Rashi began measuring her days by Sunny’s moods.
If he entered the house quietly, the evening might pass in peace.
If the gate shut loudly, she knew to speak carefully.
If he removed his shoes with force, silence was safer than questions.
This was not the life she had imagined.
Yet she still believed things could improve.
Every marriage has phases, she told herself.
Every man has stress.
Every house has tension.
So she adjusted more.
She stopped asking why he was late.
She stopped telling him when relatives hurt her.
She stopped buying small things she liked.
She stopped laughing loudly because he once said it was childish.
Piece by piece, she edited herself for peace.
Sunny noticed less and less.
He now spent longer hours outside—work, friends, errands, reasons that changed daily. When home, his phone occupied him more than conversation.
At dinner, she served him.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“What happened at work?”
“Nothing.”
“Will you have more curry?”
“No.”
Entire evenings were built from one-word answers.
At night, when she tried to talk, he said he was tired.
When she remained quiet, he asked why she looked upset.
Nothing pleased him for long.
One Sunday, Rashi dressed carefully in a saree he once said he liked.
Sunny glanced once and said, “Why so much ready? We’re only going to the market.”
She changed silently.
Another day, she made his favourite sweet after hours in the kitchen.
He tasted one bite.
“Too sugary.”
She smiled anyway and put the plate away.
Sometimes the deepest sadness comes not from cruelty, but from indifference.
Her visits to her parents became rare.
Whenever she mentioned going, Sunny seemed annoyed.
“Again?”
“They miss me.”
“Do they think marriage means visiting every month?”
She stopped asking often.
Her mother noticed the change in phone calls.
“You sound tired,” she said once.
“Just work.”
“Are they treating you well?”
“Yes,” Rashi answered immediately.
Because pain becomes easier to hide with practice.
One evening, Sunny returned laughing into the house while speaking to a friend on the phone. His voice was warm, playful, alive.
He disconnected and walked past Rashi without looking at her.
The contrast stung more than shouting ever had.
Later she asked softly,
“You speak happily to everyone else. Why not with me?”
He looked irritated.
“Must I perform happiness for you too?”
“I only asked.”
“You always ask. Always expect. Always complain.”
“I complain?”
“Yes. If not with words, then with face.”
She stood speechless.
He went into the bedroom and shut the door.
That night she cried in the bathroom so no one would hear.
Days later, during a family lunch, someone joked,
“Love marriage people become old couples fastest.”
Everyone laughed.
Sunny laughed too.
Rashi smiled because she had learned survival in expressions.
But inside, loneliness had become her closest companion.
One night, unable to bear the distance, she said,
“Sunny… do you still love me?”
He was scrolling on his phone.
After a pause, he replied,
“Why do women ask such useless questions?”
He did not even look up.
Rashi turned away before tears could be seen.
The room was the same.
The bed was the same.
The man beside her was the same.
And yet, everything had changed.
Some people do not leave the house.
They leave the heart first.