Not Ever

Aryan's POV

She is still trying to calm herself.

I notice it immediately.

Barely visible—

but there.

Her fingers are stiff.

Her posture… slightly off.

Like something inside her has shifted—

but she refuses to let it show.

Something is wrong.

I keep watching her quietly while Arvika moves from one rack to another like she owns the entire mall.

Then suddenly—

“Vani, look! How is this dress?”

Arvika’s voice cuts straight through everything.

Bright. Loud. Unbothered.

And just like that—

Vani’s attention snaps back to her.

Like nothing happened.

Like her hand wasn’t trembling two seconds ago.

But it still is.

Very slightly.

She slowly curls her fingers inward, forcing them still.

Control.

Always control.

She isn’t going to let it show.

Not here.

Not in front of anyone.

Another hour passes.

Or maybe more.

Time blurs between changing rooms, mirrors, shopping bags, and Arvika’s endless excitement.

“Try this one!”

“No, this colour is ugly.”

“Oh my God, Vani, imagine this with heels—perfect!”

She keeps moving.

Talking.

Living.

And Vani…

she stays beside her.

Present.

But not fully there.

Even while standing next to us—

her mind feels somewhere else entirely.

At one point—

“Vani, at least look properly,” Arvika complains while holding a dress against herself.

Vani blinks once.

Twice.

Then focuses properly.

“It’s good,” she says.

Simple.

Short.

Enough.

“Bas good?” Arvika narrows her eyes dramatically.

(Just good?)

Vani sighs softly.

“You’ll look nice in it.”

That instantly satisfies her.

Of course it does.

Arvika grins proudly and turns toward the mirror again.

Meanwhile—

I keep watching Vani quietly.

Not intentionally.

It just happens.

There’s something strange about her silence.

Not awkward silence.

Not shy silence.

Controlled silence.

Like every word she speaks is measured first.

“Tum dono ka shopping kab khatam hoga?” I ask eventually, slightly tired from carrying what feels like half the mall already.

(When will you both finally finish shopping?)

Arvika turns dramatically.

“Tumhe problem kya hai? Tum toh bas khade ho.”

(What’s your problem? You’re just standing.)

“Haan, aur tum bas paise uda rahi ho,” I shoot back.

(Yeah, and you’re just wasting money.)

“Tumhara thodi uda rahi hoon,” she smirks.

(I’m not spending yours.)

“Dil pe mat lena, lekin tumhari wajah se mall ki economy chal rahi hai,” I say dryly.

(Don’t take it personally, but this mall’s economy is running because of you.)

Vani’s lips twitch slightly again.

Tiny.

Almost invisible.

But it’s there.

“Jealous ho kya?” Arvika grins.

(Are you jealous?)

“Bilkul. Main bhi itni mehnat karta hoon, phir bhi koi mujhe shopping pe nahi le jaata,” I reply dramatically.

(Absolutely. I work so hard, and still no one takes me shopping.)

“Drama band kar, bandar,” she rolls her eyes.

(Stop the drama, monkey.)

I smirk.

“Tumhare liye hi toh karta hoon.”

(I only do it for you.)

She freezes for half a second.

Just half.

Then immediately looks away.

“Shut up.”

But the corner of her lips twitches.

And suddenly—

the expensive dresses in her hands don’t seem nearly as interesting anymore.

God.

She has no idea what she does to me.

Another thirty minutes pass.

Then another.

At this point, I’m convinced shopping is psychological warfare.

Finally—

after what feels like forever—

Arvika is done.

A miracle.

She pays the bill after arguing over something completely unnecessary with the cashier—

as usual—

and we finally head toward the parking.

Later we did dinner at a restaurant.

Where me and arvika started again.

But vani stayed silent.

After dinner while driving back arvika to mansion.

"Arvika, tumne Vani ko notice kiya tha?" I ask suddenly.

(Arvika, did you notice Vani?)

She looks up from her phone.

"Kya?"

(What?)

"Vani. Aaj mall mein. Tumne notice kiya tha usse?"

(Vani. At the mall today. Did you notice her?)

For a second, Arvika just stares at me.

Then she sighs.

"Aryan, woh meri best friend hai."

(Aryan, she's my best friend.)

"Toh?"

(So?)

"Toh obviously maine notice kiya tha."

(So obviously I noticed.)

I frown slightly.

"Phir tumne usse kuch poocha kyun nahi?"

(Then why didn't you ask her anything?)

Arvika shakes her head immediately.

"Because she hates that."

I glance at her.

"Hates what?"

"Being questioned when something is wrong."

She turns toward the window for a moment before continuing.

"Ek baar articleship ke time ek ladki ne usse baar-baar pooch liya tha ki kya hua hai."

(Once during our articleship, a girl kept asking her what was wrong.)

"And?"

"Vani itni uncomfortable ho gayi thi ki poora din usne kisi se properly baat nahi ki."

(Vani became so uncomfortable that she barely spoke to anyone for the rest of the day.)

I stay silent.

Arvika continues softly.

"Logon ko lagta hai kisi ko baar-baar poochna concern dikhata hai."

(People think repeatedly asking someone what's wrong shows concern.)

"Par Vani ke saath ulta hota hai."

(But with Vani, it's the opposite.)

"Jitna poochoge, utni zyada band ho jayegi."

(The more you ask, the more she'll shut down.)

I look ahead at the road.

"Phir tum kya karti ho?"

(Then what do you do?)

A small smile appears on her face.

"Main uska dhyaan divert karti hoon."

(I distract her.)

"Shopping."

"Coffee."

"Random gossip."

"Jo bhi karna pade."

(Whatever it takes.)

She shrugs.

"Bas uske saath time spend karo."

(Just spend time with her.)

"Taaki thodi der ke liye woh jo bhi usse pareshan kar raha hai... usse bhool sake."

(So that, for a little while, she can forget whatever is troubling her.)

For a few seconds, neither of us says anything.

Then Arvika adds quietly—

"Vani baat tab karti hai jab woh khud karna chahe."

(Vani talks when she wants to.)

"Force karoge toh kabhi nahi karegi."

(If you force her, she never will.)

Vani’s POV

My phone vibrates.

A message.

I don’t even think before unlocking it.

Harini didi.

The moment I open it—

everything inside me stops.

Baba is looking for a groom for you.

For a second—

I can’t breathe.

My fingers go cold.

Then—

they start trembling.

Not slightly.

Not controllably.

This time—

it’s visible.

I tighten my grip around the phone.

Too tight.

My knuckles turn pale.

Anger rises inside me.

Sharp.

Sudden.

Burning.

I don’t believe in love.

I don’t believe in marriage.

It’s not just disbelief.

It’s fear.

Raw. Deep. Familiar fear.

I’m already broken.

I don’t want to break again.

And if it was someone else making this decision—

maybe…

just maybe—

I would have listened.

But it’s Baba.

And I know his thinking.

In his world—

men are never wrong.

No matter what they do—

there’s always a reason.

And somehow—

that reason is always the woman.

My jaw tightens.

We never agree with that thinking.

Not me.

Not Suhani didi.

Not Harini didi.

A memory flashes suddenly—

Suhani didi’s wedding.

The arguments.

The tension.

His voice.

Loud.

Final.

Unquestionable.

The way Mama cried silently afterward.

My chest tightens again.

Not just anger now.

Something heavier.

Something older.

Something I’ve carried for years.

“Vani?”

Arvika’s voice pulls me back instantly.

I blink.

She’s standing in front of me holding a bodycon dress against herself.

“Will I look good in this?”

For a second—

her words don’t even register.

My mind is still somewhere else.

Back home.

Back in Odisha.

Back inside that suffocating house.

Then I force myself back.

Focus.

On her.

On the present.

Not the message.

Not the memories.

Not him.

“You will,” I say quietly.

And just like that—

she smiles.

Bright. Immediate. Effortless.

Like that answer alone is enough to make her happy.

Another hour passes.

More shopping.

More bags.

More noise.

And I—

keep everything locked inside.

Tightly.

Carefully.

No one notices.

No one can.

Finally—

we step out of the mall.

Night has already settled over Jaipur.

The air is cooler now.

Cars move past us.

Lights glow around the streets.

But my mind—

is still burning.

We’re starving.

Mostly because Arvika refused to leave the mall until she checked literally every store.

So we walk into a nearby restaurant.

Order food.

Sit down.

And just like always—

Arvika and Aryan start again.

“Tumhe menu padhna aata hai ya bas random order karti ho?” Aryan asks while looking at her suspiciously.

(Do you even read the menu or just order randomly?)

“Main jo order karti hoon woh best hota hai,” Arvika replies confidently.

(Whatever I order is always the best.)

“Haan, last time bhi ‘best’ order kiya tha—aur khaya kisne? Maine,” he says.

(Yeah, last time you ordered ‘the best’—and who ended up eating it? Me.)

“Tumhe problem kya hai? Free ka khaana mil raha hai,” she shoots back immediately.

(What’s your problem? You’re getting free food.)

He leans back slightly in his chair.

“Free nahi hota. Tumhara attitude interest mein add ho jaata hai.”

(It’s not free. Your attitude gets added as interest.)

She glares at him.

He smiles lazily.

And for a moment—

everything feels normal.

Light.

Easy.

Safe.

The food arrives after some time.

Arvika immediately steals fries from Aryan’s plate even though she ordered the exact same thing.

He complains.

She ignores him.

I stay mostly quiet.

Listening.

Thinking.

Trying not to think.

Then suddenly—

Aryan looks at me.

“vani.. Yara kabhi kabhi bata bhi kara liya karo”

( vani... sometimes talk also)

He pauses immediately after saying it.

Like he’s unsure how I’ll react.

Maybe he thinks I’ll get offended.

Maybe most women do.

I don’t react at all.

Don’t need to.

Because honestly—

I barely care enough right now.

He notices my silence and looks away.

Conversation shifts again.

Arvika starts complaining about office work.

Aryan starts arguing with her again.

And I quietly disappear into my own thoughts.

By the time dinner ends—

my head already hurts.

After some time—

we finally leave.

I drive back alone.

The roads are quieter now.

Streetlights blur past my window.

But my grip on the steering wheel stays tight the entire drive.

My mind keeps replaying that message again and again.

Baba is looking for a groom for you.

Like it’s some kind of warning.

An hour later—

I reach my apartment.

Again—

silence.

The same walls.

The same stillness.

The same loneliness.

I drop my bag onto the chair near the entrance.

Walk straight to the washroom.

And stand under cold water for a long time.

Sharp.

Freezing.

Grounding.

When I finally come out—

I change into comfortable clothes and lie down on the bed.

Staring at the ceiling.

My phone is still beside me.

That message—

still there.

Unread again.

But not gone.

My mind is already working.

Planning.

Calculating.

How to escape this.

How to refuse.

How to stop Baba.

Because one thing is clear—

I am not getting married.

Not like this.

Not ever.