over, as if trying to erase the knots in her stomach.
"Do I look good?" she whispered, searching her reflection for reassurance. Her voice barely reached her own ears.
The girl in the mirror stared back, nervous eyes wide, cheeks flushed from both the heat and the anxiety twisting inside her. She traced the embroidery with a fingertip, the intricate patterns almost too pretty to belong to her.
"I should look good. This is the most expensive thing either of my parents have ever given me," she thought bitterly, the corners of her mouth twitching, caught between a smile and tears. "Maybe because I'm leaving them soon… Maybe this is their parting gift. A goodbye wrapped in silk and sequins."
The thought coiled around her heart, tight and unkind. It hurt more than she wanted to admit. She swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the warm air.
Arjun. The name echoed in her head like a distant drumbeat.
She hadn't seen his photo. Her father hadn't offered, and she hadn't asked. Maybe she didn't want to. Maybe it was easier not to form an image, not to build hopes or fears on something as fragile as a face.
"I wonder what he looks like," she murmured, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "Will he look at me and turn away? Pretend to smile just to be polite? Or… is he just like me? Here because he has no choice?"
Her heart ached at that thought—the idea of standing before a stranger who might be just as lost, just as trapped.
She took a breath and twirled once before the mirror, wanting to feel like a heroine in a film, just for a moment. But the skirt flared too wide, her earrings jingled too loudly, and the sudden motion sent a rush of nervous energy through her that made her heart race faster. She stopped, gripping the edge of the dressing table to steady herself.
"What am I doing? This isn't a fairy tale. This is real."
Her mind flitted to Pragathi's voice in her head: "Just breathe. Act normal. Smile a little. Don't overthink."
But how did one act normal at their own arranged marriage meeting?
A sharp knock at the door made her jump, snapping her out of her spiral.
"Shruthi!" her mother's voice came, slightly strained, forced into sweetness. "Come out. They're here."
Her heart thudded in her chest, loud enough she was sure her mother could hear it through the door. She wiped her damp palms on the pleats of her skirt, gave herself one last glance in the mirror, and opened the door.
Her mother stood there, a steel tray balanced carefully in her hands. Two cups of steaming tea sat on it, wisps of fragrant steam curling into the air between them. Her mother's face looked tired under the careful smile she wore—a mask for guests, not for Shruthi.
"Here," she said, her voice clipped at the edges. "Take this. Go give it to them. And… keep your head low. Don't stare too much, understand?"
Shruthi nodded, though inside, she wanted to protest—how do I not stare at the boy who might become my husband?
Her fingers closed around the tray, the metal cool and solid beneath her trembling hands. She took slow steps out of the room, every muscle tense, as if she were balancing the world and not just tea. Her heartbeat seemed to pulse through her fingertips, making the cups rattle slightly on the tray. She willed them to be still.
The living room felt larger than usual, as though it had expanded just to make this moment harder. She kept her gaze down at first, focusing on her steps, on the gentle clink of her bangles, on not tripping over her lehenga's heavy folds. But as she neared the center of the room, curiosity overcame caution, and her eyes flicked up—just a little, just enough to see him.
And there he was.
A tall boy—no, a man really—dressed in black from head to toe. The color suited him, made him look even taller, even more striking. His posture was relaxed, confident but not arrogant. There was an ease in the way he sat, but not laziness. His face was composed, unreadable, as if he, too, had built walls around his thoughts. But it was his eyes that caught her most. Deep, dark, and quiet—like a sea at night, holding storms beneath the surface.
"He's so handsome." The thought came before she could stop it, the words catching in her chest like a gasp.
She faltered for half a step, the tray wobbling just slightly. Calm down, Shruthi. Don't drop the tea. Don't embarrass yourself.
Her confidence, so carefully stitched together that morning, unraveled in an instant. She felt small in front of him, like she was standing under a spotlight she hadn't asked for.
What is this? A marriage proposal or a model audition?
Is this how actors feel in front of cameras? Because I swear, I've forgotten how to walk straight.
She moved toward him, every step measured, too aware of the sound of her anklets, too aware of how her heart was beating far too fast for comfort. She held out the tray, and as he reached for the cup, their fingers brushed—just for a second.
Goosebumps shot up her arm. She hoped desperately that her face didn't give her away.
"Thank you," he said, voice lower, deeper than she expected. The kind of voice that stayed in your ears after the words were gone.
Her breath hitched, but she managed a small nod, lowering her eyes quickly as she handed the other cup to his father. She felt like her hands might betray her, shaking from the weight of everything—the tea, the moment, the future.
She sat down carefully across from them, adjusting her lehenga so it didn't trip her, willing herself to breathe.
He looked at me. Did he notice how nervous I am? Did he see my hands trembling?
God, what if I seemed silly? What if he's already made up his mind?
She kept her eyes low, but part of her longed to look up again—to see if he was still watching her, to see if his face held any answers.
But for now, she sat still, caught between fear and the tiniest flicker of something she hadn't expected—hope.
---
Author's POV
The living room felt unusually quiet—too quiet—for such a big occasion. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, filling every corner, making even the softest sound seem louder than it was. The ceiling fan creaked gently as it turned, and somewhere outside, a street hawker's distant call floated through the open window before fading into the stillness. The cups of tea on the table sent up delicate curls of steam, their fragrance mingling with the faint smell of incense that always seemed to linger in the house.
Everyone waited. As if the right words might magically appear if they stayed silent long enough.
Shruthi kept her eyes down, staring at the intricate pattern of the rug beneath her feet, her fingers nervously smoothing the edge of her dupatta. Her heart thudded in her chest—too fast, too loud. She could feel the weight of every gaze in the room, especially his. Or maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she just wanted to believe he was looking at her.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Arjun's father cleared his throat and spoke, his voice breaking through the hush like a pebble dropped into a still pond.
"How are you, dear?" he asked, his tone gentle, polite—an uncle trying to make a frightened girl feel at ease.
Shruthi lifted her gaze just enough to meet his eyes briefly, offering a small, practiced smile. "I'm fine, uncle," she said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper. It wavered slightly at the edges, but she managed to keep it steady. "How are you?"
"I'm doing well," he said with a warm nod, his smile kind, reassuring.
The exchange was simple. Ordinary. But in that moment, it felt monumental to Shruthi—like the first pebble that might set everything in motion.
And that was when Arjun really looked at her.
Not the quick glance he'd given when she entered, not the polite flicker of attention that custom demanded. This time, his gaze lingered, curious and thoughtful, as if trying to read the story hidden beneath the nervous girl in front of him.
He noticed the way she sat, back straight despite the weight of what this moment meant. As if she had wrapped herself in invisible armor made of grace and quiet determination. Her hands were folded neatly over her lehenga, but he could see how tightly her fingers clutched the fabric, as if it was the only thing anchoring her.
Her earrings swayed gently with each breath she took, catching the light—tiny silver stars trembling on the edge of falling. He watched the way her lashes lowered again, shielding her eyes like curtains drawn over a window, hiding whatever storm or calm lay behind them.
For a moment, the room seemed to blur around her. The voices, the furniture, the polite tension between the elders—all of it faded into the background as he took her in.
---
Arjun's POV
She's cute.
That was the first real thought that settled in Arjun's mind as he took her in properly, beyond the polite glances and surface observations. Not in a loud, movie-scene kind of way—but in the soft, unexpected kind of way that made his heart slow down for half a second. There was something about her—an innocence, maybe. Or the way she seemed to be holding herself together so carefully, like she was afraid she might fall apart if she breathed too deep.
And the lehenga? His gaze lingered on the pink fabric, the delicate embroidery glinting in the light. It's a little much, he admitted inwardly. It felt too grand, too formal, like she was dressed for a stage. But somehow… she made it work. She didn't seem overdone. She seemed soft in it. Fragile. A little lost.
Why is it so quiet? The silence in the room was growing thick, like a fog he couldn't see his way through. His father had stopped talking. Why? Why did he stop? Why is he looking at me like that? Oh no. Does he want me to say something?
He shifted slightly, clearing his throat, trying to summon something—anything—that sounded normal. He turned toward her—
And froze.
She's looking at me.
Her eyes—big, dark, uncertain—had lifted just enough to meet his. And in that brief, fleeting second, their gazes locked.
Eye contact. Crap.
His heart did this weird, unexpected thing—stumbled, then picked up speed, like it didn't know how to handle this moment. He wasn't supposed to be the nervous one. That wasn't him. He was the guy who joked around easily at college, who could hold a conversation with anyone, boy or girl, without a second thought. He wasn't the guy who fumbled for words, who forgot how to breathe just because someone looked at him.
Why am I nervous? His inner voice demanded an answer. This doesn't happen to me. I talk to girls all the time. I don't blush. I don't stammer. I'm frank. I'm straightforward. So what is happening right now?
Before he could overthink it more, his mouth moved. "Hi." The word came out simple, but in his own ears, it sounded stiff. Robotic. Like he'd forgotten how to be himself.
Shruthi's gaze dipped instantly, as if the eye contact had been too much for her. Her voice came soft, barely audible: "Hi."
And then his brain did the thing it always did—overanalyzed.
Was that a rejection? The thought hit fast, unwelcome. Was I too blunt? Did I sound cold? Is she already uncomfortable because of me?
But even as the panic tried to rise, his eyes caught the slightest flush on her cheeks, the faintest tint of pink rising to the tips of her ears.
She's blushing. Relief washed through him, so subtle but so real. She's just shy. Not rejecting me. Just… overwhelmed.
His heart softened. The tightness in his chest loosened a little.
I can't do this. Not like this. He shifted in his seat, his fingers absently rubbing his thumb against his palm. This whole marriage setup—it's too intense. Too many eyes, too much pressure. I need to talk to her. Just her. Not like a deal on the table. Like two people figuring this out together.
And then, as if reading his mind, his father leaned in a little, voice gentle. "Do you both want to talk in private?"
Yes. God, yes. His heart leapt at the suggestion. Please.
But before the relief could fully land, Shruthi's mother cut in smoothly, a polite but firm edge to her words. "There's no need for all that. We've told you everything about her already."
Arjun understood immediately. Ah. He almost sighed. She wants to close the deal. Wants to move this along. She's nervous, too. But I can't agree. Not without hearing Shruthi's voice for more than just 'hi.' Not without seeing what's behind those eyes.
He took a breath and stood slowly, deliberately, trying not to seem too eager, too forceful. "No worries, aunty," he said, respectful, calm. His voice felt steadier now. More like him. "But I'd just like to talk to her alone. Just for a minute. Is that okay?"
He could see the flicker of surprise on her mother's face. A slight hesitation. And then, because of the way he asked—or maybe because of the look on his face—she nodded. "If Shruthi is okay with it…"
Thank God for my expression, he thought, amused at himself. Whatever it was, it worked.
He turned to Shruthi then, gentler now, wanting her to feel that this was her choice, not just the adults' decision. "Is it okay?" he asked, hoping his voice carried none of the nervous energy still thrumming beneath the surface.
She lifted her head slightly, her gaze hesitant but open, and nodded. "Sure," she said, her voice low, as delicate as a breath, but clear enough.
In that instant, Arjun felt something ease between them—like the first thread connecting two strangers had finally been tied.
---
Shruti's POV
They stepped onto the narrow balcony, the sounds of the street below floating up faintly—vendors calling, the distant honk of a scooter, the rustle of leaves in the mild breeze. The air smelled faintly of jasmine from the neighbor's creeper that wound along the iron railing.
Arjun didn't speak at first. He moved to stand beside her, not too close, but near enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence. He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the railing, his eyes fixed on the sky, as if it might offer him an answer he couldn't find in words.
Shruthi stood still, unsure what to do with her hands, finally folding them in front of her, fingers twisting the edge of her dupatta. He's so tall, she thought, sneaking a glance at him. And so quiet. Too quiet. The silence between them seemed amplified by the open space, by the vast sky that stretched beyond. I can hear my own breathing. And it sounded loud to her, embarrassingly loud.
What is he thinking?
Is he going to cancel this marriage?
Does he think I'm ugly? Maybe he's trying to figure out how to tell me without hurting my feelings.
Her heart raced, her mind bracing for rejection, for some polite excuse, for the ground beneath her feet to shift.
Then he spoke, his voice gentle, low, breaking the silence in the kindest way.
"Are you feeling nervous?" he asked, turning his head slightly toward her.
Shruthi felt the lump in her throat tighten. Yes! I'm terrified! she wanted to shout. But the words tangled inside her, too heavy with emotion. Instead, she nodded, her voice barely audible as she whispered, "Yes."
To her surprise, he chuckled softly, the sound warm, unforced.
"Actually… me too," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
Her eyes widened, blinking at him in disbelief. Wait. What? The guy who looked like he could walk out of a magazine ad or a perfume commercial—he was nervous? She hadn't expected that. Not from someone like him.
He glanced at her again, as if gauging her reaction, then took a breath and spoke carefully, thoughtfully.
"Are you okay with this marriage?" he asked. "I mean… do you have a boyfriend or something? If you really do, it's okay. I can talk with your parents. We don't have to go through with this if you don't want to."
Shruthi stared at him for a moment, startled. The last thing she expected was… this. His words weren't suspicious. They weren't accusing. They were kind. Considerate. He was giving her an out, if she wanted one.
"No," she said at last, her voice steadier this time. "I don't. And I'm okay with this marriage." Her heart pounded as she spoke, but she meant every word. Whatever this was… it felt better than the uncertainty of her own home.
There was a pause, then before she could stop herself, the question slipped out: "Is there any problem? I mean… from your side?"
Arjun hesitated, as if choosing his words. The breeze ruffled his hair slightly, and his gaze softened.
"You aren't happy with your parents, are you?" he asked quietly.
Her breath caught. She was stunned. "How did you—?"
"Their smiles," he said simply. "It's fake. I could see it. And my dad told me a little about your story. I can understand you."
Shruthi stared at him, heart beating faster—not from fear this time, but from the shock of being seen. Really seen. For someone who barely spoke, who seemed so composed, he noticed so much.
Arjun shifted his stance, standing straighter, his voice calm but firm.
"Look," he said, his tone honest. "I'm not interested in this marriage either. It's my father's wish. I don't have a girlfriend, and I'm not forcing this. But if we don't work out… we can divorce after your studies. I promise I won't make it difficult. Until then… your responsibility is mine."
He said it looking straight into her eyes, and something about the way he said it—so clear, so steady—made Shruthi feel something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Safe.
Not excited. Not giddy. Not swept off her feet like in the movies. But safe, like maybe the ground beneath her wouldn't fall away after all.
"Okay," she whispered, the word small, but certain.
He bent a little, lowering his head until he was closer, his eyes searching hers gently. His voice dropped, teasing but soft.
"Then shall we get married?" he asked, lips curved in the faintest smile.
Her heart thudded so loudly in her chest she was sure he could hear it. Her face felt hot—like fire had bloomed in her cheeks, spreading down to her neck. She looked down, flustered beyond words, too shy to meet his gaze.
"Sure," she finally managed to say, wishing she sounded braver, more composed.
And then—he smiled. Really smiled. Not polite. Not forced. But genuine, warm, and unexpectedly beautiful.
"Believe me or not," he said, his voice sincere, "you look beautiful in this dress."
Her eyes widened. What? Her mind stuttered. What did he just say?
He'd called her beautiful.
Look at yourself, dude! she thought wildly, I'm like a minion next to you. You— She shook her head inwardly. God help me. I'm melting. Literally melting right here.
For the first time that day, she felt a small, fragile hope spark quietly inside her.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
---
Author's POV
They returned to the living room, the air inside feeling heavier now, filled with unspoken thoughts and the quiet relief that the hardest part—at least for today—was over. Shruthi walked with small, measured steps, her gaze lowered, but she could sense Arjun's presence beside her, steady and calm.
Arjun resumed his seat, his mind still reeling from their private conversation on the balcony. Shruthi sat across from him, hands folded neatly in her lap, fingers fidgeting with the corner of her dupatta, stealing glances at him when no one was watching.
Arjun's father broke the silence, his voice warm, hopeful. "So… are you two okay with getting married to each other?"
The words hung in the air for a breath before both Arjun and Shruthi responded, almost in perfect unison, their voices soft but clear. "Yes."
The sound of their agreement seemed to lift a weight off the room. Subbarao smiled, his eyes crinkling with genuine joy. He laughed softly, as if trying to ease what tension remained. "Good. All the best to you two."
He turned toward Shruthi's parents, who now looked visibly relieved, their smiles brighter, their posture more relaxed. "I would prefer the wedding to be in Hyderabad," Subbarao said, tone practical but kind. "Most of our family is here. And… preferably before the second week of July. I'll be transferred to Mumbai after that."
Shruthi's father, who had been nervously adjusting his watch strap, nodded eagerly. "Of course, that's fine. That's absolutely fine. We'll begin arrangements right away."
Her mother chimed in with a tight, rehearsed smile. "Yes, we'll make sure everything is ready in time."
The polite, formal words passed back and forth between the parents, sealing the deal in the language of agreements and logistics. But Arjun barely heard them. His thoughts were elsewhere—still on the balcony, still on her face, still on that moment when she'd whispered Sure and he'd felt something in his chest shift.
Arjun and Subbarao stood to leave. There were murmured goodbyes, polite nods, and promises to stay in touch about the dates and details.
As they reached the doorway, Arjun paused, some instinct urging him to glance back one last time. His eyes found Shruthi's immediately. She stood in the hallway, just beyond the living room, quietly watching them leave. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her posture demure but her eyes—those eyes—held so much. A hundred questions, a dozen emotions, and something fragile and unspoken that tugged at his heart.
Their gazes met for a brief second, but it felt longer. Felt like something had been acknowledged between them, even if neither had the words for it yet.
---
In the car — Arjun's POV (third person)
Arjun slumped into the back seat of the car as his father started the engine. The city lights flickered past the windows as they drove through familiar streets, but his mind wasn't on the road, or the chatter of people outside, or even on the wedding his father had just helped arrange.
What the hell just happened? The thought ran circles in his head. His heart hadn't quite settled back into its usual rhythm. His ears still felt warm, his palms damp from nerves he didn't know he could feel.
"Shall we get married?" he groaned inwardly, covering his face with one hand. Who says that? Who says that like it's some dramatic movie dialogue? I actually looked into her eyes and said it. Like some hero. And I even smiled. And—oh God—I complimented her. What was I thinking?
He leaned back, fingers threading through his hair, trying to cool the heat burning his ears. Who am I? He barely recognized himself in that moment.
But then his thoughts softened, returning to the way she'd looked at him—so nervous, so uncertain, but so genuine. He could see it again: her lips slightly parted, as if she'd wanted to speak but didn't know how, her eyes wide, shimmering with questions she was too shy to voice.
She's beautiful. The admission made his chest ache, both sweet and terrifying at once.
Subbarao glanced at him through the rearview mirror, a knowing glint in his eyes. "What did you talk to her about?" he asked, voice light, casual—but Arjun knew his father was fishing for details.
Arjun shifted uncomfortably, staring out of the window as if the night sky might save him. "Nothing," he mumbled, hoping to sound disinterested.
But his father chuckled, seeing right through him. "Hmm. Nothing, is it?" The amusement in his tone was unmistakable. "You were both out there long enough to plan the honeymoon."
"Dad!" Arjun groaned, covering his face with both hands now, his cheeks burning hotter.
Subbarao laughed, patting the steering wheel. "I'm happy, son. She's a good girl. And you—well, I can see it. You'll take care of her."
Arjun let his hands drop to his lap, sighing as he stared out into the night. The city blurred past, but his mind was filled with the image of pink silk, soft lips, trembling fingers, and those eyes that seemed to see right through him.
I think… I think I'm going to fall in love with her. The realization was quiet, but it struck deep.
And it scared him.
And I'm scared it'll happen faster than I expect.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the night breeze from the window wash over his face, trying to calm the storm brewing quietly inside him.
To be continued...