The days passed slowly.
Not peacefully. Not even quietly. Just... heavily. Like everything in this house moved two beats behind my breath.
My parents didn't bring up the marriage proposal again. But the silence wasn't neutral. It had a direction. A shape. A pressure that hovered in the room even when no one spoke.
And then came the guests.
Relatives, distant family friends, uncles who wore sunglasses indoors, aunties who smelled like cardamom and opinions. They came in waves, sipping tea and exchanging updates like stock prices.
"She's studying abroad now, in psychology," my mother would say, chin slightly lifted.
"Ohhh?" they'd reply, with a smile just sharp enough to draw blood. "That's... a very modern choice."
My father added his usual rehearsed line. "She was very disciplined as a child. Up before dawn, always topping her class. Of course, things change with age. Children get comfortable."
Comfortable.
The word hung in the air like a bruise.
Sometimes they asked questions. Not out of curiosity—but out of assessment.
Does she have plans for her master's?
How will psychology help her in India?
Does she cook?
The answers didn't matter. What mattered was the subtext: Is she living up to the blueprint we made for her?
No? Then she must be a little broken.
---
And then, as always, came the body talk.
"She was always on the chubbier side, right?" one aunt said, sipping chai. "Even in school. But it looked cute on her. Baby fat."
I was standing three feet away in the hallway. I heard everything.
"She's lost a lot of weight now, my god!," another said. "But still... these days girls are so obsessed with being thin. I'm pretty sure her waist isn't even 28? She looks very confident though with her figure."
They laughed, like it was affectionate.
Like I wasn't still standing there.
What they didn't know—what I never told them—is that I'd grown up hearing these comments since I was ten. That my school uniform clung to my thighs in ways other girls' never did. That my relatives used to pat my cheeks and say, "Such a healthy girl!" like it was a compliment, and then turn around and ask my mother, "Why don't you put her in sports? Take her for a run in the mornings and give her less sugar."
They didn't know that I'd spent years watching other girls eat ice cream without guilt while I calculated calories with shaking fingers. That I started going to the gym every day—not to be pretty, not to be thin, but to survive the voice in my head that screamed when my jeans pinched at the waist.
I didn't lose weight for anyone.
And I hadn't lost all of it.
I still wasn't the kind of girl you could lift in the air.
My waist still wasn't 28.
I still weighed over 50 kilos.
And in this house, that made me a cautionary tale dressed as a daughter.
---
That evening, I left the house before I said something I couldn't take back.
I told my parents I was going for a walk. They nodded, distracted, barely looking up from their phone screens.
The air outside was thick, heavy with monsoon clouds and dust. But it was still easier to breathe than inside.
I walked through the old streets, past the same houses with cracked gates and yellowing paint. Past the same corner shop where I used to buy cheap notebooks and too-sweet candies. Past the same neighbour who still sat outside reading the paper like the world hadn't shifted in the last ten years.
And then I saw them.
Riya. Tanmay. Sana. Sitting outside the café that had once been too expensive for our high school pocket money. They were sipping iced drinks and laughing like they hadn't spent years trying to be anyone but themselves.
I almost turned back.
But Riya spotted me. "Alexis?"
Too late.
I walked over, tucked my hoodie tighter around my waist, and forced a smile.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "I thought you escaped!"
"Just visiting for a few days," I said. "Break from classes."
Tanmay stood to hug me. I tensed slightly, but didn't pull away.
"You look so different," Sana said. "In a good way!"
I wasn't sure what that meant.
Probably: You used to be fat, and now you're acceptable enough to sit with us.
They invited me to sit. I didn't want to. But I did.
We talked. Mostly, they did.
Riya was running a digital art store, getting commissions from the UK and Singapore.
Tanmay had made a short film that was screening at a local indie fest.
Sana was teaching yoga and mindfulness to kids in her neighbourhood. "My parents were skeptical," she admitted, "but now they're kind of proud. It's weird but... nice."
And I sat there, nodding, smiling, trying to act happy for them. And I was.
But I was also... not.
They got support. Encouragement. Space to bloom.
I got silence. Deadlines. Conditional affection.
I took a sip of my cold coffee. It tasted watery and bitter.
"Are you happy?" Riya asked suddenly.
I froze.
"I mean," she added quickly, "you always seemed so... focused. But is it what you wanted?"
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
I looked at the sidewalk, the cracks running through it like veins.
"I don't know," I said.
She didn't push. Just nodded. That made it worse.
---
That night, I called Amelia.
It rang once. Twice. She picked up on the third.
"Alexissss," she said in her usual soft yell. "How's desi land treating you?"
I let out a weak laugh. "You mean emotionally or gastronomically?"
"Both."
"I haven't cried into a samosa yet, if that's what you're asking."
"Progress," she said.
We talked for a bit—surface-level stuff. The latest dorm drama. Amelia's ongoing war with the library Wi-Fi. Someone burned rice in the communal kitchen and set off the fire alarm again.
But I knew she could tell. I could hear it in the way her voice softened.
"You good?" she asked.
"Yeah," I lied.
She didn't reply right away. She waited.
I almost told her.
I almost said, they're still disappointed in me.
They think my body is something to whisper about when I leave the room.
They think I failed the life they designed, and they're not entirely wrong.
But instead I said, "It's just two weeks. I'll be fine."
She didn't argue. She didn't say, I know you're lying.
She just said, "Okay. Call me when you can. Or when you can't. Either's fine."
And somehow, that meant everything.
---
After we hung up, I lay in bed, the room lit only by the streetlight filtering through my curtains. I stared at the ceiling and tried to remind myself: Only a few more days.
But in that moment, it felt like I'd never left.
Like I was twelve again, clutching a report card and wondering if it would be enough.
If I would be enough.
I closed my eyes. And told myself, one more time, to stay strong.
Just a few more days.