Why does one sentence undo so much?
I’ve worked so hard to be kind to myself. Therapy taught me to name the voices in my head, to recognize which ones belong to fear and which ones belong to truth. I know my body isn’t the problem. I know PCOD isn’t a failure. I know weight fluctuates, hormones misbehave, life happens.
I know all of this. And yet. The doubt creeps in anyway, slipping into the cracks I thought I’d sealed shut. Memories surface uninvited—changing rooms with harsh lights, relatives comments disguised as concern, the constant feeling of taking up too much space.
I close my eyes, inhale deeply.
You’re okay, Sitara. You’re okay.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Sitara?” Dhruv’s voice.
My heart stutters. “Yes,” I call out, a little too quickly.
He steps inside, already adjusting his cufflinks, mid-motion—then stops. For a split second, he just looks at me. “You look beautiful,” he says simply. The words are so warm, so immediate, it’s like he has been caught unfiltered. Something in my chest twists painfully.
“Dhruv,” I squeak, the sound embarrassing even to my own ears. “Is it okay if I don’t accompany you tonight?”
The words tumble out faster than I intend.
His brows knit together instantly. He steps closer. “What? Why? Are you okay?”
I shake my head, then nod, then shake it again. “I just… I have a headache. It’s nothing serious. I think it would be better if I rested.”
He studies me the way he does when he knows I’m holding something back. “Are you sure?” he asks gently.
“Yes,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “You should go. It’s an important event. I don’t want you to miss it because of me.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Then I’m not going.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“I’ll cancel,” he replies, already reaching for his phone.
“No!” I protest, stepping forward. “Dhruv, you can’t. This matters. You promised—”
“I promised you,” he interrupts, looking up at me. “And right now, you don’t look fine.”
“I am fine,” I insist, even as my voice wobbles.
He lowers his phone slowly. “Sitara.” That’s all he says. My name. There’s no accusation or argument. Just concern.
Something breaks inside me. I press my lips together, nodding, because if I open my mouth again, I will cry, and I don’t want to explain why I’m crying over a dress, over a sentence, over a body I’m still learning how to live in without apology.
“Please,” I whisper. “Go. I’ll feel worse if you don’t.”
He searches my face for a long moment, then exhales. “Alright,” he says quietly. “But only if you promise to rest.”
“I promise.”
He reaches out, hesitates, then cups my cheek gently. “I’ll stay close. If you need me—”
“I know,” I say softly.
He nods once and leaves the room.
The door closes.
