Samira's POV

The mirror reflected my face, framed by intricate wedding jewelry, the weight of it pressing down on my skin. The soft glow from the surrounding candles did little to chase away the coldness creeping through my heart. I was a bride today, but instead of joy, I felt like a stranger at my own wedding.

Hi My name is Samira Chakraborty, and today, I am a bride.

Sounds like something you'd say proudly, right? Except, I'm not sure how proud I am. I'm 27 years old, a survivor of thalassemia—yes, that genetic blood disorder most people haven't even heard of—and today, I'm getting married to a man I barely know.

It wasn't really my choice. But I've learned that in life, especially mine, not everything is. Coming from a Bengali family where tradition is everything and emotions are often brushed under the rug, my life has been filled with obligations. The disease I fought all my life only added to those unspoken burdens. My parents never saw me as the perfect daughter—they saw me as someone who needed to be "fixed," both physically and emotionally. So when the proposal from Ahan Chaudhury came along, it felt like they were finally passing me off.

Ahan. A man whose name I'm now bound to.

Everything about this moment felt like a formality. My family, ever the epitome of duty, was more concerned with appearances than my feelings. They fluttered about, ensuring every tradition was followed perfectly, as if their adherence to rules would somehow erase the fact that this wedding wasn't born of love.

I cast a glance at my mother, who was busy straightening my dupatta with a critical eye. No warmth, no encouragement—just the stiff, silent approval I had grown used to over the years. To them, this was simply my duty as their daughter, another box checked off. I wasn't marrying Ahan out of choice; it was an arrangement, a cold, calculated decision made to secure our families' standing.

I adjusted the gold jewelry around my neck, the pieces digging into my skin, but it wasn't the weight of the ornaments that was bothering me—it was the weight of the expectations pressing down on my shoulders.

But then there was his family—Ahan's.

They told me I was lucky. Marrying into the Chaudhury family was a blessing, they said. Ahan was a good man, they insisted. He would take care of me, provide for me. But no one ever asked me what I wanted.

Because it didn't matter.

Even though they belonged to the same world of tradition and expectation, Ahan's family felt different. Their laughter, their joy, echoed through the house, filling every corner. As I sat in my room, waiting for the moment I'd walk down the aisle, I could hear the excited chatter of Ahan's cousins and relatives from the other side of the house. There was a liveliness to them, an infectious energy that I couldn't ignore.

I imagined them gathering around Ahan, teasing him about the wedding, about me, their laughter ringing through the air. His mother had greeted me warmly earlier, her eyes shining with pride and joy. She had made me feel, for a fleeting moment, like I was stepping into a family that might actually care for me, not just about the obligations I was fulfilling.

Ahan's family was vibrant, buzzing with excitement that filled the entire space. The Chaudhuries were Punjabi, a family that breathed warmth and love in ways that were foreign to me. Laughter echoed through the hall as his cousins—especially the younger ones—teased and celebrated with him. I could hear their giggles even before I saw them, and the sight of them dancing around Ahan brought a strange sense of warmth to my heart. This was the kind of joy I had only dreamed of.

It was a stark contrast to my own family's behavior, where everyone moved mechanically, going through the motions of what was expected.

I'd been raised to be obedient, to follow my family's rules without question. Love, choice, independence—those were luxuries for other people, not for me. Not for someone like Samira Chakraborty, the dutiful daughter, the one who was always expected to conform.

I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of Riya, my cousin, stepping into the room. Her face was carefully blank, like everyone else in my family. "It's time," she said quietly, avoiding my gaze.

Time for what, I wanted to ask. Time to start a life I didn't choose? Time to be bound to a man I barely knew?

But I said nothing. I stood up, adjusted the dupatta over my head, and followed her out of the room. My heart was pounding in my chest as we walked down the corridor. Each step felt heavier than the last. I could hear the distant hum of the wedding rituals, the chants of the priests, and the murmur of guests.

With a deep breath, I walked towards the mandap, with my cousins by my side, adjusting the heavy fabric of my lehenga one last time. The maroon and gold colors felt suffocating, but I straightened my shoulders. I had to go through with this.

As I walked toward the hall, the chatter and joy of Ahan's side grew louder, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. They seemed so excited, so full of life, while my own family remained cold and distant, as if this day were nothing more than a transaction.

I stepped into the grand hall, my eyes immediately seeking Ahan. He was standing near the mandap, looking composed in an ivory sherwani. He glanced my way, his face unreadable, yet there was a quiet calmness about him. I wasn't sure if that brought me any comfort.

Ahan didn't smile. He didn't look nervous, either. He was unreadable, as always. The few times we had met before the wedding, he had been polite, respectful, and distant. I'd heard whispers about his past, about the woman he once loved—Trithi, her name was. A ghost that seemed to linger between us, even before this marriage had begun.

The priest began chanting, signaling the start of the ceremony. I followed along, my movements automatic, my mind numb. And then, when it came time for the sindoor, something happened that startled me.

As Ahan leaned forward to apply the red powder to my forehead, a small pinch of sindoor slipped from his fingers and landed gently on the bridge of my nose. I felt the slight weight of it and blinked, surprised by the suddenness of it all. But before I could react, there was an audible gasp from Ahan's cousins.

I glanced at them, unsure of what had just happened, when one of the older cousins clapped her hands together in delight. "Look at that!" she exclaimed, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "A pinch of sindoor on the nose—it means Ahan will love her immensely!"

"That's a sign!" one of them again exclaimed, pointing at my nose. "You know what they say, Samira—if sindoor falls on a bride's nose, it means her husband loves her deeply!"

A chorus of delighted voices followed, the cousins giggling, teasing Ahan playfully. "Oh, Bhaiya, you've sealed your fate! Such a sign—it's written in the stars now!" they chimed in, their voices filled with joy and affection.

I felt my cheeks warm at their words. The unexpected incident had broken through the stiffness of the ceremony, bringing with it a wave of lightness, of love. I glanced at Ahan, who had the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips, clearly amused by the reaction of his cousins.

For the first time that day, a smile crept across my own face too. It was small, but it was there.

The ceremony continued, but the atmosphere had shifted ever so slightly. The warmth and excitement from Ahan's family surrounded me, making the event feel less like an obligation and more like a moment of possibility. Maybe this marriage wouldn't be as cold and distant as I had feared. Maybe there was room for warmth, for affection—even if it wasn't there yet.

As the sindoor settled into place on my forehead, and on my nose, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. This wasn't the ending I had imagined. Perhaps it was the beginning of something I hadn't yet dared to dream.

As the ceremony ended and the guests began to move around, congratulating each other, I again felt a hollowness inside me. There was no celebration in my heart, no joy, no excitement. Just uncertainty and a sense of loss. I glanced at Ahan again, but his expression hadn't changed. He remained distant, unreachable.

I wondered if this was how it would always be between us. Two strangers, bound by duty, but forever separated by walls neither of us could break.

Ahan's family continued to cheer and laugh, their excitement contagious. They welcomed me into their fold with open arms, in stark contrast to the cold, formal presence of my own family, who stood on the other side of the room, watching the ceremony as if it were a duty they were obliged to witness.

I didn't know what my future held, but as I glanced once more at Ahan, surrounded by the warmth of his family, I dared to feel something I hadn't allowed myself to before—hope.

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