But happiness, as I’ve learned, doesn’t always stay.
Sometimes, it tiptoes in just long enough to make you believe it’s real—before slipping away so silently, you almost doubt it was ever there.

Rohit was still kind. Still polite. Still that well-mannered, decent man everyone praised.

But slowly—quietly—something began to change.

It started with the small things. The missed calls. The short replies. The way his eyes darted elsewhere when I tried to talk about the wedding in excited detail.

And most of all—it was the distance. Not physical. Emotional.

Every time I tried to step closer—ask something real, something intimate—he stepped back. Not rudely. Not obviously. But enough for me to notice.

Like when we went to shop for my lehenga.

I was nervous and giddy, the way a bride-to-be is supposed to be. The boutique was fragrant with new silk and fresh jasmine, and I tried on color after color, twirling under soft lighting.

“Do you like this one?” I asked, stepping out in a deep maroon lehenga that hugged me in all the wrong places but made me feel something close to beautiful.

He looked up from his phone. Smiled faintly.

“Yeah, it’s nice. Choose whatever you want.”

I waited. “But… what do you think? You like this color on me?”

He blinked. “You can wear anything. It’s your day.”

That was it.

No lingering look. No teasing smile. No gentle you look beautiful—the kind of thing I’d heard strangers say to their fiancées on reality shows. The kind I had quietly dreamed of, even if I never admitted it out loud.

It wasn’t the words. It was the space between them.

He didn’t see me in the lehenga. He didn’t want to.

And when I reached for his hand, later that day, walking through the parking lot—he kept his hands in his pockets.

I told myself he was just reserved. Maybe shy. Not every man is romantic, Ameya. Don’t be unreasonable. Don't expect too much.

But the ache had already begun.

Because kindness without intimacy is a shadow of love.
And friendship without warmth can feel lonelier than being alone.

He was good.
But I didn’t feel wanted.

And slowly, the light in my eyes started to dim—just a little—every time someone said, Lucky girl, you're marrying Rohit!
Because deep down, I was starting to wonder if Rohit was marrying me...
Or just settling for someone who looked good on paper.

I sat on the edge of the bed, picking at a loose thread on my dupatta. The house was quiet, but my head was loud—louder than it had been in weeks.

Rohit and I had spent the day finalizing the wedding menu. Correction: I had finalized the menu. He had scrolled through his phone and nodded vaguely every time I asked for an opinion.

The distance between us was growing. Not a fight, not tension—just… silence. A still, strange nothingness that wrapped around me like fog.

Later that night, I found Maa folding laundry in her room. I stood there for a moment, watching her hum softly to herself, the glow of the yellow light warming the space around her.

“Maa,” I said hesitantly.

She looked up. “Haan, beta?”

I stepped inside. “Can I tell you something? Something I’ve been feeling?”

She nodded, setting the clothes aside.

I sat down next to her. “It’s about Rohit. He’s good, but… I don’t know, Maa. Something feels… off. Like we’re going through the motions, but we’re not really close. He never initiates conversation, barely reacts when I try to talk about how I feel. I don’t feel connected. And sometimes it feels like he doesn’t even—”

Maa cut me off with a short sigh. “Ameya, please. Don’t start overthinking.”

“I’m not overthinking,” I said softly. “I’m just—trying to be honest.”

She shook her head, folding a dupatta with force. “He’s a good boy. Educated. Well-settled. From a respected family. And handsome, Ameya. Tall, clean-cut, presentable. People have been telling me how lucky you are. Do you know how rare that is for girls like—”

She stopped herself, but the words hung there, unfinished.

Girls like me.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “You mean girls like me... who aren’t thin.”

She looked at me, guilty but silent.

“Maa,” I whispered, “do you really think I should feel lucky just because someone like him said yes?”

She stood up, avoiding my eyes. “I’m saying, don’t ruin a good thing. So many girls are waiting for a rishta like this. A man who isn’t complaining about your job, or your size, or your clothes. What more do you want?”

What more do I want?

I wanted to scream.

I wanted someone who looked at me with longing, not politeness. I wanted someone who saw more than just my qualifications and my cooking skills. I wanted to be held. To be heard. To be wanted, not simply accepted.

But instead, I nodded.

Because what was the point?

She’d already decided I was lucky.

Even if my heart felt like it was slowly cracking in places no one could see.

That night, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of that one word—lucky—pressed down on my chest like a stone.

And somewhere deep inside, a tiny voice whispered:

Maybe you are lucky, Ameya.

But you’re not happy.