The next morning, the sunlight fell gently through the curtains, but the warmth never reached Poornima’s heart.

Veeresh sat near the window, reading estate papers, and watched her quietly moving around the room — silent, distant, never asking him anything, never claiming any right as a wife.

Days had passed since their marriage, yet she still behaved like an outsider — as though the mangalsutra around her neck and the sindur in her hair were just duties, not belonging.

Finally, Veeresh couldn’t hold it anymore. He closed the file and said, his voice firm,

“Poornima… can I ask you something?”

She looked at him nervously. “Yes?”

He took a deep breath. “Do you still want to live as a widow… or as a married woman?”

His words cut through the silence like a blade.

Poornima froze. Her hands trembled slightly as her eyes welled up. She wanted to speak, but no words came out.

Veeresh stood up, anger and confusion in his eyes. “You wear the sindur, you tied the knot with me, but you never let me in — not even for a simple word. Tell me, Poornima… am I your husband or just a stranger living under the same roof?”

She looked down, silent tears falling on her hands.

Veeresh exhaled sharply, unable to control his emotions, and said quietly, “Then maybe you should decide what you really want.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving her shattered — pieces of her heart scattered across the room.

When the door closed behind him, Poornima fell to her knees, clutching her mangalsutra.

Her voice broke as she whispered, “Mahadev… why me? Every time I try to live, you test me again and again.”

Her memories came rushing back like a storm —

The way her first husband, Pavan, used to humiliate her in front of everyone.

His harsh words. His nights of anger.

The countless times she cried silently, hoping for love but receiving only cruelty.

And the night she became a widow — people didn’t console her, they cursed her. They blamed her for his death, for being unlucky.

From that day, Poornima had decided never to expect anything from any man — not love, not comfort, not even kindness.

Her tears fell harder now as she whispered, “I thought this marriage was for change, not for love… I didn’t know he would see my silence as rejection.”

The lamp beside the deity flickered, and she folded her hands before Mahadev’s idol.

“Give me strength,” she prayed softly, “to face this new test… and heal what I thought was already broken.”