I was fifteen when I first noticed him.
Not in school.
Not on the road.
But at a wedding — surrounded by lights, relatives, and rituals.
It was my didi's wedding.
I was wearing a simple traditional dress(Lengha) helping my mother, listening to elders shout instructions like always. Weddings in Indian families are never quiet — too many people, too many expectations.
And then there was him.
A relative.
Five years older than me.
Someone I had seen before, but never noticed like that.
He didn't speak much. He just looked — once, twice — and then looked away. I felt it, even before I understood it. That strange feeling when someone's eyes stay with you longer than normal.
We didn't talk that day.
We weren't supposed to.
In Indian families, girls don't freely talk to older boys — especially relatives. So I stayed within limits. I kept my eyes low, my smile controlled.
But my heart didn't listen.
During the wedding rituals, between laughter and music, the way he smiled politely, the way his presence felt calm and asked my name. I answered his question.
It replayed his face again and again.
I told myself it was nothing.
Just wedding excitement.
Just imagination.
But deep inside, something had started.
I didn't know then that this meeting — so normal, so acceptable in society — would later become something forbidden.
Because in India, loving someone related to you, older than you, is not just complicated.
It is dangerous.
And yet, the heart doesn't understand relationships, age, or rules.
It only understands feelings.
And mine had already chosen him.
To be continued…