But kindness isn’t the same as desire.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I think of Dhruv’s hand on my stomach when I was in pain. The way he stayed. The way he listened. The way he looked at me—not like I was something fragile he had to tolerate, but like I mattered.
And then Maya’s voice slips back into my head, insidious and calm.
He got the short end of the stick.
My chest tightens painfully.
I hate how quickly the old habits wake up. The counting. The comparing. The silent mental list of everything that’s “wrong” with me. Too big. Too soft. Too noticeable. I thought I was past this. I worked to get past this.
Years of therapy. Of learning to separate my worth from my weight. Of understanding that my body is not a moral failure. That existing loudly, visibly, is not a crime.
And yet—One voice. Just one.
And suddenly I’m twelve again, standing in front of a mirror, tugging at my clothes and wondering why I can’t disappear into them like other girls do.
I press my forehead against the cool stone of the railing.
Why am I letting her get to me?
I know what she’s doing.
I know.
She’s been subtle, but not invisible. The comments disguised as concern. The “helpful” suggestions. The way she watches Dhruv when she thinks no one notices.
I know jealousy when I see it. So why does it still hurt? Because some part of me is tired. Tired of always having to be strong. Tired of always having to prove that I deserve space. I imagine Dhruv hearing those words.
My stomach twists violently.
Would he laugh them off? Dismiss them? Get angry?
Or would some small part of him—some quiet, logical part—agree?
The thought makes my eyes burn.
I hate myself for thinking it. I tell myself—immediately, instinctively—that she’s wrong.
I tell myself Dhruv has never looked at me with anything but warmth. That he touches me like I’m something precious, not something to tolerate. That he almost cancelled an entire event because I had a headache. That he held me for hours when I was in pain without once making me feel like a burden.
I tell myself all of that.
But the problem with words like hers is that they don’t argue with logic. They slip in through old cracks.
He married you out of pity.
My mind recoils at the thought. No. That’s not true. He chose me. He stood up when no one else did. He—
The short end of the stick.
A smaller voice whispers:What if she’s right?
I press my lips together, suddenly aware of my body in a way I hadn’t been five minutes ago. The way my shawl sits across my shoulders. The curve of my stomach beneath the fabric. The softness I’ve learned—worked—to stop apologizing for.
My reflection flashes uninvited in my mind. From mirrors I’ve avoided. From angles that aren’t forgiving.
