Anahita sat propped against the headboard, a book lying open in her lap. Her eyes traced the words, but her mind refused to hold on to them. The silence of the room pressed against her chest like a weight. This house—grand, polished, too orderly—felt less like a home and more like a gilded cage.
Two months. That was how long it had been since her marriage. Two long months of trying, of adjusting, of reaching out, of waiting for some warmth from Arjun that never came. He was there—always there, in flesh, in routine, in the measured steps of his life. But he wasn't present. He lived in the hospital, in his patients, in files, in long hours that left him too tired to notice the loneliness gnawing at her.
Every evening he returned, ate dinner quietly, and slipped into bed beside her. The weight of his body shifted the mattress, his breath filled the air between them, yet it was as though he wasn't there at all. His presence or absence—neither made a difference. The nights stretched endlessly, with her lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how a marriage could feel emptier than solitude.
The maid, Meeta, bustled through the day handling chores that Anahita could have done herself. But what was left for her? She was neither needed nor wanted. A sense of unproductiveness clawed at her—like she was fading into the wallpaper, a shadow with no voice.
Something had to change.
That night, when Arjun returned, they ate together in silence as always. Anahita pushed food around her plate, summoning the courage to speak. When they finally went to their room, she opened her mouth—"Arjun, I was thinking—"
"I'm tired, Anahita," he interrupted without looking at her, already loosening his tie, his movements deliberate, dismissive. "We'll talk in the morning."
Her words died in her throat. She lay awake long after he fell asleep, clutching the thought that tomorrow she must speak, even if he brushed her aside again.
Morning light filtered through the curtains, bathing the dining room in gold. Anahita sat across from Arjun, heart pounding, determined.
"I need to talk to you," she began.
But before she could continue, Arjun turned to Meeta, his voice brisk and authoritative. "Why is madam eating this junk again? From tomorrow, make sure her diet is protein-rich, less carbs. She needs proper meals."
Heat rushed to Anahita's face. His tone, his words—commanding as though she were a child incapable of deciding what to eat. He knows nothing about me, and yet presumes to decide everything. But she wasn't in the mood for an argument about food. She forced herself to stay calm, though her hands trembled around her teacup.
"Yes, you were saying something?" he asked finally, glancing at her as though her words were another task on his checklist.
Anahita inhaled deeply, steadying herself. "I want to work again."
Arjun's fork clattered softly against the plate. His brows knitted together in quiet disapproval. "You don't need to. I earn enough for both of us."
Her heart sank, but anger swiftly followed. "It's not about money, Arjun. It's about me. About my life. I can't just sit in this house, doing nothing, waiting for you to return."
"You think you're doing nothing?" His voice hardened. "Managing a home, maintaining yourself—that's responsibility too. You undervalue it."
"I undervalue myself when I reduce my world to this dining table and these walls," she shot back, her eyes flashing. "I had a career, Arjun. I had a purpose. I don't want to live as someone's shadow."
For a moment, silence hung heavy, filled only by the ticking of the clock. Arjun's jaw clenched. He wasn't a man used to being challenged, least of all at his own table.
Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Fine. If you want to work, do it. But make sure the place is respectable. Somewhere your father would approve. I won't have you working just anywhere."
Something in Anahita snapped. Her lips curved into a bitter smile, her voice laced with quiet steel. "My father's approval? I've lived long enough under his shadow. I once trusted his choice for me—and clearly, it wasn't the best."
Her words struck like a blade, deliberate, aimed straight at him. Without waiting for his response, she rose from her chair, pushing it back with a scrape, and walked out of the room.
Arjun sat frozen, the air around him suddenly heavy. He had no doubt what her taunt meant. For the first time, beneath his controlled exterior, he felt something shift—an uncomfortable sting of truth, of failure, of being measured and found lacking.
And in that silence, the distance between them grew wider than ever.