Morning came quietly, as if the night had never happened.
Soft sunlight slipped through the thin curtains, touching the edge of the bed. For a few seconds, I lay still, staring at the ceiling, my mind blank. Then reality hit me like a slow, heavy weight pressing down on my chest.
I was married.
Nikah done. Words spoken. Fate sealed.
I turned my head instinctively to the other side of the bed.
She was there.
Sitting upright, her back straight, hands folded neatly on her lap. The red dupatta still rested over her head, as if she hadn't moved since last night. Her face was calm—too calm—but her eyes were fixed on the floor, avoiding everything… especially me.
A stranger.
And yet, she was my wife.
The room was silent, filled with an awkwardness so thick it felt impossible to breathe through. I cleared my throat, unsure how to begin a conversation that should have started with love but instead began with uncertainty.
"Good morning," I said finally.
She flinched.
Just a small movement, barely noticeable, but enough to tighten something inside my chest. Slowly, she nodded without looking at me.
"Good morning," she replied softly.
Her voice was gentle, almost fragile, but distant. Like someone speaking from behind a closed door.
I wanted to ask her so many things.
Are you scared?
Are you angry?
Did you want this marriage at all?
But none of those questions felt right to ask.
Instead, I said, "You… you didn't sleep?"
She shook her head slightly. "Not much."
Neither did I.
I pushed myself up from the bed, rubbing my face. Everything felt unfamiliar—the room, the silence, the responsibility that now sat heavily on my shoulders. I wasn't just a man anymore. I was a husband.
Her husband.
I glanced at her again. She hadn't changed her position. Still guarded. Still distant.
"What's your name?" I asked suddenly, then immediately felt stupid.
Of course I knew her name. I had spoken it during the nikah. But knowing a name and knowing a person were very different things.
She hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of her dupatta.
"You know it already," she said quietly.
"I know the name," I replied. "Not the person."
That made her look up.
Our eyes met for the first time since the nikah.
There was fear there. Not loud, not dramatic—but deep, carefully hidden fear. The kind that comes from being trapped in something you didn't choose.
"I'm not good at talking," she said after a moment. "Especially… like this."
"Neither am I," I admitted.
A brief silence followed, but this one felt less suffocating.
I stood up. "I'll give you some space. Get ready. Ammi will probably call us for breakfast."
She nodded again.
As I walked toward the washroom, I stopped at the door. "You don't have to be afraid," I said, not sure if I was trying to reassure her or myself. "I won't force anything on you. Not today. Not ever."
She didn't reply—but when I glanced back, I saw something flicker in her eyes. Relief, perhaps.
Breakfast was… uncomfortable.
My family tried their best to act normal—smiling, asking harmless questions—but the tension sat at the table like an uninvited guest. Ammi kept watching her closely, concern written all over her face.
"Are you okay, beta?" Ammi asked her gently.
"Yes, Ammi," she replied politely, her voice steady but distant.
She barely touched her food.
I noticed everything.
The way she kept her gaze low.
The way her shoulders stiffened whenever someone spoke to her directly.
The way she sat just a little too straight, like she was afraid of making a mistake.
After breakfast, Ammi pulled me aside.
"She seems very quiet," she whispered. "Be patient with her."
"I know," I said.
But patience was harder than I thought.
Back in the room, the silence returned.
She stood near the window now, watching the outside world like it belonged to someone else. I leaned against the opposite wall, unsure where I fit in this space that was now supposed to be ours.
"You can sit," I said. "You don't have to stand."
She hesitated before sitting on the edge of the bed, leaving a careful distance between us.
"Listen," I began, choosing my words slowly. "I don't know what circumstances led to this marriage. But I want you to know one thing—"
I paused.
"You're safe here."
She let out a quiet breath, as if she had been holding it in for a long time.
"I didn't have a choice," she said suddenly.
The words were soft, but they hit me hard.
I turned fully toward her. "About the marriage?"
She nodded. "It was decided. I was told to accept."
Anger flared inside me—not at her, but at the situation. At traditions that forgot people had hearts.
"I'm sorry," I said honestly.
She looked surprised. "Why are you apologizing? You didn't force me."
"Maybe not," I replied. "But I'm still part of what happened."
Her fingers twisted together nervously. "I don't know how to be a wife," she confessed. "I don't even know how to talk to you."
"That makes two of us," I said, managing a small smile.
For the first time, her lips curved—just a little.
As the day passed, we moved around each other like strangers sharing the same space. Polite. Careful. Guarded.
Yet, I found myself noticing small things.
The way she hummed softly when she thought no one was listening.
The way she arranged things neatly, as if order helped calm her mind.
The way her eyes softened when she looked at the sky.
That night, as the house quieted down again, we found ourselves back in the same room.
The same bed.
Different feelings.
She sat on one side, clutching her dupatta. I stayed on the other, giving her as much distance as possible.
"You can sleep," I said. "I'll stay here."
"You don't have to," she replied quickly. "I don't want to trouble you."
"You're not a trouble," I said firmly.
She looked at me, surprised by my tone.
Slowly, she lay down, turning her back toward me. I lay on my side as well, staring into the darkness.
The space between us felt wider than the room itself.
I realized then how strange fate was.
I was married to a woman I barely knew.
Sharing a room with someone whose fears I could feel but not erase.
Bound by nikah… yet separated by secrets neither of us was ready to share.
As sleep slowly claimed me, one thought stayed with me:
She was my wife.
But right now…
She was still a stranger.
And I had no idea how long it would take for that to change.