(And here we go, folks. If you thought dragging a crying bride off a bridge was wild, wait till you see what happens when you bring her home. Spoiler: bachelors' rooms are not meant for guests, let alone brides.)
Shubham pushed open his door. The room blinked awake under a tired yellow bulb. A single bed, a study table buried under cables, books, empty cups. Clothes piled like mountains in one corner.
Not exactly five-star. Not even three-star. More like "half-star, review pending."
"Sorry for the mess," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "At least no garbage bags… yet."
The bride — still in full red lehenga, dupatta trailing like a fallen flag — stepped inside. Sequins glimmered against the dullness of his bachelor pad. She looked like a goddess lost in a warehouse.
"Sit," he said, pointing at the bed. Then panicked. "I mean— not like that. I'll sit on the chair. You take the bed. Guest priority, you know."
She lowered herself slowly, hands in her lap, eyes blank.
Shubham scratched his head. "Uh… hungry? I have rice. And, uh, curry powder. Maybe masala paneer if the fridge hasn't turned it into science project."
No reply.
He tried again. "You pray before eating, or straight to food?"
Finally, she looked at him. Her voice was small. "You eat first. I'll… I'll just watch."
That shook him. "No way. If you don't eat, I don't eat. Partnership terms and conditions."
(Speaker: Look at this guy. Already throwing around 'partnership' like they signed a marriage contract. Calm down, hero, you met her twenty minutes ago.)
He clanged pots around like a man fighting his kitchen instead of cooking in it. Burnt smells tried to sneak in, but he bullied them with masala until rice and paneer finally surrendered into two plates.
They ate quietly at the table. Her hands trembled when she lifted the spoon, as if eating was something she had to remind herself how to do.
At some point, she whispered, "You really don't pray?"
He shrugged. "I debug code. Same thing."
For the first time, her lips almost curved. Almost.
Later, he found her standing in front of his cupboard, staring at his shirts.
"Lehenga's too heavy," she said softly. "May I…?"
"Yeah, yeah! Take anything." He waved, flustered. "Just— not the anime T-shirt. That's… emotional value."
She disappeared into the washroom, then emerged minutes later in one of his light blue shirts, sleeves folded up. Her hair was loose, damp from where she'd splashed water on her face.
And damn. She looked— (Speaker: Easy, Shubham. Don't get poetic now. She's vulnerable. Control your CPU usage.)
A knock rattled the door. Shubham opened it a crack. His neighbor — middle-aged aunty with x-ray eyes — peeked in. Her gaze landed straight on the girl in his shirt.
"Arre wah, Shubham ji," she said, eyebrows climbing. "New bride? You didn't tell anyone!"
Shubham's brain short-circuited. Then, in panic, he blurted the stupidest line of his life.
"Yes! Yes, my wife."
Aunty gasped, thrilled, already loading gossip bullets for the entire building. "Congratulations beta! May God bless you two!"
She left humming, satisfied.
Shubham shut the door, face red. He turned to the girl.
She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Wife?"
He raised both hands defensively. "I panicked! If I said 'random girl from bridge' she'd call the cops. At least this way, you're safe."
Her lips twitched. Maybe from anger, maybe from laughter. Hard to tell.
Night grew heavier. He spread a bedsheet on the floor.
"You take the bed," he said firmly.
She shook her head. "No. I'll sleep here."
He frowned. "It's fine. Guests get priority. I'll manage."
Silence dropped like a rock.
(Speaker: Ding ding ding! The part every rom-com waits for. Except nope, folks. Not tonight. They're still strangers. Relax.)
She finally lay down on the bed, turning her face away. He stretched out on the floor, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling fan that didn't spin.
In the dark, Shubham whispered, half-joking, half-praying:"Hey… you're not a ghost, right? Because if you are, at least haunt my bugs. They deserve it."
For the first time all night, she laughed. Small, broken, but real.
And in that laugh, something shifted.
Cliffhanger → Morning would not be normal.