The sun peeked through sheer curtains, casting pale gold onto cream-colored walls. Aanya stirred in the guest bed, her limbs sore from the weight of bridal ornaments and emotional exhaustion. For a brief second, she forgot where she was—until she saw the red bangles on her wrists and the mehndi fading from her palms.

Reality settled over her like a fog.

She freshened up slowly, deliberately, as if each minute spent alone would delay what came next—facing him again.

Downstairs, the faint clatter of cups and the hiss of a stovetop signaled someone already awake. When she finally emerged into the dining area, Arjun was there, quietly pouring tea into two cups. He wore a crisp white shirt tucked into grey slacks—clean, composed, emotionally distant.

"Good morning," he said, not looking up.

Aanya paused in the doorway. "Morning."

He gestured to the seat across from him. "I didn't know how you take your tea. So I made both—with and without sugar."

"I'll make my own," she said quickly, not wanting to owe him anything—not even a cup of tea.

Arjun didn't argue. He simply moved aside, making space for her in his home. Their home, now. At least legally.

She moved around the kitchen with the precision of a guest who didn't want to overstep. Their silences weren't hostile, just... hollow. Like the conversation had died before it was born.

Later that afternoon, Riya called.

"Are you still breathing?" she asked dryly.

Aanya lay on her back in the guest room, staring at the ceiling fan. "Barely."

"And the husband?"

"Alive. Civil. Silent. He made tea."

There was a pause. "Oh no. Not tea."

"I told you, Riya. This isn't a marriage. It's a polite disaster."

"You know, disasters don't usually come with hot beverages and space to breathe."

Aanya rolled her eyes. "Don't romanticize this. He's just... too nice. I don't know what to do with that."

"Maybe you don't have to do anything right now," Riya replied gently. "But don't punish him for not being someone you expected. Or someone you didn't choose."

That stayed with Aanya long after the call ended.

That night, as she passed Arjun in the hallway, their eyes met for a split second. Not long enough to speak, but long enough to feel something pass between them—acknowledgement, maybe. Or fatigue. Or quiet resignation.

Neither said goodnight.

But neither looked away, either.