Fast forward fifteen days, and Aanaya had genuinely—almost heroically—given her "one thousand percent" effort toward mastering the sacred art of cooking. 

She woke up early, tied her apron with determination, watched countless tutorial videos, endured lectures from her mother, and even practiced knife-holding techniques as though preparing for a certification exam.

Her intention was sincere. Her enthusiasm is surprisingly consistent.

But destiny, it seemed, had signed a separate contract.

Despite all her commitment, the outcomes were... unpredictable at best.

There were mornings when she attempted rotis with fierce concentration—rolling them carefully, dusting them with flour, placing them gently onto the hot tava. 

For a few hopeful seconds, everything would appear normal. 

Then, as though possessed by some invisible rebellion, the roti would darken at an alarming rate. 

Within moments, it would reach a shade of black so profound that it became genuinely difficult to distinguish whether the tava was visible beneath it or whether the roti had simply merged into it as one unified surface. 

At times, even the maid would lean closer, squinting slightly, unsure whether she was meant to flip something or scrape it off entirely. 

It often appeared less like bread and more like a charcoal sample collected for laboratory testing.

On other occasions, Aanaya would move on to dal—dreaming of producing something warm, soupy, aromatic, comforting. 

She would measure the lentils carefully, add water with cautious optimism, and watch the pot as though supervision alone could guarantee success. 

Yet somehow, in defiance of physics and basic culinary rules, the dal would either remain stubbornly undercooked or transform into a thick, glue-like substance that clung desperately to the bottom of the pot. 

There were instances when the lentils stuck so firmly that even soaking the utensil for hours failed to loosen them. 

The maid would stare at the pot in quiet despair, calculating mentally how much scrubbing her evening would now require.

And then came the halwa incidents.

Making halwa had sounded simple enough—just roasting, stirring, sweetening.

 But under Aanaya's supervision, the ghee would occasionally heat faster than anticipated, and the semolina would brown unevenly. 

At least twice, the pan had emitted sharp crackling sounds, tiny sparks of ghee leaping outward like celebratory fireworks gone rogue. 

The mixture would bubble aggressively, spluttering as though protesting its own creation. 

The aroma, instead of sweet and nutty, would sometimes carry a faint hint of smoke—subtle but undeniable.

There were days when the kitchen resembled a stage set for a dramatic performance.

 Oil would sputter rhythmically in the pan, vegetables tossing as though responding to invisible music.

 Once, while tempering spices, the crackling became so intense that it genuinely felt like a DJ had turned the bass to maximum—mustard seeds popping energetically, curry leaves snapping loudly, red chilies releasing smoke into the air. The food did not merely cook; it performed.

Through it all, Aanaya persisted.

Her fingers accumulated minor burns.

 Her confidence fluctuated hourly. Her apron bore stains that told stories of spills, splashes, and overenthusiastic stirring. 

And yet, every morning she returned to the kitchen with renewed determination, convinced that today would be different.

Sometimes the outcome was edible.

Sometimes it was questionable.

And sometimes, it was a silent test of everyone's digestive courage.

Even something as harmless and universally simple as popcorn refused to cooperate under her supervision. 

What should have been a cheerful popping sound inside a covered pan somehow transformed into a scene resembling an overenthusiastic snowstorm. 

The lid would rattle violently, and the moment she lifted it—just slightly, just out of curiosity—popcorn would erupt outward in every direction, scattering across the countertop, bouncing onto the floor, even landing in places no reasonable piece of corn should ever reach.

 It looked less like a snack being prepared and more like an ambitious attempt to reduce global hunger by distributing popcorn across every visible surface of the kitchen.

The maids had long stopped reacting dramatically. They simply watched, silently calculating the cleanup.

For fifteen consecutive days, from early morning until late evening, Aanaya's world shrank to the dimensions of the kitchen. 

The once-foreign space became her reluctant training ground. 

She learned the difference between simmering and boiling the hard way. She memorized the scent of burning versus browning.

 She identified spices not by confidence but by repeated correction. 

Her soft hands, once untouched by heat and effort, now carried faint marks of splattered oil and hurried practice.

She spent hours observing, attempting, failing, and retrying. 

Some afternoons were quiet and productive; others ended in smoke alarms and deep sighs.

 There were days she wanted to throw the rolling pin aside dramatically and declare defeat.

 There were evenings she sat on the kitchen stool, exhausted, staring at a dish that looked edible but emotionally draining.

Was she afraid of her mother-in-law?

Perhaps a little. 

The memory of strict standards and subtle remarks still lingered in her mind. 

But that was not the primary force driving her persistence.

The real motivation was far more personal.

Her soft toys.

Every single plush companion that had occupied her room for years—each one tied to childhood comfort and emotional security—hung in silent balance against her performance in the kitchen.

 Her mother had not been joking. If she failed to show effort, if she remained careless and indifferent, those toys would be donated without hesitation. 

And Aanaya knew Kirti well enough to understand that once a decision was made, it would be executed.

Beyond that, there was another looming possibility.

Kirti would never allow her daughter to sit at home idly. 

If she did not learn to manage the household—even partially—then the alternative was clear: she would be sent to the company to work formally. 

Structured hours. 

Responsibilities. Reports. Meetings. 

A life she had always resisted.

Managing a home, even with limited help from maids assigned only specific duties, felt less suffocating than corporate routines. 

She disliked the idea of office obligations deeply. The thought alone exhausted her.

So she chose the kitchen.

Not out of pure domestic devotion. Not entirely out of fear.

But out of negotiation with her own future.

If mastering cooking meant keeping her soft toys, avoiding corporate life, and maintaining some degree of independence within expectations—then she would endure burnt rotis, stubborn dal, rebellious popcorn, and dancing tadka.

Every night, without exception, Aanaya would drag herself back to her room in utter exhaustion, her shoulders aching from hours of stirring, rolling, chopping, and scrubbing.

Her once delicate hands—soft, pampered, untouched by domestic struggle—were now decorated with colorful Barbie bandages as though they were part of some unfortunate fashion statement. 

Two minor cuts per day had practically become routine. 

If the knife did not graze her finger, the grater would; if not the grater, then an overconfident attempt at slicing vegetables too quickly.

And as though cooking disasters were not sufficient trials, there was the added clause of dishwashing.

For the past ten days, washing utensils has become her compulsory responsibility. 

The rule was simple: if she ruined a dish—which, statistically speaking, happened with alarming consistency—she would clean the aftermath herself.

The towering stacks of greasy pans, burnt pots, sticky ladles, and stubbornly stained pressure cookers awaited her at the sink like silent judges of her performance.

The true reason, however, was less about punishment and more about survival. 

The maids had reached their limit. 

After scrubbing blackened dal off pots and scraping charred roti remains from the tava repeatedly, they had issued a polite but firm warning: if this continued, they would resign. 

They had not signed up for disaster management on a daily basis.

So, at the end of each chaotic day, Aanaya stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing vigorously while the tap ran steadily. 

The scent of dish soap replaced the aroma of spices, and the sound of scrubbing steel against metal echoed through the kitchen long after dinner was over. 

Her arms would grow sore, her back stiff, her patience thin—but she continued.

By the time she finally climbed into bed each night, she felt as though she had completed physical labor far beyond what she had ever imagined for herself.

Fifteen days.

She had once counted them with excitement. 

When she first arrived, she had secretly rejoiced at the opportunity to stay longer with her parents, to relive comfort, to enjoy familiarity. 

The house had felt warm, safe, indulgent.

Now, those same fifteen days felt like an extended endurance trial.

She found herself mentally pleading for time to move faster. 

She would glance at the calendar as though willing the dates to shift. Every morning felt longer than the last.

 Every evening heavier. 

The kitchen, once merely unfamiliar, had become synonymous with exhaustion.

Ironically, the sharp remarks and subtle taunts of her mother-in-law, Shobha, now seemed almost gentle in comparison to the relentless discipline of her own mother. 

At least Shobha's criticism had come wrapped in mild politeness and measured words. 

Kirti's training, on the other hand, was direct, unapologetic, and intensely practical.

There were moments—brief but genuine—when Aanaya wondered if she had underestimated everything. 

Marriage. Responsibility. Domestic expectations. Independence.

She had entered these fifteen days thinking they would be a leisurely extension of comfort. Instead, they had stripped away her complacency layer by layer.

Yet, amid all the exhaustion, the scoldings, the burnt rotis and stubborn utensils, there was only one time of the day when she allowed herself to hope for something gentle.

Night.

After finishing her bath, washing away the scent of spices and dish soap from her skin, she would change into her soft nightdress and slip quietly into bed. 

Her hair, still slightly damp, would fall over her shoulders as she adjusted her pillow and pulled the blanket up to her chin. 

The house would be silent by then. 

The chaos of the kitchen long forgotten. The lights dimmed. The world slowed.

And in that stillness, she would wait.

Her phone rested beside her.

She would pick it up casually at first—pretending to check something trivial. Maybe scrolling aimlessly.

 Maybe opening Instagram without really seeing anything. But her eyes always drifted to one place.

Messages.

She would wait for his name to appear.

For a call.

For even a single word.

His message.

But nothing came.

Night after night, the screen remained quiet. 

No notification. No vibration.

No unexpected ring breaking the silence. It almost felt unreal—as though she had imagined the marriage entirely. 

As though those two nights of sharing a room, those fleeting conversations, the mehndi with his hidden name—none of it had truly happened.

Sometimes it seemed like they were two strangers connected only by a formality.

Like two parallel lines that had briefly crossed but now continued in separate directions.

She would stare at his contact for a few seconds, then lock her phone, telling herself she did not care.

 Yet minutes later, she would unlock it again—just to make sure she had not missed anything.

And every night, without fail, she would reason with herself.

That man barely put his phone away. 

She had seen it. 

Even on his own wedding day, he had been attending important calls, stepping aside for business discussions, speaking in that composed, professional tone as though the world revolved around deadlines and deals.

How could she expect him to call her casually?

Especially when he was on a business trip.

Especially when his world functioned on meetings, contracts, and million-dollar decisions.

She would exhale softly and turn to one side, convincing herself that this was normal. That she was overthinking. 

That he was busy. That this was practical adulthood, not some dramatic romance.

Yet despite all the logic she fed herself, a small, stubborn part of her heart still waited.

Every night.

Aanaya had constructed an entire alternate universe in her mind where Arvind existed solely as a man perpetually attached to his work. 

She imagined him replying to emails while eating, one hand holding a fork, the other typing rapid responses without even glancing at the keyboard. 

She imagined him reviewing documents mid-flight, eyes sharp, posture straight, completely unaffected by turbulence. 

In her imagination, he probably even analyzed spreadsheets in his sleep—laptop balanced on his chest while he snored softly.

Wait.

He doesn't snore... right?

Her thoughts paused as she tried to recall those two nights she had spent in his room.

 She had barely slept, hyper-aware of his presence beside her. She replayed the memory carefully.

He does.

But it was faint. Almost inaudible. 

Just a soft, rhythmic breath that occasionally deepened.

 It wasn't the loud, disruptive snore people joked about. It was subtle. Controlled.

Cute.

Her eyes widened at her own conclusion.

"Since when is snoring cute?" she muttered under her breath, staring at the ceiling as though it might answer her. 

"What is wrong with you, Aanaya?"

She shifted on the bed, placing her phone flat against her chest, feeling its cool surface through the thin fabric of her nightdress. 

The room was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the small lamp near her bedside. 

Silence wrapped around her thoughts, giving them too much space to wander.

She continued constructing absurd scenarios in her head. 

Maybe he worked even while sitting on the commode. Maybe he reviewed contracts there, too.

"Aish!" she whispered sharply to herself, covering her face with one hand. "What nonsense are you thinking? He doesn't do that."

But then again—he was human. Humans did basic things. 

Her imagination spiraled dangerously close to obsession. 

She paused abruptly, sensing that if she continued this mental path, she might genuinely lose her composure.

She groaned softly and turned to her side.

"You sound insane," she told herself firmly. 

"Absolutely insane."

This was exactly how those overly dramatic, newly married girls behaved—the ones who flooded social media within hours of their wedding, posting pictures with their husband back-hugging them, captions screaming 'Best hubby in the world' with unnecessary emojis.

No.

That was not her.

She was cool. Composed. Slightly savage, even. 

She did not dissolve into mush because a man had faintly cute snores. 

She did not wait for texts like a love-struck teenager. She did not romanticize business calls.

Or at least, she wasn't supposed to.

She flipped onto her back again, staring at the ceiling, phone still resting over her heart as though it had a pulse of its own.

"Get a hold of yourself," she whispered, almost commanding her own mind. "It's just marriage. It's just him. Calm down."

But even as she tried to scold herself into emotional discipline, her thumb drifted unconsciously toward the screen—checking once more.

Still no message.

She locked the phone again, exhaling slowly, trying to convince herself that she didn't care.

She scolded herself softly under her breath, almost embarrassed by her own restlessness.

 "Enough," she murmured, shifting slightly on the bed and preparing to finally keep her phone aside for the night. She had just decided—firmly, maturely—that she would not check it again.

And then—

A notification popped up.

The soft vibration against her chest felt louder than it should have.

 Her heart leapt instantly, all previous self-lectures evaporating within a second. 

Her fingers moved faster than her thoughts as she unlocked the screen in one swift motion, anticipation flashing across her face before she could control it.

For that brief second, she was radiant with expectation.

Then her expression fell flat.

It was not his name.

It was a promotional message from her favorite clothing brand, announcing a grand sale—up to 30% off. Bright emojis. Limited time offer. Shop now.

Her excitement dissolved into stillness. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at the screen, feeling heat rise to her cheeks—not from happiness this time, but from mild humiliation.

How desperate did she look right now?

Unlocking her phone at lightning speed as though her entire world depended on one notification—only to be greeted by discounted handbags.

She felt foolish. Pathetically eager.

"Seriously?" she muttered, tossing the phone slightly onto the bed beside her. "You thought it was him."

The realization stung more than she expected. She sighed deeply, turning onto her side and pulling the blanket closer, trying to bury both her disappointment and her overreaction.

"It's just a message," she reminded herself again. "Not everything is about him."

She shut her eyes, determined not to fall for another false alarm.

And then—

The phone tinged again.

Another vibration.

This time, she picked up the phone with deliberate boredom painted across her face, as though she could will her heart into indifference.

 But the moment the screen lit up, her pulse betrayed her. It quickened instantly—loud, unsteady, almost echoing in her ears. 

Her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she unlocked the device, and she swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

Instinctively, her free hand moved to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear—an absurd gesture, considering the sender could not see her. Yet she did it anyway. 

As if composure mattered. As if posture mattered. As if he were somehow watching her reaction through the screen.

And why not?

It was his message.

His name sat there at the top of the notification bar, calm and simple, yet powerful enough to unsettle her entire nervous system.

She did not open it immediately.

Instead, she stared at the screen for a few seconds—long enough to pretend, even to herself, that she had not been waiting. 

She did not want it to seem like she had been hovering over her phone for days. 

She did not want to appear eager.

Even though she had been.

But beneath that pretense was another truth—she needed a moment to prepare. Fifteen days had passed. 

Fifteen long, exhausting, emotionally confusing days. 

What does one say after such silence? What tone should she use? Casual? Formal? Distant? Playful?

Her mind raced through possibilities while her thumb hovered over the notification.

She inhaled deeply.

Once.

Twice.

Then, finally, with controlled movement, she opened the chat.

The message was brief.

Direct.

"I will be there at sharp 6 pm. So pack your stuff, and we will leave the day after tomorrow, sharp at 5 am."

She read it once.

Then again.

 That was it.

No hi.
No hello.
No, how are you?
Not even a basic acknowledgment of the fact that fifteen entire days had passed in silence.

Just a direct, clinical message. Information delivered. Task assigned. Exit executed.

And before she could even decide what expression to wear while replying, he went offline.

Just like that.

As if he had sent the message with the sole purpose of updating her schedule and had no further interest in conversation. As if he hadn't just stirred her entire nervous system with a single notification.

She stared at the screen for a long moment, her lips pressing together.

"Wow," she muttered under her breath. "Very warm."

She inhaled deeply, trying not to overreact. 

Maybe he was busy. 

Maybe he sent it quickly between meetings.

Maybe he assumed there was nothing more to say.

Still.

It stung a little.

She typed a simple reply.

Ok.

No emoji. No extra word. No softness. Just Ok.

Her thumb hovered over the send button for a second before she pressed it. The message went through instantly.

She stared at it. Waiting.

Her eyes fixed on the single grey tick.

It remained grey.

Seconds passed.

Then a minute.

Still grey.

She kept staring at the screen as though her willpower alone could turn it blue. As though the universe might reward her patience with those two tiny blue indicators.

But they never appeared.

Her jaw tightened slightly.

"Of course," she whispered, placing the phone beside her.

She turned onto her side and buried half her face into the pillow, her cheek pressed against the soft fabric, eyes staring blankly ahead. Tomorrow. He would be here tomorrow.

And suddenly, another dilemma emerged.

The last time they had properly spoken, he had been rude. Cold. Dismissive. She had every right to be angry. In fact, she was supposed to be angry.

She had rehearsed that anger in her head multiple times during these fifteen days.

But the truth?

Her stupid heart had forgiven him in that very moment.

That same night.

She sighed into the pillow.

One side of her whispered firmly: Stay angry. Don't melt so easily. Let him realize your value. Let him make it up to you.

The other side—softer, traitorous—suggested: Just be normal. He's coming. Don't create unnecessary drama.

But then the feminist warrior living dramatically inside her mind stood up with a sword.

Absolutely not.

She would stay angry.

Yes. That was it. She would give him the cold shoulder. Let him feel the distance. Let him work for forgiveness.

Just like in movies.

Her imagination, once activated, did not operate at half capacity.

She could already picture the scene.

He would arrive at her house. Calm. Slightly restless beneath the surface. He would try to talk to her. She would respond minimally. Polite. Distant. She would avoid eye contact. He would attempt to explain himself. She would turn away dramatically.

"I'm not coming back," she would declare in her imagination, chin lifted slightly.

He would follow her to the balcony.

Yes. The balcony scene was essential.

In her mind, she now stood there wearing a flowing red saree, the pallu dancing wildly in the strong evening wind. Her hair would be slightly messy—effortlessly cinematic. The sky behind her would glow in warm sunset shades.

He would stand a few steps behind her, his own hair slightly disheveled from the breeze. His expression intense. Apologetic. Desperate.

He would move closer.

Call her name softly.

Try to convince her.

Maybe even beg a little.

She would refuse at first. Of course, she would. A heroine never agrees immediately.

And then—

She cut her own thought abruptly, her cheeks warming as her imagination tried to take the scene further.

"Aanaya," she whispered, half laughing at herself.

Yet she couldn't stop smiling.

Her lips curved unconsciously as she pictured him standing close, close enough that she could feel his presence without turning around. Close enough that the wind would carry his scent toward her.

Her imagination softened the sharpness of his real-life personality, polishing him into a dramatic male lead who chased, insisted, and refused to leave without her.

The more she imagined it, the wider her smile grew.

Completely unaware.

If someone had walked into her room at that moment and seen her lying there in the dark, smiling mysteriously into her pillow with flushed cheeks and closed eyes, they might have paused in mild concern.

Perhaps even taken a cautious step backward.

Because that smile?

It was not subtle.

It was the unmistakable smile of someone hopelessly lost in her own romantic screenplay.

Within minutes, her thoughts blurred at the edges. The balcony faded. The wind softened. The imaginary version of him standing behind her dissolved into warmth.

And still smiling faintly—

She drifted into sleep.