The mandap was glowing with light, marigold garlands hanging in perfect symmetry, the soft chant of the priest filling the air. Everything looked exactly how Veeresh’s parents had imagined—traditional, dignified, flawless.

Except Veeresh.

He sat cross-legged on the silk mat, dressed in an ivory sherwani, the sacred thread resting against his chest. Gold borders shimmered around him, yet his face carried none of the glow a groom was expected to have on his muhurtham day. His eyes were distant, fixed somewhere beyond the mandap, beyond the rituals, beyond the wedding itself.

This marriage made sense on paper.

Same caste.

Same background.

Families who approved.

A match chosen with comfort, not chaos.

Sahana.

His school friend. The girl everyone said was perfect for him.

But perfection felt unbearably heavy today.

Veeresh’s jaw tightened as the priest asked him to prepare for the next ritual. He nodded mechanically, his hands moving out of habit, not belief. This wedding wasn’t his choice—it was his duty. A repayment to his parents’ dreams, their expectations, their insistence that this was how life should be.

Around him, familiar faces filled the hall.

Saif stood near the pillar, arms crossed, watching Veeresh carefully, his playful nature unusually quiet today. Neha whispered something to Pragati, both of them glancing toward the mandap with knowing expressions. Narayana and Hari stood together, exchanging polite smiles, while Megha adjusted her dupatta, her eyes lingering on the groom with quiet concern.

And then—

Veeresh saw her.

Poornima.

She stood a little away from the crowd, not trying to draw attention, yet somehow becoming impossible to ignore. She wore a simple green saree, no heavy embroidery, no loud jewellery—just glass bangles clinking softly on her wrists. Her hair was neatly tied, a small bindi resting on her forehead.

She was smiling.

Not the forced smile people wear at weddings.

Not the polite smile of obligation.

It was real.

She looked… happy.

Veeresh’s breath hitched.

For a moment, the noise of the hall faded. The chants blurred. The decorations lost their color. All he could see was the ease in Poornima’s expression, the quiet contentment in her eyes—as if happiness came naturally to her, as if it wasn’t something she had to sacrifice.

His heart twisted painfully.

Why does she look happier at my wedding than I feel sitting in it?

His gaze lingered longer than it should have. He noticed how the green of her saree suited her, how the bangles caught the light every time she moved, how her smile reached her eyes in a way his never did today.

Then Sahana arrived.

She sat beside him gracefully, draped in rich silk, adorned with gold that reflected the lamps around the mandap. She looked every bit the bride his parents wanted—composed, traditional, appropriate. She folded her hands respectfully, her face calm, expectant.

The priest resumed the rituals.

Flowers were exchanged. Mantras were chanted. Rice grains were sprinkled.

Veeresh followed each step, but his heart was somewhere else—standing in a simple green saree, smiling without effort, without expectation.

Sahana glanced at him once, noticing his stillness, his distant eyes. She said nothing.

The conch shell blew.

The muhurtham had begun.

And as Veeresh sat in the mandap, surrounded by approval, tradition, and celebration, an unbearable truth settled silently in his chest—

He was getting married…

but his happiness was sitting in the crowd.