The morning sun filtered gently through the thin cotton curtains of their shared room, casting soft golden streaks across the tiled floor like delicate brushstrokes. The world outside had already stirred awake—autos honking distantly, a milk vendor's cycle bell chiming, crows cawing near the overhead wires—but inside their little sanctuary, everything felt suspended. Quiet. Almost sacred.
Time didn't tick so much as tremble.
Shruti stood near the tall mirror, barefoot on the cool floor, a nervous flutter in her chest that refused to settle. Her fingers gripped the emerald green saree like it might suddenly come to life and coil around her on its own. The fabric was rich, elegant, intimidating. She had admired it when Pragathi picked it out at the shop last week, calling it "subtle but stunning." She had even smiled shyly when Arjun's eyes had lingered on the fabric for a second longer than necessary. But now, draped haphazardly around her torso, it looked like a defeated ribbon in a child's hands.
Her lower lip trembled slightly before she caught it between her teeth, biting down gently—not from pain, but habit. The kind of small, unconscious motion people do when they're trying not to spiral.
She had managed the blouse somehow, even tied the langa securely around her waist. But the drape—this treacherous piece of floating cloth—refused to cooperate. The pleats crumpled like fallen leaves no matter how many times she tried to fold them neatly. The pallu slithered from her shoulder like it had a mind of its own. Each attempt felt more chaotic than the last, leaving her sweaty-palmed and flustered.
The mirror offered no help. It only reflected a version of her that looked half-bloomed and utterly out of place—eyes wide with rising panic, hair puffed in an uneven halo from repeated tugs, and that damn stubborn saree sagging where it should have floated.
Her shoulders drooped.
She looked less like a performer and more like a girl playing dress-up in clothes too graceful for her. Sarees belonged to another world—a world where girls walked like poetry, swayed with purpose, and knew instinctively how to tame six yards of flowing silk. She had grown up in kurtas, salwars, faded jeans, and school pinafores. This? This was a foreign language stitched in shimmer and tradition.
A sharp breath left her.
Her thumb traced the zari border absently, smoothing it for the hundredth time before letting it fall again. It landed on the floor in a soft heap, like her confidence. Pragathi had already left, twirling down the hallway in her turquoise chiffon, cheeks bright with excitement. "I'll see you there, okay? You'll be fine!" she had grinned before dashing out the door. Amma wasn't here to hover, to fuss, to say "Come here, let me do it. Stop moving!"
Shruti stood in silence, bare feet curling slightly into the floor, a knot forming somewhere behind her ribs.
A little voice in her head whispered, Why did you say yes to dancing? What were you thinking? You're not made for spotlights. You're not ready.
She didn't know whether to cry or laugh.
The saree mocked her softly in the background—its delicate shimmer like a smirk.
And in that moment, alone in the golden hush of the morning, Shruti wasn't sure what overwhelmed her more: the pressure to look perfect in front of a crowd… or the quiet ache of doing it all without a mother's guiding hands or a best friend at her side.
She closed her eyes for a second and whispered into the stillness, "I just want to feel like I belong up there."
The breeze stirred the curtains slightly. But no reply came.
Only the silence of a girl trying to grow into the woman she wasn't sure she was ready to be.
Outside the room, Arjun paced near the kitchen in slow, distracted steps, fingers lightly drumming the edge of the counter. He was dressed for the event—crisp white shirt, charcoal-grey trousers, and that quiet confidence he wore like a second skin. But beneath that surface, he was anything but composed. He kept running a hand through his already-set hair, glancing at the closed guest room door as though it might open if he stared long enough.
Was she okay?
Was she ready?
Should he knock?
Before he could decide, the doorknob twitched, and the door cracked open just slightly—enough for her to peek out, only half of her face visible.
"Arjun…" she murmured, her voice a quiet breath.
He straightened instantly, like her name had pulled a string tied to his spine. "Yeah?" His voice softened without him meaning to. "What is it?"
She hesitated, looking down for a second. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the emerald green saree, its pallu crumpled slightly where it hung over her arm.
"I—" she began, then paused. Her cheeks flushed, and she blew out a shaky breath. "Can you… help me?"
He blinked. "Help you?"
She bit her lower lip and glanced up at him through her lashes. "With this," she said, holding up the saree, the fabric pooling between her hands. "I can't… it's not staying. I've tried five times."
Arjun took a step closer, eyes narrowing in concern. "Shruti… I don't know how to drape a saree."
She gave him a look—half amused, half pleading. "I'm not asking you to drape it perfectly. Just… help. I need someone to hold the pleats. Or hand me pins. Or not laugh when I trip over it for the sixth time."
He opened his mouth to respond, but she wasn't done.
"You're my man, right? It's okay, come on." she said softly.
The words weren't loud, but they landed like thunder.
His breath caught. The world narrowed to just those four words. You're my man.
Her voice dipped into something quieter then—more vulnerable. "So stop overthinking… and come in."
He didn't move at first. Didn't trust himself to. Her words had knocked something loose in him—something deep and warm and trembling.
But then, slowly, his legs obeyed before his thoughts did. He stepped toward her. Gently, he pushed the door wider, just enough to step inside.
The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and talcum powder. Light poured in through the sheer curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the floor. The fan above whirred lazily.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the quiet between them shifted—no longer distant, but charged. A warm, expectant pause.
Shruti stood in the center of the room, barefoot, clutching the pallu with both hands like a girl holding on to a piece of her own nervous heart.
"Don't just stand there like you've never seen me before," she said, half teasing, trying to ease the silence. Her voice was wobbly in places.
Arjun gave a quiet laugh. But when he spoke, his voice had dropped an octave.
"I haven't," he said softly. "Not like this."
She stilled.
He didn't mean just the outfit. He meant her—like this. Raw. Real. Vulnerable. A little embarrassed, a little flustered, and yet impossibly beautiful.
Shruti looked down, flustered. "You're staring."
"I know."
"Then stop it."
"I can't."
She stepped forward, hesitant but determined, and extended the loose end of the saree toward him.
"Hold this end," she said, her voice soft but steady.
Arjun reached out, and their fingers brushed—a delicate contact that sent an uninvited flutter straight through him. The silk slipped over his knuckles, impossibly smooth and warm from her touch. His fingers curled around it gently, almost like he was holding a secret.
Shruti caught the flicker of emotion in his eyes before looking away, heart tapping a restless rhythm against her ribs. She lowered her gaze, cheeks blooming red as she pretended to focus on the pleats she hadn't even begun yet.
"Here," she murmured, shifting slightly. "Tuck this into the waist."
Arjun blinked. His gaze dropped for a moment to the waistband of her langa, where her flat stomach met the emerald fabric snugly.
He hesitated. "You sure?"
Shruti looked up, meeting his eyes briefly. She wasn't smiling now. She was just still. Real.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I trust you."
The words knocked the air from his lungs more than her touch ever could. Arjun gave a small nod, barely trusting his voice to hold steady. He took a cautious step forward, breathing shallowly. His hand moved to her waist—the proximity too intimate, too careful. As he tucked the fabric into the waistband, his knuckles brushed her skin, feather-light and unintentional.
Shruti stilled.
Her breath caught, lips parting, fingers tightening slightly around the rest of the fabric.
"I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay," she whispered before he could finish. "Just don't mess up the pleats."
He laughed softly, nerves still humming.
"Bossy," he muttered under his breath.
"Helpful," she corrected with a small smile, handing him the long end of the saree.
They sat side by side on the edge of the bed, knees brushing now and then as they worked together. Shruti showed him how to fold the pleats with precision, and Arjun, ever the perfectionist, squinted at the silk like it was some ancient artifact.
"This isn't folding right," he said, frowning. "It's uneven."
"That's because you skipped one layer. Look—here." She reached over, her fingers brushing his as she corrected the fold. Their hands tangled briefly, and she didn't pull away.
"Oh," he said softly. "That… makes sense."
"Now pinch it here. Tight. Or it'll all fall apart."
He did, tongue peeking out slightly as he concentrated. Shruti stared at him for a second, a grin tugging at her lips.
"You look like a kid doing craft homework."
"You look like you're enjoying this a little too much," he shot back.
"Maybe I am," she said, tilting her head. "It's nice. Having you here. Doing something like this."
His hands stilled. He looked at her, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The sun painted lines of light across her face. She looked golden.
"It's nice for me too," he said honestly.
They finished the pleats together. She tucked them in carefully, then stood and turned, holding the end of the saree.
"Now the pallu."
He stepped closer again, hands hovering. "Can I...?"
She nodded. "Over the shoulder. Straight. Then pin it."
He gently brought the pallu over her shoulder, and as he folded the fabric to fan it properly, his fingers brushed her collarbone. She shivered slightly.
"Cold?" he asked quietly.
"No," she whispered. "Just... it tickles."
He chuckled. "Sorry. I'm trying not to mess it up."
"You're doing fine."
He bent slightly to secure the pin, careful not to touch more skin than necessary. But even so, the closeness made the air around them warm. Dense. Her perfume was subtle—something floral, maybe jasmine, with a hint of sandalwood.
When he was done, he stepped back.
She turned to face him fully.
"How do I look?" she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Arjun didn't speak immediately. His eyes swept over her—the way the emerald hugged her frame, the way the sunlight lit up her features, the bare softness of her midriff, the nervous hope in her expression.
"Like I won the lottery," he said finally.
She laughed, the sound soft and surprised. "You're such a liar."
"I'm not. I'm serious. You look... I don't even have the word."
Her voice dropped. "Try."
"Radiant," he said. "Real. Unforgettable."
Her cheeks flushed again, but she didn't look away this time.
"You really think so?"
He took a step forward. "Yes. And more than that... I'm proud of you. For doing this. For dancing. For everything."
He stood there, stunned.
Her skin was warm.
Soft.
Alive.
"Thanks to you," she murmured.
"I just helped a little."
"You helped a lot," she corrected, her voice a whisper. "And you didn't laugh. Even though I looked ridiculous earlier."
He gave a half-smile, stepping back just a little to give her space to breathe. But his eyes—his eyes didn't look away. "You didn't. I was staring because I couldn't stop."
Her gaze flicked up. Her stomach flipped.
"That's not fair," she whispered, voice catching.
"What isn't?"
"Saying things like that. When I already can't breathe properly in this saree."
That made him laugh—soft and breathy. "Sorry," he said. But he didn't look sorry at all. "You said not to peek during practice. But now that I've seen you…"
His voice trailed off, the sentence left hanging.
She turned her face slightly, trying to hide the grin that had crept up her cheeks. "I should probably go. Everyone's going to be at the auditorium by now."
He looked at the clock. "We still have ten minutes."
She met his eyes again. "Why does it feel like more than that passed?"
"Because," he said, reaching out gently—this time just to adjust her gajra, fingers brushing the edge of her hairclip, "I think time pauses around you."
The silence cracked open again. Not with words, but with emotion that spilled into the space between them like golden light.
Shruti swallowed. "Arjun…"
"Hmm?"
She hesitated. Her hand reached toward his arm, then stopped just short. "Will you be there… when I perform?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."
She bit her lip. "You'll be sitting in the back?"
"I'll be sitting somewhere I can see you clearly," he said. "Because this is your moment, Shruti. And I want to see you shine."
Her throat tightened.
He meant it.
He always meant it.
Shruti looked down, blinking rapidly. "You're dangerous when you're this nice to me."
He grinned. "Only for you."
"You're usually annoying first, then nice."
"Balance," he said with a shrug.
She laughed softly, reaching down for her bangles and slipping them over her wrist. The metal clinked against each other, a sound that felt oddly reassuring.
"Let's go," she said finally, turning toward the door. But before she could take another step, he caught her wrist gently.
"Wait," he said. "Just one thing."
She turned back, eyebrows lifting in question.
He leaned in—just a little—and whispered near her ear, "Don't look for me in the crowd, Shruti. Just dance like you're the only one on that stage."
Then he stepped back, releasing her hand slowly.
Her smile reached all the way to her eyes now. "I'll try."
"You'll do more than that," he said with quiet pride.
And together, they stepped out. Into the light. Into the day that would remember her.
And him.
And everything they were still growing into—slowly, gently, one step at a time
To be continued...