The evening ended like all the others.
A room full of relatives and neighbors, laughter and condolences spilling into the same air until you couldn't tell one from the other.
"How's married life treating you?"
"Your granddad was a good man."
"You must miss him dearly."
The voices blurred into a soft, endless hum beneath the clinking of glasses and the scrape of silverware on china. You smiled, nodded, offered the polite half-answers you'd perfected over the past week—smiles that didn't reach your eyes, words that gave nothing away.
It was routine by now.
Except tonight… Something was different.
His eyes.
Always, always, they found you across the room. Even in a crowd, even when you were tucked in some forgotten corner behind a sea of saris and silk ties, his gaze would find you like a magnet, like it couldn't not.
And tonight, for the first time, you didn't look away.
You couldn't.
The air shifted between you, the noise of the room falling away until it felt as if you were standing alone with him—no crowd, no voices, just a strange suspended silence that seemed to hum in your bones.
A secret place.
Only yours.
Whatever you couldn't speak aloud, you both said with your eyes.
I'm here.
I see you.
You look beautiful.
And his gaze asked back more, soft and steady.
You okay?
Tell me you're okay.
It felt… intimate.
More intimate than anything that had passed between you inside the house's walls.
Your heart clenched painfully every time he looked at you like that, because you knew this moment couldn't last. Soon the evening would end, and the two of you would return to the roles you always played—distant, careful, strangers wearing rings.
You forced a laugh at something a relative said, pretending you weren't slowly unraveling beneath the weight of his attention.
The rest of the night passed in a blur.
The goodbyes, the fixed smiles, the winding walk to the car.
It wasn't until the valet appeared—hesitant, apologetic—that the fragile bubble between you finally burst.
"There's been… an issue with the car, sir," he said carefully. "The hotel will fix it by tomorrow, but for tonight, they've arranged a complimentary stay."
A minor inconvenience.
But to you, it was anything but simple.
There was only one room.
Your heart lurched.
Two rooms would raise questions you couldn't afford to answer. Two rooms would make people wonder, whisper, and look closer. A perfect marriage didn't need two rooms.
Still, he turned to you immediately, his brow furrowed, his voice low and earnest.
"I'm sorry. We can stay somewhere else if you'd prefer. I'll arrange everything."
You shook your head quickly—too quickly—forcing your voice to stay steady.
"It's just one night. We're tired already. We'll… manage."
You didn't add the rest: Even if it kills me.
Now you stood beside him in the hotel elevator, your reflection fractured into a thousand pieces by the mirrored walls.
In each shard, you saw the two of you—side by side, yet not touching.
His reflection was tall, contained, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
Yours… small.
Shoulders drawn tight, chin slightly lowered.
Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it.
One night.
One room.
Your first time truly alone.
The elevator glided upward, each passing floor vibrating faintly beneath your feet. You stared at the glowing numbers above the door, your breath caught somewhere high in your chest.
When the doors opened, you stepped out into a hushed hallway, the carpet soft underfoot.
You reached the room.
He slid the keycard into the lock.
The door clicked open.
Your pulse tripped and stumbled.
The room was dim and softly lit, the air cool and scented faintly with cedar and something cleaner, sharper. A single bed sat at its center, sheets smooth and white, tucked with immaculate precision.
You froze.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
"I'll take the couch," he offered immediately, his voice quiet, almost formal. "Or the floor. I don't mind."
You shook your head quickly, the words catching in your throat before spilling out.
"No. It's fine. The bed's big enough. We'll… stay on our sides."
A muscle in his jaw flexed.
He gave a single, slow nod.
"Alright."
The evening dragged after that—slow, heavy, suffocating.
You went to shower first, clinging to the excuse of privacy and steam.
The hot water hit your skin, a scalding contrast to the cool room outside. It filled the bathroom with mist, wrapping around you like a shield. You tilted your head back, letting it pour over you, drowning out the echoes of the evening—the endless voices, the laughter, the sharp edges of grief.
But no matter how long you stood there, one thing wouldn't wash away.
Him.
The way his eyes had held yours.
The way they still did, even now, as if imprinted on the inside of your eyelids.
You tried to let it go, to let him go. But like a stubborn mark on skin, it remained.
When you finally emerged, dressed in soft linen clothes meant for comfort, you felt clean but raw. Exposed.
His gaze met yours the instant you stepped out—and then just as quickly slid away.
He cleared his throat.
"I'll get freshened up."
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
As he disappeared into the bathroom, you took in the room again. The soft golden glow of the bedside lamp. The neatly folded blankets. The faint, sterile chill of hotel air-conditioning.
It would have been perfect for a couple. Romantic. Warm.
Except you weren't one.
Not really.
Only in theory.
You slipped beneath the sheets, your hands trembling slightly. The bed was soft, warm, but the space beside you loomed like a question you couldn't answer.
You turned your face into the pillow, pretending to sleep before he emerged.
The hum of the shower filled the silence.
Each passing second stretched tighter and tighter, winding you up until you thought you might snap.
You closed your eyes and breathed slowly, as if you could will yourself into calmness.
It's only tonight, you told yourself.
Just tonight. You'll survive this.
The sheets were too soft, too warm, the air too scented with something faintly floral and sweet. You curled on your side, heart drumming against the pillow, staring at the empty space beside you—the space he would soon fill.
The hum of the shower blurred into the distance, a soft rhythm, steady and far away, like rain against a window on a night long past.
You let it carry you.
And finally, with your breath uneven and your body wound tight as a bowstring, you closed your eyes… and let the sound of water lull you into the futile attempt of sleep that would never come.