The beads of my necklace were scattered all over the floor. I sat on the stool in front of my dressing table, watching my reflection in the jagged pieces of a broken mirror.
“Is this what I imagined the first night of my wedding would look like?”

The shrill alarm dragged me back to reality.

Four hours and thirty minutes of being a newlywed. That was all it had been. I closed my eyes and forced the tears back before they could betray me. No one outside this room needed to know what last night had looked like. They all believed this room had witnessed laughter, love, and romance. If only walls could speak—silence was not always peaceful.

My suitcase lay exactly where I had left it—on the floor beside the fallen white beads. The necklace I had fasted two hours for, believing it would bless my marriage, lay shattered like an abandoned promise. A long hot shower washed away the smudged makeup, the tear stains, and whatever remained of the night. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the room with the smile a new bride was expected to wear.

Smile.
Laugh.
Pretend.

The new bride’s handbook was easy to follow when the heart had switched itself off.

The living room was already full—relatives, cousins, neighbors. Some whispered, some stared, others measured me with their eyes the way one inspects a new painting—searching for flaws they could later discuss over tea.

I folded my hands politely.
“Good morning.”

A few women smiled. Others didn’t bother. I headed toward the kitchen to help with breakfast, though my mind was anywhere but here. Everything had changed overnight—my room, my house, my family… and the newest addition to my life—my husband.

Being a die-hard Bollywood fan, I had always imagined a magical happily-ever-after. I thought all my hardships would end the moment I got married.

Instead, they had only entered Phase Two.

“Doesn’t matter how I treat you outside these four walls, but inside, you’re neither my wife nor anything—just a roommate I am forced to share space with.”

His words from last night echoed so loudly that I didn’t realize I had sliced my finger while cutting potatoes. The sting brought me back to the kitchen where my sister-in-law stared at my bleeding hand, concern flooding her face.

“Bhabi! You should be careful. And who asked you to help here? You should be resting.” She quickly wrapped a bandage around my finger and gently pulled me back toward the living room.

For a while, surrounded by jokes and laughter, my mind finally stopped replaying last night. The noise was a temporary balm—thin, but enough to hold me together.

I sat quietly, listening to the elders discuss ceremonies and wedding customs, when his voice suddenly entered the room.

“My wife can’t stay away from responsibilities even for a minute, can she?”

I froze.

He was standing there—my husband—the same man whose words had torn through me only hours ago. His expression before the family was warm, almost playful, and the room instantly broke into approving smiles.

“A newlywed bride should rest,” he continued, walking toward me. “Not run to the kitchen and cut herself on the first day.”

I stared at him, stunned. Was this the same person who had drawn a line between us the night before?

He sat beside me, gently taking my injured hand as if it were something precious. I could feel the eyes of the entire room on us—relatives smiling, cousins giggling, a few women whispering in admiration.

“Let me see it,” he said softly, tilting my palm upward.

I could barely process this version of him. His thumb brushed lightly across the bandage, and he looked at me like a husband who cared—like the kind I had once dreamed of having.

“You should take care of yourself,” he said in a tone that even I would have believed if I hadn’t lived through last night.

The aunties around us sighed dreamily.

“A perfect husband,” one whispered.

“Look how gently he speaks to her,” another admired.

I kept my smile small, polite, entirely proper. My heart, however, felt like a trapped bird—beating, confused, unsure whether to trust the hand petting it or flee from it.

He squeezed my hand lightly before letting go, his face still carrying that affectionate smile.

“She is new here,” he told the room. “I will take care of her.”

More appreciative murmurs followed. People loved a husband who looked loving. Love itself was secondary.

I nodded respectfully, pretending I was as touched as everyone else believed I should be. A perfect scene. The exact kind families dream of seeing.

Except they didn’t know…

When the lights dimmed,
when the doors closed,
when there were no eyes to impress…

our perfect little picture would fade.

Lunch passed in a blur, filled with rituals and blessings. Every now and then someone teased us, and he would respond gently, playing the role flawlessly. Sometimes he met my eyes, smiling as though he held the moon itself in his hands to offer me.

No one saw the shadow behind those smiles except me.

As evening settled, the house grew quieter. The relatives left one by one, and decorations were taken down. I helped in the kitchen again, this time more carefully, not wanting my thoughts to run sharp enough to cut my skin.

My sister-in-law bumped me lightly.
“Bhai really cares for you,” she whispered with a wink. “You’re lucky.”

Lucky.

That word tasted metallic on my tongue.

I smiled instead of answering.

Night soon arrived. The long day felt heavier than my wedding lehenga, and my limbs ached with the effort of pretending. I walked to our room slowly, holding the doorknob for a second before turning it.

Inside, the air had changed again.

Gone was the warmth from the living room—the gentleness, the tenderness, the admiration.

He sat on the bed, scrolling through his phone, not bothering to look up as I entered.

The silence pressed down on the room, familiar and sharp.

After a moment, he spoke, voice flat and cold, the charm stripped away:

“Remember what I said last night. What you saw today was for them. Not for you. Don’t forget your place.”

The words carved through the quiet like a blade. I stood still, feeling that earlier applause from the world dissolve into dust at my feet.

He didn’t look at me again. Just kept scrolling.

I swallowed hard, lowering my eyes.

Some marriages were made in heaven.
Some were rehearsed in front of society.
And some… existed only between the four walls that knew too much.

I walked to the far side of the room, each step reminding me of reality—this was not the fairytale I had dressed up for.

And yet… while my world shrank into this room, a distant whisper tugged at the corner of my mind.

Another night had come.

And with the night came sleep.

And with sleep…

A door to a place where pain wasn’t masked with smiles,
where words didn’t twist into knives,
where someone, somewhere, might be waiting to ask—

“Did it hurt again?”

As I closed my eyes, the four walls blurred.

And the world that understood me came calling.