They stood in the center of the apartment like two guests who'd arrived too early for a party they weren't sure was happening.
Outside, the city buzzed.
Inside, everything was still wrapped in that odd newness—fresh paint, unopened drawers, a toothbrush cup that held only one brush so far.
Radhika placed her jewelry on the counter one piece at a time, each clink like a punctuation mark in the silence.
Rishit set their wedding gifts neatly in the corner, removed his watch, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
Neither of them said the obvious.
The thing people had been winking about all week.
The thing every ritual, every song, every auntie had been building up to.
The First Night.
He watched her for a moment, then finally said.
"Can I tell you something without it sounding like I'm trying too hard?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Go on."
"I know there's... a script people expect," he said. "Lights dim. Bedsheet shifts. Something poetic happens."
She smirked.
"I don't think what you're describing is poetic."
He smiled.
"Exactly. So I'm saying this now: I don't want to do anything tonight just because it's custom. Or expected. Or because someone out there is betting laddoos on it."
Her expression shifted. Not surprised.
Just—relieved.
"I think we should spend our first night."
He said gently, "When both of us want to. Not when the world expects it."
She walked over, sat beside him, slowly, cross-legged.
"So... what happens tonight?"
He leaned back, folded his hands behind his head.
"We argue about who gets which side of the bed. And maybe split a packet of Good Day biscuits. Like rebels."
She laughed. Softly, but it was real.
"No spooning?"
"I can offer symmetrical parallel lying."
"Very progressive."
He looked at her seriously for a beat.
"I meant what I said. This—us—it'll be built slow. And only when you feel safe. Not before."
She stared at him.
Then nodded.
And for the first time in days, she stopped holding her breath.
They changed in silence—Radhika into a cotton kurta she trusted, Rishit into an old college T-shirt that said Infrastructure is Sexy in faded letters.
She climbed into bed first, keeping to the left edge out of habit.
He took the right—calmly, like he'd already measured the mattress and its metaphorical territory.
They didn't say goodnight.
The light clicked off.
For a few minutes, there was only the hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional honk from a rickshaw outside.
Radhika turned to her side, left, always left.
One hand tucked under the pillow, the other resting on her hip.
Still. Compact. Guarded.
Rishit lay flat, arms spread, feet slightly apart, like someone unconsciously negotiating peace with the universe.
She peeked at him once.
He wasn't moving. Just breathing.
Like this was normal.
She let her eyes close.
Then opened them again.
"I shift a lot in my sleep."
She whispered suddenly.
"I don't, I fall asleep in the same position I wake up in. It's unnerving."
"Sounds rigid."
"It's restful."
Pause.
"You talk in your sleep?" he asked.
"Only in election season."
He chuckled.
"Noted."
And just like that, they both turned to face the ceiling again.
Not touching.
Not avoiding.
Just existing—together.
Two strangers.
Two mattresses.
One room.
And something was beginning to form in the quiet space between them.
***
The storm didn't announce itself.
It crept in, slow and ordinary—like most first fights do.
It began with a missing charger.
Radhika was already on edge. She hadn't slept well.
The fridge was humming too loud. And a stranger had stared too long at her mangalsutra on the metro that morning.
She came home, dropped her bag, and asked.
"Where's the black charger?"
Rishit, seated at the table, half-submerged in utility bills, replied without looking up.
"I left it in the living room."
"It's not there."
"It was."
"Well, it's not now."
Silence.
She opened drawers with increasing volume.
He continued checking a power company website like it had betrayed him personally.
She finally turned.
"Why would you move it? That charger was mine."
"I didn't move it. I just used it."
"Exactly. Which is why it's not where I left it."
He looked up, calm but colder than usual.
"You could just ask instead of accusing me."
"I did ask."
"You implied I messed up."
"You did."
"I paid the electricity bill."
"What does that have to do with—"
"I'm saying I'm already trying to do five things at once. Maybe give me five seconds of benefit of the doubt?"
She stood there.
He sat there.
The tension wasn't big.
It wasn't loud.
But it lingered.
He left the room.
She sat on the bed and scrolled her phone with the fury of a woman searching for peace in memes.
Fifteen minutes later, he reappeared with the charger in hand.
"It was under the couch, I might've dropped it."
She looked up.
He didn't offer a smile. Just the truth.
She took the charger.
"Sorry, I snapped."
He nodded.
"Sorry, I was snappy back."
Silence.
Then, Radhika said.
"Do you want tea?"
He paused.
"If it's the forgiving kind."
She got up, walked past him into the kitchen.
Flicked on the kettle.
"You're still folding the towels wrong."
From the hallway, he replied, "Then I'll fight you for them after chai."
And just like that, the sky cleared.
It was a Thursday night and the rain had started with the precision of a scheduled delivery.
The lights were dim, the dishes done, and the fan rotated with that lazy, groaning rhythm only ceiling fans in rented apartments could manage.
Radhika sat on the couch, feet tucked under her, wearing a sweatshirt that wasn't hers. On screen, a cooking show host was dramatically failing to flip an omelette.
Rishit entered with two cups of tea, set them down, then plopped onto the other end of the couch like he'd run a marathon in silence.
They didn't speak for a while.
The omelette collapsed.
The host cursed in French. Radhika snorted.
"This is quality entertainment."
"Clearly high budget."
Rishit replied, sipping his tea.
A commercial played.
She looked over at him.
He was relaxed—legs slightly apart, one hand draped over the couch back, watching the TV like it was a familiar wall he didn't mind staring at.
She leaned her head onto the pillow between them.
"This is it?"
He glanced at her.
"What?"
"Marriage."
He nodded.
"Feels more like... co-authoring an unscheduled manual."
"Any regrets?"
"Only that we didn't label the kitchen drawers before the auntie ambush."
She smiled.
"No."
He considered it.
"I think I'm just learning how to be quiet with someone. And not fill the silence. It's... harder than I thought."
She looked away from the TV, letting the words settle.
"Same."
They sat a little longer.
The rain got louder.
The ad ended.
Then, without looking at her, Rishit asked.
"Want the blanket?"
She nodded.
He grabbed it off the backrest, unfolded it, and draped it over both their laps—half by instinct, half by design.
Their elbows touched.
They didn't move away.
The show resumed.
The host tried again.
And in the quiet clink of spoons and storm and shared silence, something in Radhika clicked.
This wasn't passion. It wasn't romance.
It was something quieter.
But steadier.
And she didn't want to be anywhere else.