They decided to get married on a rainy evening when the power was out and the house smelled faintly of wet dust and cardamom tea.
It wasn't romantic in the way movies insist romance should be. No violins. No dramatic confessions. Just two people sitting on the floor, backs against the sofa, listening to rain hit the windows like it was trying to say something important.
"I don't think this is a phase anymore," Rohan said, staring at the wall.
Ananya smiled without looking at him. "I stopped thinking it was a phase two years ago."
That was it. That was the proposal. They laughed after, a little nervous, like they had just made a decision that couldn't be undone.
And maybe that's why everything became complicated immediately.
The first problem was distance.
Not emotional distance—life distance.
Rohan lived in Pune. Ananya worked in Delhi. They had built their relationship out of train tickets, voice notes sent at midnight, and the strange intimacy of knowing someone deeply while rarely touching them.
When they told people they were getting married, the first question wasn't "How did you meet?" or "When's the wedding?"
It was always: "So who's moving?"
No one asked if they were ready to move. Or what it meant to leave behind a version of themselves that had taken years to grow.
Ananya loved her job. Rohan loved his city. Neither wanted to be the one who gave up first.
They argued about it one night over the phone. Not shouting—worse. Calm voices sharpened by disappointment.
"I just need you to consider it," Rohan said.
"I have considered it," Ananya replied. "I'm just not willing to disappear."
Silence sat between them, heavy and accusing.
They didn't solve it that night. Or the next week. Or the week after.
The second problem was families.
Rohan's parents liked Ananya, but not loudly. They were the kind of people who believed approval should be subtle, like a nod instead of applause.
Ananya's parents, on the other hand, loved Rohan—but worried about him endlessly.
"He's too soft," her mother said once. "Life will eat him alive."
Ananya wanted to tell her that softness was exactly why she loved him, but some truths are exhausting to explain.
Then came the rituals. Dates. Guest lists. Astrologers.
Someone's horoscope didn't align. Someone else's aunt had a problem with the venue. A cousin got offended because their name wasn't mentioned first.
The wedding slowly stopped feeling like theirs.
One afternoon, after another long call filled with opinions they hadn't asked for, Ananya broke down in the kitchen.
"I feel like we're being edited out of our own story," she said.
Rohan leaned against the counter, unsure how to fix something this big. "Maybe every marriage begins with losing a little control," he said.
She didn't want that to be true.
The third problem was fear.
It crept in quietly, pretending to be practicality.
What if love wasn't enough? What if they became boring? What if one day they woke up and resented the sacrifices they made?
Rohan started having dreams where he missed trains. Ananya started rereading old messages, searching for proof that they had once been lighter, easier.
One evening, during a visit, they fought badly. The kind of fight where nothing cruel is said, but everything hurts anyway.
"Do you ever wonder," Ananya asked, voice shaking, "if we're forcing this because we're scared to start over?"
Rohan didn't answer immediately. He looked at her like he was memorizing her face.
"No," he said finally. "I wonder if we're scared because it matters."
They didn't resolve that either. They went to sleep angry, backs turned, hearts loud.
In the morning, Rohan made coffee the way Ananya liked it—too strong, too much sugar. She noticed. She always noticed.
The weeks passed like that. Complicated. Tender. Heavy.
Plans changed. Dates shifted. Expectations lowered.
Ananya didn't quit her job immediately. Rohan asked his company for a transfer instead. It wasn't guaranteed. It wasn't perfect. But it was effort.
Their families didn't suddenly agree on everything—but they softened. People often do when they see persistence instead of rebellion.
The wedding became smaller. Less grand. More honest.
And somewhere in the middle of all the chaos, Ananya realized something strange.
They were still laughing.
Not all the time. Not easily. But genuinely.
Laughing while assembling wedding invites at midnight. Laughing when the caterer messed up names. Laughing when everything felt slightly out of control.
On the wedding day, nothing went exactly as planned.
The flowers arrived late. The music started early. Someone cried at the wrong moment. Someone forgot the rings for a terrifying five minutes.
But when Ananya walked toward Rohan, she didn't feel like she was entering perfection.
She felt like she was entering something real.
Rohan's hands shook when he held hers. She squeezed them, grounding both of them.
They weren't promising a flawless life.
They were promising to stay—during misunderstandings, during compromises that hurt a little, during days when love felt quieter than expected.
And that felt enough.
Later that night, after the guests left and the noise settled, they sat together in silence.
"Still scared?" Rohan asked.
"Yes," Ananya said, smiling. "But less alone."
He nodded. "Same."
It wasn't a fairytale ending.
It was better.
Because it was theirs—and they had chosen it, again and again, through every complication, until happiness stopped being loud and started being steady.