I turn away as the priest announces the next ritual, my chest tight.
I’ll leave early tonight, once my duties are done. I’ll drive back to the estate, pour myself a drink, and convince myself I’m fine.
I’ll do what I’ve always done—pretend.
But for now, I stand still, letting the sound of her laughter carry through the night air like a melody I already know by heart, and I tell myself it’s enough.
Because at least I am something to her this way.
And that will have to be enough.
The Bride Left Waiting
SITARA
There’s a certain kind of silence that doesn’t belong in weddings. It isn’t the soft pause before the music starts or the hush when the priest chants. It’s heavier—like air itself is holding its breath.
That’s the silence I’m sitting in.
The garlands around the mandap smell too sweet. The lights blur. The jewelry on my wrists suddenly weighs like chains. Somewhere in the distance, I can still hear the flute playing the same tune on repeat because no one has told the musician to stop. No one dares.
Because the groom hasn’t shown up.
Ayush hasn’t shown up.
I hear the words whispered from one corner of the hall to another, carried like wind.
Traffic, maybe.
He’s on his way.
Someone call his family.
What an insult.
Poor girl.
Poor girl.
That one stings the most.
I keep my eyes on the floor, afraid that if I meet anyone’s gaze, I’ll crumble. Meher bhabhi-sa kneels beside me, her fingers brushing mine gently.
“Breathe, Sitara,” she whispers.
I try, but my chest feels locked.
Across the mandap, Poorvi is already speaking quietly with Devraj bhai-sa. His jaw is tight, his hands clasped behind his back—every muscle screaming restraint.
The priest coughs. And I—I laugh.
It’s a sharp, ugly sound, clawing its way out of my throat. Because what else am I supposed to do? Scream? Cry? Break something?
My fingers curl into fists. The bangles dig into my skin, sharp and unrelenting. For a second, I want to tear them off. Throw them at the door Ayush was supposed to walk through. Watch them shatter like the promises he made.
But I don’t. Because Sitara Singh Shekhawat doesn’t make scenes. She smiles. She endures.
“Maybe he just changed his mind about the buffet,” I mutter.
