"You're not saying no?"
Her mother asked, cautiously optimistic but afraid to move too fast, like a cricket team on the verge of a miracle win.
"I'm saying..."
Radhika stirred her tea.
"He didn't make me want to fake a stomach infection and flee the country. That's progress."
Her mother blinked.
"So... it's not a no?"
Radhika gave the tiniest shrug.
Her father, seated nearby with the newspaper he wasn't really reading, folded it in half.
"That's a yes in our family language."
"It's a maybe," Radhika clarified.
Her mother stood up and left the room at a suspicious pace.
Radhika narrowed her eyes.
"Where is she going?"
"To text five aunties and light an agarbatti," her father muttered, sipping his chai.
***
Across the city, Rishit was half-lounging on a bean bag at Danish's apartment, picking at a bowl of salted peanuts with his usual tactical focus.
"She didn't fake laugh.".
"Big win," Danish replied, sprawled on the floor.
"What else?"
"She didn't pretend to check her phone. She let me talk. Laughed twice. Real laughs."
"Hot damn," Danish said.
"You sure she wasn't being polite?"
"Polite people don't make jokes about Excel sheets being a cry for help."
Danish sat up.
"And you're... into her?"
"I'm not 'into' her like she's a pizza. I'm... interested. Curious."
"That's worse," Danish said.
"That's real-people feelings."
Rishit smiled slightly.
"She was sharp. And honest. And not trying to perform 'wife auditions.' She looked like she'd rather be at home, but still stayed. That says something."
Danish whistled.
"So what now? Shaadi prep?"
"No rush," Rishit said.
"If she says yes, I want it to be her yes. Not her mom's. Not society's. Hers."
Danish raised a peanut in salute.
"You're weird, man."
"Healthy weird."
***
That night, Radhika got a message on her phone from an unknown number.
- Rishit Rai: "Thanks for not faking a headache to escape."
- Rishit Rai: "Also, in case you're wondering—I did overthink what shirt to wear."
- Rishit Rai: "Blue won by 2 votes on a family WhatsApp group."
She stared at the screen, smirking despite herself.
- Radhika Sharma: "You're welcome. I came this close to pretending to be allergic to gluten and marriage."
- Rishit: "Now I'm curious which one you're more allergic to."
She didn't reply.
But she saved his number.
***
The living room was full of polite tension, the kind you could slice with a mithai spoon.
Everyone was smiling too much, nodding too often, and pretending this wasn't a test run for shared genes and wedding décor.
Radhika handed out water glasses while mentally reviewing ten ways to leave the room.
Her escape arrived in the form of Rishit, who leaned toward her during a lull in family small talk.
"Want to check on your plants?"
He said in a low voice.
She raised an eyebrow.
"That's your new code for escaping auntie culture?"
"Works every time."
They slipped out to the terrace, dodging a suspicious glance from her bua and a smirk from her cousin Mahira, who was already texting someone under the table.
The terrace was cooler, quieter.
Radhika exhaled the kind of breath she didn't know she'd been holding since he walked in.
"You notice things," she said, a little surprised.
Rishit smiled faintly.
"I also remember you said you like December frappuccinos. I figured that detail was too specific to ignore."
"Engineer thing?"
"Only on paper. I think I just like noticing people."
She looked at him a little more closely then.
There was something about the way he said that—plain, without performance.
"Noticing people sounds dangerously close to emotional intelligence," she said.
He smiled.
"I read the manual. Skipped the mansplaining chapter."
She laughed. Then paused.
"So...How are you feeling about all this?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he leaned on the railing and looked out over the rooftops.
"I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something big, and everyone else already thinks I've jumped. But I'm still just looking."
Radhika blinked.
That felt uncomfortably familiar.
She joined him at the railing.
"Yeah. Same."
A silence passed between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just shared.
Rishit finally asked.
"Are you scared?"
"Of what?"
"Of saying yes."
Radhika thought for a second.
"Not of the word. Just what comes after."
He nodded.
"Same."
She looked over at him.
"You keep saying that."
"Because I'm not trying to be different from you."
"I'm just trying to... be on your side."
That silenced her more effectively than any lecture or poetry ever had.
Radhika tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It was a pointless gesture—it always fell again—but somehow gave her something to do while her thoughts tried to catch up to his words.
"You say things like that so easily," she said, still not looking at him.
"Like what?"
"'I'm on your side.' That's... not normal."
He smiled faintly.
"I'm trying to make normal less exhausting."
She turned toward him, half amused.
"You always like this? Calm, thoughtful, allergic to ego?"
"Only on alternate Sundays. And I did once yell at a printer. It was dramatic."
She laughed, then caught herself.
"Okay, but seriously. Let's say we do go through with this. What then?"
He didn't blink.
"Then we take it slow. Learn each other's weird habits. Argue about dish soap brands. Remember to ask before eating the last laddoo."
"No pressure to become #CoupleGoals?"
"Nope. You can be grumpy. I'll be annoyingly consistent."
She gave him a long, curious look.
"What if I want space?"
"You'll get it."
"What if I get insecure?"
"I'll listen."
"What if I forget to be nice sometimes?"
"I'll wait."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You rehearsed that."
"I rehearsed being decent," he said simply.
"Not lines."
The wind caught her dupatta and flung it across her shoulder like a spontaneous punctuation mark.
She sighed.
"You're making it hard to stay skeptical."
"You can stay skeptical," he said.
"I'm not here to convince you. Just... to walk beside you if you decide to move."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The city below buzzed with rickshaws, honking cars, and the scent of someone else's dinner.
Radhika finally said, "This still feels surreal."
"I know."
"But not... uncomfortable."
He glanced at her.
"That's a start."
She nodded slowly.
"It is."
And just like that, the big, terrifying unknown shrank—just a little.
Not into certainty.
But into something possible.
By the time they returned to the living room, Radhika's cheeks were tinged with wind and a faint trace of unexpected calm.
Her mother looked up with the speed of a Meena Kumari revival.
"Sab theek?" she asked, voice falsely casual.
"Plants are alive," Radhika replied, settling back into her seat.
Across the coffee table, Rishit sat down beside his father and reached for a biscuit.
He didn't speak, but there was something new in his posture—like he'd stopped bracing for impact.
A few more polite sentences were exchanged—about parking, traffic, and how the weather was 'changing so fast these days.'
But no one brought up the actual topic.
It hung in the air like perfume after guests leave—a little too sweet, a little too present.
Fifteen minutes later, Rishit's family stood to leave.
Radhika's mother walked them out, offering mithai boxes and last-minute compliments.
Radhika hovered by the door, watching quietly.
As Rishit turned to go, he caught her eye.
Not with a grin.
Not with a promise.
Just that same small, unbothered smile.
Like they had agreed on something without ever shaking hands.
She didn't smile back.
But she didn't look away.
***
Later that night, as Radhika pulled the pins out of her hair and stacked her bangles onto the dresser, her phone buzzed.
- Rishit: "So…"
- Rishit:" Do we tell them we haven't decided?"
- Rishit: "Or just keep letting them guess?"
She typed.
Paused.
Then deleted.
Typed again.
- Radhika: "Let them guess a little longer."
- Radhika: "I think they've earned the suspense."
- Rishit: "You're evil. I like it."
She put her phone down, turned off the light, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
And for the first time in a long time, her mind wasn't racing with exit strategies.
It was just... still.