India hadn't changed. That was the part that hurt the most.
The air smelled the same—dusty, heavy, slightly sweet from the vendor stalls near the airport. Everything felt frozen in time, like the world I'd left behind had simply paused, waiting for me to hit play again.
My mother stood outside the terminal, her dupatta pressed neatly over her shoulder, her smile tight, cautious. We hugged briefly—polite, not warm—and then made our way to the car.
"Papa's at home," she said, shifting gears. "He wanted you to rest after the flight."
I didn't respond. We both stared out the windshield like it held answers.
---
By the time we pulled into the driveway, I felt like I'd aged ten years in silence. The house looked exactly the same. My childhood room—same walls, same floral bed sheets I hated, same desk with the old study lamp that hadn't worked in years.
I dropped my luggage, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the wall. I didn't know if I was numb or just too tired to feel anything.
---
Dinner was quiet. Uncomfortably so. My parents asked about my flight, about Amelia, about classes. I answered like I was being interviewed.
And then my mother said it.
"We've been in touch with a family," she said lightly, like she was announcing the arrival of relatives for tea. "They're very respectable. Doctors. Their son's around your age. Working abroad."
I didn't understand immediately.
"What family?" I asked, blinking.
My father didn't look up from his plate. "We sent your details to the Sharmas. They're interested in moving forward."
"Moving forward with what?"
My mother set down her spoon carefully, as if it were glass. "They want to speak with you. Get to know you."
And then it hit me. "Wait. Are you serious? You're... arranging meetings for marriage? Without telling me?"
My father finally looked up. "You're twenty-one, Alexis. You've made it clear you won't attempt NEET again. Fine. But you can't drift through life indefinitely."
"So your solution is to marry me off like a problem to be solved?"
"No one is forcing anything," he said calmly. Too calmly. "We just want you to be open."
I stared at them both, my chest hollowing out. "This is why you called me home? You made it sound urgent. Like someone was sick."
"This is important," my mother said gently. "And it's better we talk in person."
Something inside me snapped.
"I'm not a file to be forwarded, or a favour to be negotiated," I said, my voice shaking despite how hard I tried to steady it. "You said I could choose my path. That I could figure it out."
"You've chosen to drift," my father replied. "You rejected medicine. Now you're studying psychology like it's a hobby, not a career. So what is your plan, Alexis? Tell us."
His voice wasn't angry—but it had that weight. That quiet disappointment that always made me feel like I was ten years old again, forgetting to say "thank you" after dinner.
"I'm trying," I said, gripping the edge of the table. "I'm doing well in school. I'm pushing myself every day to be better. Isn't that enough?"
"It's not about being enough," he said. "It's about being practical. We know you want independence. But sometimes, stability starts with listening—not rebelling."
That word. Rebelling. As if everything I did—choosing my major, protecting my boundaries, trying to build a life—was an act of defiance.
I felt the heat rise in my chest, throat tightening.
Don't cry.
Not now.
Not in front of them.
"I'm not rebelling," I said through clenched teeth. "I'm trying to live my life without constantly performing for you."
My mother looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't.
My father set down his napkin. "When you make real choices—ones with responsibility and consequence—then we'll talk about freedom."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stood.
"I didn't come home to be told I've failed again," I said. "I came because I thought this meant something. I thought you needed me, not a version of me you can package into a WhatsApp bio data."
The room blurred for a second, but I refused to blink the tears out. I turned away before they could see the way my jaw clenched to hold myself together.
"I'm done eating," I muttered, and walked out.
---
My room felt colder than it had when I arrived. I changed into my pajamas, sat cross-legged on the bed, and let the silence wrap around me like static.
I didn't cry. Not really. I just sat there, eyes burning, chest heavy. It was the kind of sadness that didn't scream or sob—it just... sat beside you. Quiet. Heavy. Familiar.
Then my phone buzzed.
Ethan: Still breathing?
I stared at it for a few seconds before replying.
Me: Barely.
Ethan: Wanna talk?
I didn't think. I just typed: Yes.
Seconds later, he called. I answered with a whisper. "Hi."
"You sound like hell," he said softly.
"Thanks."
"You okay?"
I almost laughed, bitter and breathless. "What kind of question is that?"
"A serious one."
I didn't answer. The silence stretched.
"They want me to meet someone," I finally said. "For marriage. A doctor's son. Good family, blah blah blah . They acted like it was casual. But it wasn't. It never is."
He didn't interrupt.
"They made it sound like it's the only next step. Because I didn't become a doctor. Because I chose psychology. Because I decided not to live the life they picked for me."
"Do they know how hard you work?" Ethan asked quietly.
"They don't care. As long as the path isn't theirs, it's wrong."
The words wavered. My voice cracked—just barely—but I kept going.
"They make it sound like I'm lost. Like I'm failing. But I'm trying so hard to hold it all together and—"
I stopped. The pressure in my chest climbed higher, and suddenly, tears welled up.
I bit down on my bottom lip. Swallowed hard.
Don't let it out.
"You're allowed to feel this, you know," Ethan said, voice low. "You don't have to keep pretending it doesn't hurt."
"I'm not pretending."
"You are. You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to cry."
"I don't cry," I said automatically.
"Then let this be a first."
I didn't respond.
"I know you're scared," he continued. "Scared of not being enough. Scared of disappointing them. But you're allowed to be a real person. Not just a role they wrote for you."
A tear slid down my cheek. I didn't wipe it away.
"You don't have to carry this alone, Alexis."
Another tear. Then another. No sobbing. No dramatic collapse. Just quiet, exhausted release.
He didn't say anything else. And I didn't need him to.
"Will you stay on the call?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
"Yeah," he said instantly. "For as long as you want."
So we stayed like that. Him breathing quietly on the other end. Me staring at the ceiling, eyes damp, heart tired.
At some point, I closed my eyes. The ache in my chest didn't go away, but it softened. The voice in my head quieted. And for the first time in days, I slept.
Not because things were okay.
But because I'd finally let myself feel how not-okay they were.