I reached home just after sunset.

The living room was a sea of half-packed gift boxes, unopened sweets, lehenga blouses hanging from chair backs, and my father cross-checking a guest list for the hundredth time.

Maa was in the kitchen, prepping turmeric for the haldi. She looked up as I entered, face glowing with pre-wedding excitement.

“You’re back early,” she smiled. “Did you surprise him? Did he like the pastries?”

I didn’t answer right away.

I just stood there in the middle of the living room, breath caught in my chest, hands shaking, heart still bruised from what I had just survived.

“Maa,” I said softly, “we need to talk.”

She looked up sharply at my tone.

Baba put down his list. “What happened?”

I sat down on the edge of the sofa. “I went to Rohit’s place. To surprise him.”

“And?”

“I overheard a conversation. Between him and his mother.”

The pause that followed was louder than anything else in the room.

“They were talking about… how he’s still in love with someone else,” I said quietly. “And how marrying me was just a way to spite them. To prove a point. Because I’m… a safe match. Acceptable.”

I watched the color drain from Maa’s face.

“He said he settled for me. That he was doing me a favor by marrying me. And when I confronted him, he body-shamed me. Told me no man really dreams of marrying someone like me.”

Baba’s eyes widened. “What?”

“He said I should be grateful,” I whispered.

There was silence.

For a moment, I thought Maa would come to me. Hold me. Cry with me. Tell me I’d done the right thing by walking away.

But instead, her mouth tightened.

“Ameya,” she said slowly, “you should’ve just stayed quiet and come home.”

I blinked. “What?”

Baba stood up, pacing. “Do you know what you’ve done? It’s two days before the engagement! People have already received invites. Relatives have booked tickets. What will we tell them now?”

“I don’t care about what they think,” I said, my voice rising. “He humiliated me. He never loved me. He used me to win an argument with his parents!”

“And you couldn’t fix it?” Maa asked, almost pleading. “Say sorry? Smooth it over? Ameya, marriage isn’t perfect. Every couple has issues.”

“This wasn’t a small issue,” I snapped. “He doesn't want me. He made that clear.”

“Then why didn’t you win him over?” Baba said, his voice sharp now. “We gave you everything. All you had to do was go through with this. But you—you let your emotions ruin everything.”

I stared at them. My own parents.

“You think this is my fault?” I whispered, barely believing it.

“You should’ve adjusted,” Maa said quietly. “Do you think you’ll get another rishta like Rohit again? A boy from a good family, good looks, no complaints about your size or career—”

“He did complain!” I cried. “He humiliated me, Maa. He never even touched my hand in public. Never looked at me like I was enough. You told me I should be grateful he wanted me. Why? Because I’m fat? Because I’m not fair or dainty or picture-perfect? You wanted a wedding. I wanted a marriage.”

The silence was suffocating.

Baba shook his head and walked away. Maa sat down slowly, burying her face in her hands.

I stood there, alone in the room filled with gold tissue paper and crushed petals.

Alone in the house I grew up in.

Alone—with the unbearable truth that sometimes… the people who are supposed to protect you are too busy protecting their reputation.

That night, I didn’t sleep.
I couldn’t.

The walls of my room felt smaller than ever. The soft shimmer of my lehenga, still hanging on the door hook, mocked me with its silence. It was supposed to be the most beautiful thing I’d ever worn. Now it just looked like a costume for a role I no longer believed in.

I lay curled up on my side, clutching a pillow to my chest like it could hold all the pieces of me I couldn’t. The tears came and didn’t stop—hot, silent, endless.

I tried to be quiet. I didn’t want Maa to hear. Or Baba. I didn’t want anyone to comfort me if they didn’t mean it.

It was sometime past 2 AM when I finally picked up my phone.

I scrolled through my contacts with blurry vision, then paused at a name that made my chest ache in a different way.

Reva.

My best friend. My safe place. My lighthouse.

She had moved to Goa a year ago—free-spirited, loud-laughing, unapologetic Reva, who always said what she meant and loved without filters.

I pressed call.

She picked up almost instantly, her voice sleepy but alert. “Ames?”

That one word—Ames—broke something in me.

I burst into sobs.

“Hey… hey. What happened?” she asked, instantly awake. “Talk to me, baby. I’m here.”

Through choked breaths and messy words, I told her everything. The overheard conversation. The confrontation. His cruelty. His words. My parents’ reactions. The silence. The blame.

She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t offer instant solutions.

She just listened—the way only a best friend does, holding space across phone towers and miles.

When I finally ran out of words, all I heard was her soft breathing on the other end.

And then she said, “You know what, Ameya? You’re fucking incredible.”

I let out a weak laugh through my tears. “I don’t feel incredible. I feel like someone chewed me up and spat me out.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But you walked out. You didn’t beg him to stay. You didn’t let your parents guilt you into shrinking yourself to fit into a marriage that would’ve killed your soul slowly. You chose yourself. Do you know how powerful that is?”

I wiped my face. “Everyone’s saying I ruined everything.”

“They’re wrong,” Reva said firmly. “You didn’t ruin anything. You saved yourself.”

“But what now?” I whispered. “Everyone's going to talk. Maa won’t look me in the eye. Baba’s already ashamed.”

“Let them talk,” she said. “You don’t owe anyone a perfect story. You owe yourself peace.”

Silence.

Then she added softly, “Come here, Ameya. Come to Goa. Just for a few days. Breathe. Heal. Be in a place where no one sees you as a burden or a compromise.”

I closed my eyes. The idea of the sea. The breeze. Reva’s arms wrapped around me in a hug. Her messy flat. Her warmth. Her freedom.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Okay?”

“I’ll come.”

“Good,” she smiled through the phone. “Pack your comfiest clothes. And your pain. We’ll deal with both together.”