I have learned one thing very early in life—
Silence is safer than words.
Words invite questions.
Questions invite explanations.
And explanations… they expose wounds.
So I stay quiet.
This house is too big for silence, yet silence lives in every corner. The walls don't speak. The floors don't creak with warmth. Even the air feels careful, like it's watching me.
I walk through the corridors slowly, my footsteps measured. I don't want to disturb anything. Or anyone.
Because in this house, I am the disturbance.
Everyone is polite.
Everyone is respectful.
But no one forgets that I am here because of an agreement.
A contract dressed as a marriage.
Sometimes I wonder—
If I had refused, would anything really have changed?
Probably not.
Decisions were already made.
I was only informed.
Arjun.
Even his name feels heavy in my thoughts.
He is not cruel. That would have been easier. Cruelty has shape, sound, intention. You can protect yourself from cruelty.
But indifference?
That seeps in quietly.
He speaks when necessary.
Looks at me when required.
Acknowledges me the way one acknowledges responsibility.
And yet… I cannot hate him.
Because he never promised more.
The rules were clear.
Public wife.
Private distance.
I agreed.
So why does my chest tighten every time he walks past me without a glance?
I tell myself not to expect things that were never offered.
Expectations create disappointment.
Disappointment creates weakness.
And I have survived too much to be weak now.
That night, at the event, I played my part well.
I stood beside him, not behind.
I spoke when spoken to.
I smiled when required.
People looked at me with curiosity, with judgment, with interest. I recognized those looks. I have lived under them all my life.
What surprised me was not them.
It was him.
Arjun noticed.
Not openly.
Not warmly.
But he noticed.
The way his eyes paused when I answered calmly.
The way his silence stretched after certain moments.
He didn't say much.
But for the first time, I felt… acknowledged.
Not as a wife.
Not as a burden.
As a person.
That scared me.
Because acknowledgment leads to understanding.
And understanding leads to closeness.
And closeness… complicates things.
Back in my room, I remove the jewelry slowly, carefully. Expensive things deserve careful handling. Just like this marriage.
I look at my reflection.
I look composed.
Strong.
Unshakeable.
If only they could see the cracks I hide so well.
I didn't marry Arjun because I dreamed of him.
I married him because saying yes was easier than fighting a battle I was already tired of.
People assume silence means acceptance.
They are wrong.
Silence is endurance.
Sometimes, late at night, I wonder—
If I had been louder, braver, more demanding…
Would my life look different?
Then I remember all the times I tried.
And how nothing changed.
So now, I conserve my energy.
For survival.
For dignity.
Arjun thinks I know my place in his world.
He is right.
But what he doesn't know is—
I am still trying to understand my place in myself.
I don't want his love.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
What I want is respect without conditions.
Space without suspicion.
And a life where I am not constantly proving my worth.
If this marriage is a role, then I will play it with grace.
Not because I owe him.
But because I owe myself.
I will not break.
I will not beg.
I will not disappear.
And if one day he chooses to look beyond the role I play…
That decision will be his.
Until then,
I will remain exactly what I have always been—
Quiet.
Observant.
And stronger than I appear.