The music swelled again, and laughter erupted near the dance floor where her cousins spun in matching lehengas. Someone dabbed rose water across her forehead; someone else adjusted the dupatta on her shoulder.

But Kashish wasn’t present anymore.

Her eyes were open. Her smile faint.
But inside—she had slipped away.

Back to a different day.

A different version of herself.

The night of her wedding.

She could still remember the weight of it. Not the jewelry—not the saree heavy with zardozi—but the silence wrapped inside her chest.
The way her bangles clinked when she folded her hands in namaste.
The way her eyes searched for his, even though she already knew they wouldn’t find much there.

Tanishk had stood at the mandap like he was standing in a boardroom—polished, perfect, detached.

He had done everything right. Tied the mangalsutra with steady hands. Applied the sindoor with precision. Smiled for the cameras, said the right words to elders, thanked the pandit.

But never once had he looked at her like a man looks at his bride.

Even then, on that day woven in marigolds and holy fire, he had felt a thousand miles away.

And she? She had kept telling herself it would come. The connection. The comfort. The softness.
That maybe, after the rituals, he would look at her and see her.

But when she had entered his house that night—their house now—he had left her on the room.

That was it.

No warmth. No anger.
Just… nothing.

And she’d sat there, still in bridal red, while the mehendi on her palms darkened overnight, growing deeper in color even as the space between them stretched wider.

Now, in the present, her fingers twitched slightly as the artist moved up her arm, drawing vines that curled like questions.

“Kya likhun, didi?” the artist asked again, tilting her head gently. “No name at all? Not even an initial?”

(What should i write..?)

Kashish blinked, jolted softly from the memory.

She looked at her palms—intricate, flawless, stunning.

And yet, all she could think was how beautiful the pain could look when dressed up in patterns.

“No,” she whispered. “No initials. Just… art.”

The girl nodded and went on, filling her arms with quiet elegance.

Somewhere, fireworks cracked open the sky. Someone was shouting for another round of dancing. A dhol beat pulsed louder.

But Kashish sat still, mehendi drying on her skin.

Memories clinging even tighter.

She didn’t turn to look for him this time.

Because some silences didn’t need to be filled.

They just needed to be endured.

Tanishk stood near one of the carved stone pillars of the courtyard, a glass of untouched sherbet in his hand, sleeves rolled precisely, collar buttoned just so. Around him, the wedding bloomed in full color—chatter, sparkle, scent, noise. Everything a celebration should be.

But his eyes saw only her.

Kashish.

Seated on the mehendi stage, her hands outstretched, skin darkening with henna. Surrounded by people, yet utterly alone in the middle of it all.

She wasn’t laughing—not really. She smiled when someone said something, nodded on cue, even tilted her head the way she always had when someone adjusted her earrings. But he saw it. The way her fingers tensed. The way her shoulders rose a little too tightly with every breath.

She was pretending.

She always had been better at that than him.

His gaze dropped to her palms, where the artist’s cone glided over her skin with practiced ease. And he wondered—would his name be hidden in those patterns again?

He doubted it.

She hadn’t even looked at him since that first moment.

Not once.

It stung more than he expected.

Tanishk exhaled and shifted his stance, as if standing still made it harder to breathe. Across the courtyard, two of her cousins spotted him and nudged each other, giggling behind dupattas before scampering away.

His father had told him to show up.

He had.

But now that he was here, watching her from across this glittering battlefield, he realized: this wasn’t about showing up for them.

This was about her.

About the way she had once looked at him—before it all hardened between them. When she still believed their silences were temporary. When she still tried.

And now?

Now she didn’t even flinch at his presence.

A group of elders passed in front of him, briefly blocking his view. By the time they cleared, Kashish was laughing at something a cousin had said, head tilted back, eyes closed.

And yet, somehow, he knew it wasn’t real.

Because her smile didn’t reach the scar on her left cheek—the one only he ever noticed.

The one he once kissed when she was crying on her result out, she did terribly on a math exam. Her father scolded her.

Tanishk looked away then, just for a moment.

But it was enough for the ache to settle deep in his chest.

Not jealousy. Not regret.

Something far more dangerous.

Recognition.

Of how much he had let fall between them.

And how little time there might be left to gather it back.

The music burst into life again, echoing through the courtyard like a drumbeat of joy. Kashish was on the stage now, surrounded by a whirl of cousins in mirror-work lehengas, all of them dancing in tight circles, laughing with abandon. The crowd clapped and whistled, phones raised to capture the moment. Somewhere near the edge of the dance floor, someone shouted her name.

She smiled. She twirled.

But her eyes didn’t quite sparkle.

She hadn’t planned to dance. Not tonight. But Ishita had tugged her hand so insistently, and the others had cheered until she caved. So here she was—Kashish, the smiling sister of the groom, playing her part. The music rose. Her steps followed.

But inside, something remained untouched.

Across the courtyard, beneath the flickering glow of fairy lights, Tanishk stood watching. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other curled loosely around a glass of sherbet that had long since gone warm. His gaze never left her.

She moved with practiced grace—her hair braided in jasmine, her waist swaying gently, ghungroos chiming. To everyone else, she looked radiant. Celebratory. Whole.

But he saw past the rhythm.

He saw the moment it changed—when Yash came up to the stage, smiling wide. He threw his arms around Ishita, lifted another cousin in a mock spin, laughing loudly. But when his eyes passed over Kashish, he didn’t stop.

No hug. No nod. Not even a glance that lingered.

Just… nothing.

Tanishk saw the flicker in her face. That almost-invisible pause in movement. Her foot missed a beat. Her smile thinned, flickering like a dying candle. She didn’t stop dancing—of course not. Kashish never stopped. She had learned long ago how to keep going even when something inside her collapsed.

And yet, in that single moment, he felt it again—that same hollowness he had seen in her the night of their wedding. The way she had waited for warmth that never came. The way she had walked into their shared room wearing bridal red, only to sit alone while silence swallowed her whole.

She never said anything.

She never accused him.

She just… adjusted. Quietly.

Like she had now, mid-dance, her smile stitched carefully back into place.

The applause roared again as the cousins struck their final pose. Laughter erupted. Someone pulled Kashish into a side hug. But Taniskh’s eyes were locked on her face, watching the way she quickly glanced toward her brother, just once, hoping maybe he’d turn back.

He didn’t.

And Kashish—she didn’t try again.

She clapped along with the others. Turned toward the next song. Tilted her head for a selfie with a cousin.

But the way her hands hung just slightly stiff. The way her laugh echoed a fraction behind the beat. The way she stood a little outside the joy—even while standing in the center of it.

It was all too familiar.

Tanishk swallowed hard. The sherbet in his hand suddenly tasted like regret.
Because it wasn’t just Yash who had missed the moment.

He had done it, too.

Too many times.

And as the lights danced over her face, he realized—

It wasn’t just her brother who had forgotten how to see her.

He had, too.

And maybe—just maybe—she’d stopped waiting for any of them to remember.

The music shifted again—louder now, more playful—as a group of cousins came skipping across the courtyard, all bright smiles and jingling bangles. Someone grabbed Tanishk’s wrist, another looped an arm through his, their laughter rising like mischief on the wind.

“Jiju!” one of them chirped. “Aap bachke nahi jaa sakte! It’s your turn now!”

(You can’t escape..!)

“Come on, we’ve decided,” Ishita said, eyes gleaming. “You have to dance. You’re our only Jiju. And it’s tradition—bride and groom perform together.”

Kashish, still catching her breath from the last round, stepped back, shaking her head with a nervous smile. “No, no. Let it be,” she said quickly. “He can’t. He has a… a pain in his leg.”

The lie slipped out before she could stop it—soft, protective, practiced.

Tanishk looked at her then. Really looked.

She was standing just beside Ishita now, her body angled slightly in front of his, like a shield. Her hands clasped lightly at her waist, eyes meeting his just for a second—enough to say you don’t have to.

And in that moment, he understood.

It wasn’t just about the dance.
It was about not making a scene.
About preserving dignity in a crowd that didn’t always know where the lines were.

Tanishk exhaled slowly and nodded, playing his part. “Yeah,” he said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “Old sprain. Still acts up sometimes. Can’t move much.”

“Ohh,” a cousin said, face falling in brief disappointment.
“But next wedding, pakka,” another teased, already turning away.

The group dissolved as quickly as it had formed, attention drifting back toward the stage. The moment passed.

No one insisted.

No one danced.

Kashish turned toward him once more, just briefly. Her lips curved into the faintest expression—not quite a smile, not quite gratitude. Just... acknowledgment.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

But in the quiet that followed, Tanishk felt something settle in his chest—not heavy, not sharp. Just real.

There were some things they had never learned how to say out loud.

But maybe silence, this time, had said enough.

Sneak peek- Chapter 17

Then Karan turned toward him fully, brows drawn in, no longer casual. “Can I ask you something, Tanishk?”

Tanishk’s posture stiffened. “Hmm?”

“Do you love her?”