MAHIRA

My parents are asking me to jump off a cliff.

Not literally, of course. But it feels the same — the same terrifying emptiness below, the same pressure from behind, the same helplessness when the world expects you to take the leap. Because what they really want is for me to marry a stranger.

How could you marry a stranger?

I can't even trust my classmates — the ones I've known for years. I don't even believe half the words my colleagues say. And yet, somehow, I'm supposed to hand over my life, my future, my dreams — all to a man I've met for exactly ten minutes, under the suffocating gaze of two families exchanging fake smiles over filtered coffee and silver trays of sweets.

They call it a meeting. I call it a performance.

You sit there in your neatly pressed saree, pretending to be calm while your mind screams, What if I say no? You're supposed to smile politely, ask about his job, his "hobbies," and decide if he's worthy of a lifetime. A lifetime. In ten minutes.

It's absurd. It's maddening.

And when you hesitate, when you say you need time — the whole house erupts. "You're already twenty-five," they say, as if I've missed some sacred deadline for happiness. "Everyone your age is married," as though marriage is a bus I forgot to board, and now I'm stranded at the stop of shame.

I don't understand it. Why are women always the ones being rushed, pushed, cornered into decisions that will shape their entire lives? Why is independence treated like rebellion?

Then comes the emotional blackmail.

"I will die soon... What will you do then?"

It's almost poetic how easily guilt becomes a weapon. They claim they want me to be happy — but their definition of happiness is obedience dressed up as duty. How can I be happy with a man I don't even know ?

Where is love in all this ? Where is the spark, the madness, the heartbeat that skips when you see someone and know this is it ?

Where is the compatibility, the understanding, the laughter that glues two souls together?

Where is the desire — the kind that makes you choose, not just agree?

But no one asks those questions. All they care about is whether he earns enough to "run a family." As if running a family is the same as running a business.

Who checks if he has the patience to listen when I cry at 2 a.m.? Who checks if he has kindness in his hands, or love in his heart? Who checks if he has the courage to love a woman like me — loud, opinionated, chaotic, and alive?

No one.

And the cruelest irony? Even after knowing all this, even after cursing the system in my head a thousand times, I am now married to a man I barely know.

What a joke. What a tragedy.

"Mahiiii!" A voice - sharp, shrill, and annoyingly familiar sliced through my thoughts.

"Ahh! Have you swallowed a loudspeaker or what?" I winced, pressing my palms over my ears.

"You've gone deaf, obviously! And no, I didn't swallow a loudspeaker," she shot back, arms folded, eyebrows arched in mock indignation.

She stood before me, hands on her hips, her white and baby pink salwar fluttering softly with the breeze from the window. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the sunlight like dark silk. Even the air seemed to pause to admire her. Her jhumkas danced with each movement, tiny silver bells jingling as if they had their own opinion to add.

Of course, she looked like a heroine straight out of a film. And of course, she knew it.

"I swear, I'll be deaf by thirty if you keep screaming like that," I muttered, shaking my head, though secretly I was still distracted wondering where she bought those jhumkas. Mentally taking a note to ask later. Not that I could ask now. She'd probably bury me alive for interrupting her dramatic entrance.

"I don't care!" she said, her hand looping around my arm. "Now get up!"

That's Rahasya! my best friend, my chosen family, my occasional headache. She's the kind of person who says she wouldn't care even if I died, but shows up at my door with soup if I so much as sneeze.

"Where?" I asked, as she tugged at my arm, practically pulling me to my feet.

"Oh, God! You better stop daydreaming about your love life and focus on work," Raha groaned dramatically, rolling her eyes as if she'd been cursed with the most hopeless best friend on Earth. "Today, we have an important meeting with the boss. And look at you. you're sitting here like you just woke up from a three-year coma!"

She kept taunting me, her tone half-annoyed, half affectionate — the usual Raha cocktail. Only I knew the truth: there was no "love life" to daydream about. Not even a trace of one. My life was as colorless as the office walls around us — pale, neat, and suffocatingly predictable.

It's not like my parents were monsters like movie drama's. They never tried to hurt me or make me feel unloved. No, they weren't cruel. In fact, they adored me, maybe too much sometimes. They wrapped me in affection, in expectations, in dreams they had built long before I was even born. They never showed any difference between me and my brother. If anything, I was the spoiled one.

To be completely honest, I always got things before he did. They prioritized me without even realizing it. A new phone, a new dress, even the last piece of my mother's special sweets, it was always handed to me first. And my brother, who should have fought me for it like any normal sibling, simply smiled and stepped aside. He would say, "It's okay, let her have it," like it never mattered. And maybe to him, it didn't. Not once did he complain about getting things late, not once did he make me feel guilty.

I had everything — love, comfort, security. Everything except the one kind of love that could hold me when the world felt heavy. The kind that makes your heart skip when you hear their voice. The kind that makes you feel seen, not just known.

My parents loved me, yes — but it was parental love. Safe, structured, full of boundaries and unspoken conditions. It's the kind of love that gives you everything but still leaves a hollow space you can't quite name. I got it in abundance, maybe even to excess, but it wasn't the love I longed for. Not the kind that stays awake beside you in silence, not the kind that understands your chaos and doesn't flinch.

And maybe that's why I felt so empty even while being surrounded by affection. Because their love came wrapped in expectations. It came with rules about who I should be, how I should act, whom I should marry. It came with so much care that it slowly started suffocating me.

Just because they gave me everything doesn't mean they gave me what I needed.

They weren't perfect. They were loving, but they were human and their love, as warm as it was, took pieces of me I didn't realize I was losing. My mental peace.

They didn't mean to take it. But they did.

And maybe that's the cruelest part — when love itself becomes the reason you start losing yourself.

"Pch... meeting again?" I muttered, voice thin with exhaustion, as if the word itself could pull me back into that dark well of memory I'd been avoiding all morning.

"Girl, be enthusiastic about work. You're like a sloth sleeping all the time and daydreaming," Raha chided, nudging me forward with an impatient elbow. "What do you even do all night?" she asked, leaning in conspiratorially, then dropping her voice to a mischievous whisper. "I know I shouldn't know those things."

Only if she really knew.

I rolled my eyes, the old reflex that meant I'd rather hide than explain.

"Raha, will you stop?" I said flatly.

"Sure. Sure. I will not invade your privacy," she said with mock solemnity, throwing her hands in the air like a politician conceding a trivial point.

"I am gonna kill you one day," I shot back, more affectionate than threatening.

"I dare you," she smirked, that familiar flash of confidence lighting up her face.

That smirk and that certainty belonged to her. It was as permanent as the freckle near her left eyebrow and as loud as the jangling of her jhumkas when she walked.

We mocked, we teased, we pushed each other into truths we didn't want to face. We were rough edges that fit together, not polished porcelain.

We'd known each other for more than a decade — which meant we had witnessed each other's worst haircuts, each disastrous crush, each ridiculous job interview disaster. We had watched one another flounder, rise, and then flounder again. We'd shared secret triumphs and failures, hospital corridors and celebratory drinks, the silent comfort of two people who didn't need to perform cheerfulness.

Maybe that's why we were still together: not because we made each other prettier or calmer, but because we were honest in the way that mattered. When the world demanded that I smile and nod for ten-minute life-decisions, she would drag me back with a shove and a swear word. When I wanted to run, she would hold my hand sometimes roughly, sometimes with stubborn tenderness and make me stay.

"We will get a coffee," I declared, with the solemnity of someone announcing a life mission.

Raha's stare could've melted concrete. "We don't have time, sloth. Can you get that into your nonexistent brain?" she snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut through the fog in my head. That firmness in her voice told me everything, the meeting was serious.

"What's the meeting about?" I asked, already bracing for the worst.

"A new night show. Brainstorming session."

And just like that, my soul left my body.

Oh, no. Not another brainstorming session. Not with him.

I groaned inwardly. I could already picture our boss, the self-proclaimed creative genius with impossibly high standards and zero patience. He didn't just want ideas — he wanted miracles. The man had a bar no one could reach, and yet he somehow expected us to vault over it every single time.

"I need coffee," I muttered. "Raha, you know I can't handle these meetings without caffeine. My brain refuses to function without it. Especially today. I'm already half dead."

Raha let out a long, dramatic exhale, tilting her head back like she was summoning divine patience. "Mahi," she said, shaking her head, "you are unbelievable." She finally let go of my arm. "Fine. Go get your caffeine fix. But for the love of God, be quick — or the boss will throw us out before we even open our mouths."

I didn't need to be told twice.

As she strode off toward the conference room, I darted in the opposite direction, half-running, half-tripping down the hallway toward the small cafeteria tucked at the end of the corridor. It wasn't even fancy — just a few tables, a vending machine, and the faint smell of roasted beans and overworked employees. But to me, it was sacred ground.

I ordered my coffee with the urgency of someone requesting oxygen. The moment it arrived, steaming and dark, I wrapped my fingers around the cup and brought it close to my face.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply.

The smell hit me — that rich, bitter aroma, comforting and addictive, seeping into the cracks of my exhaustion. The first whiff always felt like coming back to life, like the universe whispering you've got this in caffeine language.

I smiled faintly and murmured to myself, "Why do people even take drugs when they have caffeine?"

"Hey! Hi."

The voice pulled me out of my caffeine trance. I opened my eyes to find karan standing beside me, holding his cup like it was a prop in some coffee commercial. I looked at him that tall frame girl's go down for, kind eyes, that soft smile he always wore as if the world never managed to bother him.

"Hi," I replied, returning his smile as I leaned back against the counter, my cup warm in my hands.

"It looks like you love coffee more than anything," he said, amusement flickering across his face as he watched me take another sip.

"Yes, of course. Everything we love hurts," I said, swirling the cup lazily, "but my coffee doesn't."

The words slipped out before I could stop them — unfiltered, too honest. I blinked. Did I just say something deep while having a coffee break? Great. Now I sounded like one of those poets on caffeine overdose.

Karan chuckled, that soft, low laugh that somehow managed to sound genuine and teasing all at once.

"Don't you have a meeting now?" he asked.

"Oh my God—yes!" I gasped, jerking upright as panic kicked in. Raha's voice echoed in my head — 'Get back soon or the boss will throw us out!'

I gulped down the rest of my coffee like a guilty teenager caught past curfew.

"Slow down, Mahira," he said between chuckles, "I didn't mean to—"

"I'm late!" I interrupted, half-running toward the door. I could still hear him laughing behind me as I darted through the corridor, cursing myself under my breath.

By the time I reached the meeting room, the hallway was silent — the kind of silence that carried the weight of authority. Oh, no. That only meant one thing. The boss was already inside.

Perfect. Just perfect.

I slowed down, my heart drumming so loud I was sure it could be heard through the door. Taking a shaky breath, I knocked — once, softly, the sound almost apologetic — and peeked in.

Every head turned. The air inside was thick with unease, the kind that only existed in rooms where one person held all the power. And there he was, sitting at the head of the table, his sharp eyes already locked on me like lasers.

"Sorry, sir," I managed, forcing an innocent smile that screamed please don't kill me.

He didn't say a word. His glare was doing enough damage. His lips parted, ready to unleash whatever wrath he had stored for the day — but then something shifted. His eyes moved past me, toward the hallway behind. The frown melted, replaced by an expression that almost looked... soft.

"Get in, both of you!" he said, voice suddenly lighter.

Both ?

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How is the start ? 🐼