“I know,” I admit. “But honestly, I’m just tired. Everyone around me keeps moving forward, and I feel… stuck. So maybe this is what moving on looks like.”
Poorvi’s eyes soften. “You don’t owe anyone proof that you’re moving on. Marriage isn’t a finish line.”
“Tell that to every auntie who’s been calling me a spinster since I turned twenty-four,” I mumble.
Poorvi snorts. “Next time someone says that, just tell them you’re waiting for your divine calling. Make it sound dramatic.”
I laugh despite myself. “You should be my PR person.”
“My husband is, if that helps” She grins.
The laughter fades after a moment, leaving a quiet stillness that wraps around us. The kind of silence that fills every pre-wedding room—where nerves hum beneath the surface and everyone pretends they aren’t terrified of change.
I glance at Bhabhi-sa and Poorvi, both so put together, both having faced storms of their own. And yet, here they are—smiling, glowing, at peace. Maybe love does that to people. Or maybe they just learned how to breathe through the chaos.
I envy that.
The door creaks open again, and one of the palace attendants peeks in. “Rani-sa, the baraat will arrive in twenty minutes.”
Rani-sa.
The title still feels foreign. Like a costume I haven’t grown into. I nod, and he bows slightly before leaving.
“Breathe,” Bhabhi-sa says quietly. “It’s just a ceremony.”
I inhale deeply, exhale slower. “That’s easy for you to say. You married a king.”
She chuckles softly. “And you’re marrying someone you chose. Besides, he's also going to become one soon, not that it matters.”
“I chose him because he didn’t make me want to run away,” I admit. “That’s a low bar.”
“Sometimes comfort is a good start,” she says, brushing invisible dust off my sleeve.
The mirror catches my eyes again—lined with kajal, lips painted, cheeks glowing, a stranger looking back at me in bridal red. I don’t look like the girl who spent nights sketching alone, who hid her panic attacks behind sarcasm, who never believed she’d fit into this world of perfect smiles and thinner waists.
I look like someone who belongs. And somehow, that terrifies me even more.
My phone buzzes on the table beside me. It’s a message from my best friend, Tia.
Tia
Still time to run. I’ll meet you at the gate with your sneakers.
I smile. My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type back —
Me
Too late. I’m already in the cage.
A few seconds later, her reply flashes —
Tia
At least it’s a pretty cage. You’ll be okay, Sit.
I stare at the message for a moment too long.
Will I be?
