I sit down slowly on the edge of the bed, the weight of the saree suddenly heavy on my shoulders. I close my eyes, finally letting the tears fall. They slide down silently, one after another, soaking into the fabric of my blouse.
I feel guilty—for lying, for making him worry, for wanting him to stay and go at the same time. I feel ashamed—for letting one comment undo me. I feel angry—at myself, at Maya, at a world that never seems to stop measuring women by the space they occupy.
I curl in on myself, arms wrapping around my middle.
I don’t hate my body. But tonight, I don’t love it either. And that hurts more than I want to admit.
Three good things
DHRUV
I wake up to movement instead of stillness. That alone is unusual.
Most mornings, I wake before her. Always have. It’s become a quiet ritual I never planned but secretly look forward to—opening my eyes and finding Sitara still asleep, her face relaxed in a way she never allows herself when she’s awake. I like lying there for a few minutes, not touching her, not waking her, just… watching. Memorising. As if my mind is afraid it might forget the exact curve of her lashes or the way her mouth softens when she’s not guarding it.
Today, that ritual is missing.
I blink, eyes adjusting, and find her standing near the dresser, already dressed. Hair damp, a towel folded neatly on the chair. She’s fastening her earrings with a concentration that feels unnecessary for something so small.
Disappointment hits my chest—soft but sharp.
I sit up slowly. “What are you doing?”
She glances at me in the mirror. “You’re awake.”
“You should be resting,” I say, more firmly than I intend to. “You weren’t feeling well last night.”
She exhales through her nose, the sound tired. “I am fine now.” Then, quieter, under her breath she mutters, “I was looking horrible, so I wanted to take a shower and get dressed.”
That sentence lands wrong. I’m out of bed before I realise I’ve decided to move. The floor is cool under my feet as I cross the room in two strides and stop in front of her. She startles slightly when my hands settle on her shoulders—gentle, steady, grounding.
“Sitara,” I say, our eyes locking, my sole attention on her.
She tries to laugh it off, the sound airy and unconvincing. “What? Don’t look at me like that.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I lift my hand and use my thumb to tilt her chin up until she’s forced to meet my eyes. “You don’t ever look horrible.”
She snorts softly. “You don’t need to lie to make me feel better. Everyone looks bad when they wake up. I look like I’ve been hit by a truck most mornings.”
Something sharp twists in my chest. Not anger exactly. Something closer to fury—but cold, controlled, directed not at her, but at the world that taught her to speak about herself like this.
I tighten my grip just slightly, enough that she can’t step away, but careful—always careful—not to hurt her.
“No,” I say. “We’re not doing this.”
She blinks, confused now. “Doing what?”
I hold her gaze. “Degrading you,” I say firmly, “Say three good things about yourself.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “What?”
“You heard me.”
This is ridiculous, I know, and almost childish, but I will never let her talk about herself like that, especially now.
“You’re not getting out of here unless you do,” I continue, voice firmer now. “And don’t rush it.”
She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What are you—”
