Chapter 10

Days passed, one after another, blending into a monotonous rhythm I couldn't seem to escape. Life in the mansion was grand, but its grandeur did little to distract me from the emptiness that crept into every corner of my new world.

My days began early and ended late, filled with moments that felt hollow and unanchored. I would go to school, where the familiar chaos of teaching offered me some solace. But as soon as I returned to the mansion, the weight of silence pressed down on me, a stark reminder of how alone I truly was in this house.

Encounters with Veeranshu could be counted on one hand. He was always busy, leaving early in the morning before I was awake and returning late at night when I was already in bed or about to give up waiting for him. Our conversations, if they could even be called that, were brief and transactional.

"Do you need anything?" he'd ask occasionally, his tone polite but detached.

"No, I'm fine," I'd reply, just as curtly.

The distance between us felt insurmountable, but I couldn't entirely blame him. He had his life, his responsibilities, his world—a world I barely understood. And truthfully, I hadn't done much to bridge the gap either. I was as much a stranger to him as he was to me.

Every night, as I sat by the window or lingered in the dining room, waiting for him to come home, a battle raged within me. Should I message him? Should I call him? But every time I picked up my phone, my fingers hovered uncertainly over the screen.

What would I even say? "When will you be home?" "Do you want to have dinner together?"

The words sounded so clingy in my mind, and the last thing I wanted was to seem desperate. This marriage was already precarious enough without me adding to the tension.

So, I never sent the messages. Instead, I waited—hoping that maybe, tonight, he would come home early. That maybe, tonight, we would sit down and have a real conversation, even if only for a few minutes.

Dinner became the hardest part of the day. At first, I insisted on waiting for Veeranshu, sitting at the massive dining table with a quiet hope that he would walk through the door any minute. But as the hours passed and the food grew cold, the staff would gently nudge me to eat.

"Ma'am, it's getting late," one of the maids said one evening, her voice kind but firm. "Mr. Mehra may not return until much later. You should have your dinner."

Reluctantly, I would agree, eating alone at the vast table that only made me feel more isolated. The food was always exquisite, prepared with the utmost care, but I barely tasted it. My mind was elsewhere, wondering if waiting for him was pointless.

He didn't know I waited for him. He didn't know how many times I glanced at the clock, hoping to hear the sound of his car pulling into the driveway. Should I stop altogether? Was I setting myself up for disappointment by holding on to this small, foolish hope?

The loneliness was suffocating. The mansion, with all its beauty, felt like a gilded cage. Every room was pristine, every corner immaculately decorated, but there was no warmth, no life.

I spent hours wandering through the house, trying to find something to occupy my mind. The library became my refuge, its walls lined with books that offered an escape from my reality. But even the comfort of a good story couldn't completely silence the ache in my chest.

The staff were kind and accommodating, but their deference only added to my sense of alienation. They treated me with a politeness that bordered on reverence, and while I appreciated their efforts, it only highlighted the distance between us.

I felt like a guest in my own life—someone passing through, unable to truly belong.

Late at night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I often found myself wondering: whose fault was this?

I couldn't blame Veeranshu entirely. He had made it clear from the beginning that this was an arrangement, not a love story. And he wasn't unkind—distant, yes, but never cruel.

But what about me? What had I done to change things? To make an effort?

The answer was painfully clear: nothing.

I had retreated into myself, too afraid to reach out, too hesitant to take the first step. I was waiting for him to bridge the gap, but how could I expect that when I hadn't done the same?

The realization stung, but it didn't make things any easier. Fear and pride held me back, keeping me locked in this cycle of silence and waiting.

There were moments—fleeting but powerful—when I wanted to run away from it all.

I imagined packing a bag and slipping out in the dead of night, leaving behind the mansion, the marriage, and the life that felt so foreign to me. I would go somewhere quiet, somewhere I could start over and reclaim the simplicity I had lost.

But those were just fantasies. I couldn't leave—not my students, not Dadaji, and not the promise I had made when I agreed to this marriage.

Still, the wish lingered in the back of my mind, a small rebellion against the loneliness that threatened to consume me.

The days continued to pass, each one eerily similar to the last. I went to school, where I found brief moments of joy and purpose. I returned home, where the silence and emptiness of the mansion greeted me like an old companion.

I wanted to break free from this cycle, to find a way to connect with Veeranshu, but I didn't know how. The fear of rejection, of coming across as needy or intrusive, held me back every time.

And so, I waited.

Waited for him to come home. Waited for a sign that this marriage could be more than just an arrangement. Waited for something—anything—to change.

But as the days turned into weeks, I couldn't help but wonder if I was waiting for nothing.

One evening, as I sat by the window watching the city lights twinkle in the distance, I made a quiet promise to myself.

If nothing changed, I would make the first move. I didn't know what it would look like—perhaps a conversation over dinner, perhaps a message during the day—but I would try.

Because this silence, this distance, wasn't something I could endure forever.

For now, though, I stayed where I was, the weight of the day pressing down on me as I waited once again for a door that might not open until long after I had fallen asleep.