There’s something about her that always makes me feel… off-balance. It’s subtle. Not overt hostility. Not warmth either. Just a faint, persistent pressure, like standing too close to a wall without realizing it.
“May I say something?” she asks.
Every instinct in me says no.
I don’t like the way she looks at me sometimes. I don’t like the tightness of her smiles. I don’t like the way my chest always feels heavier after she speaks.
But years of conditioning don’t disappear overnight. Years of being taught that saying no makes you difficult, ungrateful, dramatic.
So I nod.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
She steps closer. I don’t turn, but I can feel her now, standing beside me, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“Don’t you think,” she begins, her voice careful, almost hesitant, “that you should put in at least some effort into looking good for Raja-sa?”
The words hit me like a slap I didn’t see coming.
I blink once.
Then again.
My fingers curl tighter around the railing.
She continues, her tone still maddeningly soft. “I mean… sure, he married you. But everyone knows it was out of pity.”
My breath stutters.
Pity.
The word sinks into my skin like a bruise.
“It’s unfair to him, really,” she goes on, as if she’s discussing something reasonable. “That he got… well. The short end of the stick.”
I swallow hard. My throat feels too tight, like I’ve forgotten how to use it.
“I just think,” she adds, tilting her head slightly, “you should try dieting. Lose at least… some weight. So you don’t embarrass him that much.”
She lets out a small, almost apologetic sigh. “I’m sorry if I’m saying too much. I just wanted you to know.”
And then she walks away. Just like that. No raised voice. No obvious cruelty. No witnesses. Just words, left behind like shards of glass. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t even blink for a few seconds, because if I do, I’m afraid something inside me will finally crack open.
Out of pity.
The terrace feels suddenly too large. Too exposed. The sky above me stretches endlessly, uncaring, while my chest caves inward.
I press my palm flat against my stomach without realizing it.
My mind starts spiraling before I can stop it.
Maybe she’s right.
The thought arrives quietly, deceptively calm.
He’s kind. He’s always been kind. Of course he would marry me when I was abandoned. Of course he would step in. That’s who Dhruv is.
My reflection stares back at me from the glass railing—soft edges, familiar curves, the body I’ve learned to live in after years of therapy and unlearning cruelty.
