I woke up before the alarm.
For a few quiet seconds, I forgot everything.
Forgot the decision.
Forgot the heaviness inside my chest.
Forgot that today was meant to be an ending.
Then memory returned—slow and merciless.
Today was Kartik's grandfather's birthday.
And tonight… I would give him the divorce papers.
The room was still dim, wrapped in the pale blue of early morning.
Kartik wasn't beside me.
He hadn't been beside me in a very long time.
I lay there without moving, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.
Each second felt louder than usual, as if time itself knew what I had decided.
A strange calm lived inside me.
Not peace. Not happiness.
Just the quiet stillness that comes before something breaks forever.
Slowly, I sat up.
My feet touched the cold marble floor, and a faint shiver ran through me.
Everything felt sharper today—the air, the silence, even my own heartbeat.
Maybe endings make the world clearer.
I stood in front of the wardrobe for a long time without opening it.
Two years of marriage hung inside—sarees he had never noticed, jewelry worn for festivals he barely attended, colors chosen with hope that slowly faded into habit.
Today, I didn't want habit.
I wanted to look like a memory.
Something beautiful enough to leave behind.
My fingers finally moved to a deep wine-colored saree, soft silk that shimmered gently when it caught the light.
Elegant. Quiet.
The kind of beauty that doesn't ask for attention, only remembrance.
I draped it slowly, carefully pleating each fold as if time had stretched just for me.
My hands didn't tremble.
That scared me more than tears would have.
At the dressing table, I opened the small wooden box.
The mangalsutra lay inside.
Beside it, the sindoor.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
Two years ago, wearing them had felt like stepping into a dream.
Today, it felt like touching the final page of a story.
Still, I picked them up.
Because if this was the last day I lived as Kartik's wife,
I wanted to live it completely.
The black beads rested against my neck.
The sindoor filled the parting of my hair in a thin red line—fragile, sacred, temporary.
My earrings were small diamonds.
The necklace light.
Nothing loud. Nothing heavy.
Just enough to look like I belonged beside him.
I curled my hair softly and left it open over one shoulder.
When I looked at my reflection, a stranger looked back—calm, composed, almost happy.
No one would guess she was leaving tonight.
Voices drifted from the hall below.
Guests had started arriving for the celebration.
I inhaled slowly and practiced a smile.
Not too bright. Not too dull.
Just believable.
By the time I reached the last step, I had already hidden my heart.
Kartik was standing near the entrance with his family.
For one fragile second, his eyes met mine—
and he froze.
Completely still, as if the world had paused between us.
Something unreadable passed through his expression.
Too fast for me to understand.
Too deep for me to trust.
Then, without a word, he walked toward me, took my hand gently, and led me to his grandfather.
"Dadaji," I said softly, touching his feet.
His face lit up with real happiness, the kind that made guilt twist inside my chest.
"Stay happy, both of you," he blessed us, placing his hand on our heads.
Both of you.
The words felt heavier than they should have.
After the banquet ended, only family remained.
We all sat around the large round dining table—parents, uncles, aunts, Kartikey, Anamika… and Kartik beside me.
So close, yet still impossibly far.
Dadaji kept asking me questions, happy to see me after so long.
I answered softly while eating, mostly nodding, afraid my voice might reveal something.
Then suddenly he laughed and asked when he would hear good news… when we would give him great-grandchildren.
The food caught in my throat.
I started coughing, trying to breathe.
Before anyone noticed too much, Kartik's hand closed around mine under the table.
Firm. Steady.
"We're trying, Dadaji," he said calmly.
The table filled with laughter, blessings, smiles.
I stared at him in shock.
He didn't look at me.
But he didn't let go of my hand either.
And that small warmth hurt more than cold distance ever had.
Later, when the house grew quieter, I walked toward our room.
Each step felt like walking toward a cliff I had already decided to jump from.
The divorce papers were on the center table near the sofa, exactly where I had placed them.
I sat at the dressing table, removing my earrings slowly, one by one.
The sound of the door opening echoed behind me.
Kartik entered, loosening his watch, his expression tired but calm.
"You did very well today," he said quietly.
"I'm happy with you."
My fingers tightened around the earring.
"Take the papers from the table," I whispered.
Silence fell.
Seconds passed.
Then his voice—sharp, furious—broke the room as he called my name.
Before I could react, he pulled me up.
His grip was strong, his eyes burning with emotions I had never seen before.
Fear. Pain. Possession. Love.
All tangled together.
Tears were falling from my eyes, and I didn't even know when they had begun.
Everything after that blurred into closeness, into breaking walls, into emotions neither of us knew how to stop.
That night, we stopped being strangers.
And somewhere between anger and longing, between tears and silence, he said only one thing against my skin—
"You're mine."
When I woke up, the room was quiet.
Kartik was gone.
The divorce papers were torn.
My clothes lay scattered, and a soft ache remained in my back with the memory of the night.