The room is bright, too bright, the lights bouncing off the mirror in a way that makes it impossible to look anywhere but at myself. Or maybe I am panicking. The gown hangs from my shoulders like it’s unsure whether it wants to stay. I tug at the fabric near my waist, then lower, then higher again, my fingers moving on instinct, on habit.
It doesn’t fit. Not the way it did during the trial, which was only a week ago.
I suck in a breath, subtly at first, then a little harder, as if air alone can fix this. The zipper is already up, but the fabric pullsacross my stomach, clinging in places I don’t want it to, outlining curves I suddenly wish I could erase.
Behind me, Maya clears her throat. I meet her eyes in the mirror, my cheeks flushing from embarrassment.
She’s standing near the wardrobe, hands folded neatly in front of her, posture perfect as always. Her expression is… tight. Not unkind, exactly. Just controlled. Measured.
“Have you gained weight, Rani-sa?” she asks lightly, lips curving into something that resembles a smile.
The words hit me harder than I expect.
I freeze.
It’s not the question itself. I’ve heard worse. I’ve asked myself worse, in darker moments, in front of harsher mirrors. It’s the way she says it—casual, almost concerned, like it’s an observation, not a judgment.
My throat closes.
“I—” I start, then stop, because suddenly I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. No? Yes? Does it matter?
Before I can gather myself, she continues quickly, waving a hand as if brushing the moment away.
“It’s okay,” she says. “These things happen. You should wear a saree, anyway. The dress won’t really suit your… body shape.”
Body shape.
Not you. Not your style. Not the cut or the color.
Your body shape.
Something inside me goes very quiet.
“Oh.” My voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.
She turns toward the wardrobe, already reaching for silk and chiffon, for something safe, something traditional, something that won’t draw attention. “The saree will look much better. Elegant.”
I swallow hard.
I don’t argue. I don’t ask her to leave. I don’t tell her she’s wrong or cruel or thoughtless. I simply nod and let her help me out of the gown, my movements slow, mechanical, like I’m made of glass and one wrong step will shatter me.
The saree is beautiful. Of course it is. Deep jewel tones, soft fabric, a blouse that fits perfectly because it was stitched with room to spare.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel… small.
Maya doesn’t say a word as she works, adjusting pleats, fixing the pallu, pinning everything into place with practiced efficiency. I barely feel her. My thoughts are loud enough on their own.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the gown really wouldn’t have looked good on me. Maybe this is safer. Maybe this is what I should stick to.
The mirror reflects a version of me that looks composed, regal even. Anyone looking from the outside would see a queen ready for an event, draped in silk, polished and presentable.
No one would see the knot forming in my stomach.
Maya steps back, inspecting her work. “There,” she says. “Much better.”
I nod again.
When she leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her, the silence rushes in, heavy and suffocating. I grip the edge of the dressing table, staring at my reflection.
