Months passed, and from the outside, their marriage looked perfect.
They attended family functions together.
They smiled in photographs.
They arrived on Sunny’s bike, matching in colour without planning it.
Relatives praised them as a “love marriage success.”
No one saw what lived behind closed doors.
Inside the house, tension had begun collecting like dust in corners.
Sunny’s father compared him constantly.
“Look at Sharma’s son. Already bought land.”
“Your cousin earns double.”
“When will you become serious?”
His mother complained in softer ways.
“You come late now.”
“Since marriage, everything changed.”
“Earlier you listened more.”
Even small household issues somehow became Rashi’s shadow.
If Sunny was late—she distracted him.
If he spent money—she influenced him.
If he looked tired—she did not care enough.
Rashi heard these things indirectly, through tone more than words.
Still, she tried harder.
She woke earlier.
Cooked better.
Spoke less.
Smiled more.
But peace kept moving further away.
Sunny had changed too—slowly enough that she could not name when it began.
He laughed less.
He snapped quicker.
He returned home carrying invisible storms.
At night, when she asked what troubled him, he often said,
“Nothing. Sleep.”
But nothing had started sounding heavy.
One evening, relatives visited for dinner.
Rashi cooked for hours.
When everyone sat to eat, an aunt tasted the curry and said loudly,
“Too much salt. These girls only know romance, not kitchen work.”
Laughter followed.
Rashi lowered her eyes.
She waited for Sunny to say something.
He kept eating.
Later in their room, she asked quietly,
“You heard what she said?”
“So?”
“You said nothing.”
“What should I do? Fight with relatives over salt?”
“It wasn’t about salt.”
Sunny exhaled in irritation.
“You’re becoming too sensitive.”
The sentence hurt more than the aunt’s mockery.
Another day, she wanted to visit her parents for a festival.
Sunny frowned.
“We just went last month.”
“It was only for one afternoon.”
“You always want to go there.”
“It is my home too.”
Something hardened in his face.
“This is your home now.”
She fell silent.
He had not shouted.
Yet the words felt like a lock turning.
Money became another source of friction.
Sunny worried constantly about expenses, business uncertainty, expectations. Rashi understood and cut back on everything she could.
Still, whenever bills rose, tension followed.
“Why so much grocery this month?”
“Do you know how hard money comes?”
“Use your mind sometimes.”
She never answered back.
She only absorbed.
One rainy night, electricity went out. The house sat in darkness except for a dim emergency lamp.
Rashi lit candles and waited for Sunny, who came home drenched and already angry.
Traffic. Work loss. Argument with his father.
She handed him a towel.
He tossed it aside.
“Why is dinner not ready?”
“Power just went. I was finishing it.”
“You knew I’d come!”
“I’m doing it now.”
He banged the table with his hand.
“For once, can things be proper in this house?”
The house.
Not our house.
Rashi stared at him.
He seemed shocked by himself for a moment, then turned away.
Dinner was eaten in silence.
That night, he slept facing the wall.
Rashi lay awake beside him.
Some cracks make sound.
Some spread silently beneath paint.
And the dangerous ones are the ones no one else can see.