The wedding was over.

Aanya sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in a room that was never hers, staring at the silk bedsheets like they were made of thorns. Her lehenga weighed on her like a shackle. The jewelry pinched at her skin, and the smell of incense from the ceremony still lingered on her dupatta.

Arjun stood in the doorway, unsure whether to enter or leave her alone. He had changed into a kurta-pajama—simple, soft-colored, and very much like him: unthreatening, unassuming.

"I've set up the guest room for you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's down the hall, second door to the left. There's fresh towels... and water. I figured you'd want some space."

Aanya blinked. She hadn't expected him to speak—hadn't expected him to understand.

She nodded without meeting his eyes. "Thanks."

He hesitated. "If you need anything..."

"I won't."

That stung more than he let show.

Arjun gave a slight nod and turned to leave. As his footsteps faded, Aanya finally exhaled, her spine softening. The silence of the room pressed in on her like an accusation. This was what she had agreed to: a marriage where love was a stranger and the man who wore her mangalsutra was a ghost in his own home.

Arjun, meanwhile, returned to his study, a small room filled with books and half-finished sketches. He wasn't a man of many words, but he had feelings—a whole ocean of them—locked up in pages, pens, and polite silence.

He stared at the sketch on his desk: a faceless bride, drawn weeks before the wedding.

He picked up a pencil, drew a sharp line through it, and whispered to the night, "I won't force a place in your heart. But I'll try not to break mine in the process."