Over the next week, the small guest room at the end of the hallway slowly transformed into her secret little sanctuary.
It had once been a storage space for folded bedsheets and an unused treadmill, but now, it breathed with music, movement, and fragments of her old self. It was the only place in the house where Shruti felt untethered—where she didn't have to worry about footsteps outside the door, where she could shed her quiet married self and just be a girl again. One who danced because it made her feel alive.
Every evening after returning from college, she would change into a loose cotton kurti and leggings, pull the curtains tight until the golden light was replaced by a muted dimness, and slide the centre table aside with a grunt.
Then came her favourite part.
She'd sit cross-legged in the middle of the room, scrolling through her playlist, before connecting her phone to the tiny blue Bluetooth speaker Arjun had bought for movie nights a month ago.
The music would begin gently—slow beats layered under soft vocals. She'd start with stretches, arms gliding up and around her shoulders, her toes pointing awkwardly at first. On the first day, she stumbled over even the most familiar steps. Her body felt stiff, unused. Her knees cracked when she crouched, her turns lacked fluidity, and her hands hesitated mid-air.
She grimaced at her own reflection. "Ugh. I look like a wooden puppet."
But she didn't stop.
Each day, something in her moved a little easier. Her feet found the beat faster, her arms carved the air with more certainty. Sweat slicked her brow, and strands of hair stuck to her cheeks, but her heart beat with something new—joy. Purpose. Confidence.
The mirror became her silent companion. The music, her pulse.
Only one hiccup existed in her daily ritual.
Arjun.
Because apparently, Arjun had taken it upon himself to turn her sacred dance practice into a comedic mission of sabotage.
It started on the second day.
She was mid-spin, her dupatta tied up to avoid tripping, when she heard it—a tap tap tap on the door. Light and innocent. Like a polite neighbor borrowing sugar.
She froze, nearly toppling over. "No…"
Then the door handle jiggled.
"Arjun!" she yelped, stumbling across the room to hold the door in place. "No peeking!"
There was a pause. Then his muffled, unmistakably amused voice came from the other side. "Peeking? Me? Never."
She pressed her forehead against the door, panting. "I mean it! Stay out."
"I was just checking if you needed water," he said, voice full of mock innocence.
"I don't."
"A towel?"
"No."
"Air-conditioning adjustment? Lighting ambiance? Moral support?"
Shruti groaned, turning the lock with exaggerated firmness. "Moral support doesn't include spying!"
"Come on," he whined playfully. "Just two seconds. A tiny glimpse. Not even full-body. Just—elbow upward."
She laughed despite herself. "Why are you like this?"
He grinned behind the door. She could hear the smirk. "Because it's fun watching you get all flustered."
"Well, I'm sweaty, red-faced, and out of breath. Happy now?" she said, fanning herself with the edge of her dupatta.
"Very," he said, clearly enjoying himself. "You're cute when you're breathless."
That made her pause. The teasing tone was still there, but something in his voice had turned quieter, more genuine. Her hand rested lightly on the doorknob, heart skipping for a second.
"Go away, Arjun," she said, softer now, cheeks warming. "Or I'll lock this room forever."
She heard him sigh theatrically. "Fine, fine. But if you twist your ankle doing some dramatic filmy flip, don't come crawling to me."
"Noted."
"...Also, I left a banana milkshake for you in the fridge."
That made her blink. "Wait… really?"
"See? I do care about your energy levels."
And then he was gone—his retreating footsteps fading down the hallway.
Shruti waited a full thirty seconds before cautiously peeking out the door, still half-expecting him to be crouched nearby with his phone camera.
But the hallway was empty.
She leaned back against the door and shook her head with a breathless laugh. "Idiot," she whispered under her breath, but the smile on her face lingered longer than it should have.
Then she walked back to the centre of the room, untied her dupatta, and pressed play again. The beat began, rising through the floor and into her veins.
This time, her arms moved more freely. Her spins were surer. Her smile stayed longer.
Outside the room, somewhere down the hallway, Arjun scrolled through his phone on the sofa, pretending to be completely disinterested.
But he wasn't.
Every now and then, when the music swelled, he would pause—and close his eyes, imagining what she might look like mid-dance. He didn't need to see it.
He already knew she was beautiful.
To be continued...