Aishweriya's POV
Aaron's suspicion isn't sudden. It's a slow tightening of threads I didn't realize he'd been weaving around me all along.
It starts with the way he looks at me.
Not openly accusatory—Aaron's too smart for that. It's quieter. A prolonged glance. A too-casual question. A hand on my lower back that lingers a second too long, like a leash.
"You've been out a lot lately," he says one evening, just as I'm reaching for my bag to leave.
I pause, my fingers frozen on the strap. "I've had errands."
He steps closer, his cologne sharp today, almost metallic. "You know you can tell me if something's going on."
"There's nothing going on, Aaron. I promise."
"Then why do you seem so distant lately?" His voice is gentle, but there's an edge beneath it.
I adjust my bag, careful to keep my expression neutral. "I've just been busy with the Henderson wedding. You know how demanding Melissa can be about every detail."
"Being a wedding planner while planning your own wedding must be stressful," he says, a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Is that all it is?"
"Of course," I say, trying to match his smile. "What else would it be?"
He touches my cheek, tender in a way that feels performed. Practiced. "Good. I worry about you, that's all."
"You don't need to worry about me."
"You're not avoiding me?"
The question hangs there, suspended like a bead of mercury.
I shake my head. "Of course not."
"Then why is there a sketchbook in your bag?" he asks suddenly, his tone still casual but his eyes sharp.
My heart stops. "It's just... it helps me visualize the venue layouts. For work."
A half-truth that tastes bitter on my tongue.
He nods slowly. "I see. You know your father wouldn't approve."
"It's not like before," I say quickly. "I'm not trying to pursue it professionally. It's just... it helps me think. Clears my head."
Aaron sighs, and I can't tell if it's from disappointment or relief. "As long as it stays that way. I don't want to see you hurt again."
But that night, I slept with one arm curled tightly around my sketchbook like a shield, and for the first time in a while, I didn't dream of color.
My parents invited us over for dinner that weekend.
It's my father's idea. He wants to "discuss the wedding," which really means he wants to remind me what's expected of me.
Aaron is in good spirits as we drive over. I'm not. The silence between us isn't comfortable; it's heavy with all the words we're both pretending not to say.
My father greets us at the door with a firm nod to Aaron and a glance that brushes right over me. My mother hugs me, but it's half-hearted, like her mind is somewhere else entirely.
Dinner is already on the table: butter chicken, rice, sautéed spinach, and fresh naan. My mother has always been a brilliant cook. She places the last dish down in front of me—paneer, my favorite—and smiles, but it fades too quickly to be genuine.
"So," my father says, leaning back slightly in his chair, "how are the wedding preparations going?"
Aaron answers first. Of course he does. "On schedule. The planner Aishwariya picked is excellent."
"Aishwariya is the planner," my mother corrects gently.
"Of course," Aaron nods. "I meant the assistant she hired. Though I sometimes wonder if it's too much, planning other people's weddings while planning your own."
My father glances at me. "You're not letting her get carried away, are you?"
Aaron chuckles. "Not at all."
I look down at my plate. I haven't said a word yet.
"Actually," I finally speak up, "having experience in the industry is helpful. I know exactly what I want and what to avoid."
My father nods, but his expression makes it clear he's not really interested in my professional insights.
"Your mother tells me you've been distracted," he says, tone tightening.
I blink. "Distracted?"
"She says you're always out. That you've been... distant."
I glance at my mother, but she won't meet my eyes. She adjusts the spoon in the rice bowl like it's the most important thing in the world.
"I've been going to the bookstore," I say quietly. "Walking around. Sketching a little. I just needed space to think."
"Sketching?" My father's voice drops an octave. "Again with this?"
"It's just a hobby, Dad. It helps me relax."
"To think?" my father echoes, like it's a foreign concept. "About what?"
"About the wedding. About life. Everything's changing so fast."
"Well, that ends now," he says, placing his napkin on the table with finality. "You are engaged. You're going to be married into a respected family. You have a responsibility to conduct yourself accordingly."
"Dad, it's just drawing. I'm not trying to become an artist again. I know that ship has sailed."
"Do you?" His eyes narrow. "Because Aaron tells me you've been spending hours sketching instead of focusing on your responsibilities."
I turn to Aaron, betrayal burning in my chest. He looks away, suddenly very interested in his food.
"You told him?" I whisper.
Aaron clears his throat. "I was concerned, Aish. You've been different lately."
"I haven't done anything inappropriate," I say defensively. "I draw during my lunch breaks or after work. It's no different than if I were reading a book or watching TV."
"It is different," my father counters. "We've been through this. That... hobby... it distracted you before. Made you think you could pursue an impractical path. Cost you nearly a year of proper education."
"That was years ago," I argue. "I was eighteen and dreaming of art school. Now I'm twenty-six with a thriving wedding planning business. I'm not throwing anything away—I'm just trying to keep a small piece of what makes me happy."
"Your choices reflect on all of us," he continues. "Especially now."
Across from me, Aaron says nothing, just watches. His expression is unreadable.
"I'm not seventeen anymore," I say, voice steady despite the trembling in my chest. "I'm not asking to go to art school. I'm not throwing away my business. I'm certainly not abandoning the wedding plans. I just want to draw. For myself. No one else even has to see it."
"That's not all," my father says sharply. "You come home distracted, emotional. You look... distant. Like your head's somewhere else. It's not just about what you're doing. It's about what people might think."
"What might people think?" I echo, incredulous. "Who would even know? Or care?"
"I know," Aaron says quietly. "I care."
I stare at him, feeling suddenly cornered.
"I just worry," he continues, voice soft but firm. "When you get lost in your drawings, it's like you go somewhere I can't follow. Somewhere I'm not welcome."
"That's not true," I protest, but even as I say it, I know there's some truth to his words. When I draw, I am somewhere else. Somewhere that belongs just to me.
"This family's honor depends on your choices," my father interjects.
I stare at him.
This family's honor.
That word.
He's wielding it like a weapon.
"Honor?" I repeat. "How does my sketching in a notebook affect our family's honor?"
"It shows a lack of focus. A lack of commitment," he explains, as if to a child. "You are about to become the wife of a successful man. That requires your full attention."
"I can be both," I insist. "I can be a wife and still have parts of myself that are just mine."
"That's not how marriage works," my mother finally speaks, her voice quiet but certain.
I turn to her, hoping for an ally. "Mom?"
She blinks, finally looking at me properly.
"When you marry, you become one," she says. "Individual pursuits only create distance."
"Is that really what you believe?" I ask, searching her face for any sign of doubt.
"It's what I know," she replies, smoothing her dress over her knees.
Aaron reaches for my hand under the table. I let him, because fighting it will only make things worse. But his grip is firm—too firm—and suddenly it feels like everyone at this table is trying to pull pieces of me in different directions, until there's nothing left of me at all.
"It's just a hobby," I say again, my voice smaller now. "A few hours a week. I'm not neglecting anything important."
"Your father and I just want what's best for you," my mother says.
"And drawing isn't it?" I ask.
"No," my father says firmly. "It isn't."
That night, I help my mother wash dishes while the men watch the news.
The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of water rushing from the tap and plates clinking in the sink.
I break first.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
She doesn't look at me. "About what?"
"About Dad. About what he said. About me needing to give up everything that matters to me."
She shrugs slightly. "He wasn't wrong."
I stare at her. "How can you say that? It's just drawing, Mom. It's not like I'm doing anything wrong."
"It's not about right or wrong," she says, scrubbing a plate with unnecessary force. "It's about priorities."
"And I can't have more than one priority?"
She sighs. "Not all priorities are equal. Family comes first. Always."
"Drawing doesn't take away from that," I insist. "If anything, it makes me better. Calmer. More myself."
"More yourself?" She frowns. "Who do you need to be except Aaron's wife? My daughter and a wedding Planner. That should be enough."
I feel something crack inside me. "What about just... Aishwariya? Just me?"
She pauses. Her expression shifts—almost like she wants to say more. But when she speaks, her voice is carefully measured.
"You think I didn't want different things once? I did. I had dreams, too. But dreams don't build stable lives. Sacrifice does. Compromise does."
"You mean obedience."
She flinches, just barely. "I mean, knowing what battles to fight."
"I'm not asking you to fight them for me," I say, softer now. "I just wanted to know you were on my side."
She hands me a wet plate. "I am on your side when it matters."
"When it matters?" I echo, taking the plate mechanically. "So this doesn't matter? Me being happy doesn't matter?"
"Your happiness comes from stability. From family. From fulfilling your responsibilities." She speaks as if reciting from memory. "Not from... pictures."
"They're not just pictures," I protest. "They're parts of me. The way I see the world."
"The world doesn't care how you see it," she says flatly. "It only cares what you do in it."
I dry my hands on a towel and step away.
"You know what my first drawing was?" I ask suddenly. "It was you. In the garden, planting tulips. You looked so... free. I wanted to capture that feeling."
For the briefest moment, something flashes in her eyes—sadness, maybe. Or regret. But it disappears too quickly to be sure.
"That was a long time ago," she says, and turns off the tap.
"Not that long."
"Long enough." She dries her hands. "Your father is right about this, Aishwariya. Some hobbies are worth letting go."
"But why? Why is drawing so threatening to everyone? It's just pencil and paper."
She looks at me directly now. "Because it makes you question. It makes you want. And wanting leads to dissatisfaction."
"Is that what happened to you?" I ask quietly. "Did you stop wanting things?"
She doesn't answer. She just smooths down her already perfect sari and says, "You'll understand one day."
But I'm not sure I want to.
When Aaron and I leave, my father pats him on the back like he's already part of the family, and my mother hugs me again—but this time, it feels more like a goodbye.
The car ride home is quiet. Aaron drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift.
"You alright?" he asks, finally.
I nod. "Yeah."
"You're angry with me."
It's not a question.
"You told my father about my drawing," I say, the words coming out more steadily than I feel. "You knew how he'd react."
Aaron sighs. "I mentioned it because I was worried. You've been different lately."
"Different how?"
"Distant. Preoccupied. Like you're... pulling away."
"I'm not pulling away," I say. "I'm just trying to hold onto something that matters to me."
"I should matter to you," he says, so softly I almost don't hear it.
"You do," I assure him, turning in my seat to face him. "Aaron, you do matter. This isn't about you."
"Isn't it? Because it feels like every time you pick up that sketchbook, you're choosing it over me."
I stare at him. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" he challenges. "You disappear for hours. You come home with that faraway look. You sleep with that damn book under your pillow like it's some kind of treasure."
"It's just a hobby," I repeat, the words feeling hollow even to my own ears.
"Then it should be easy to give up."
The city passes by outside the window—neon signs, blinking traffic lights, couples walking hand-in-hand down crowded sidewalks. People living lives they chose.
"I don't want to fight," I say eventually.
Aaron's jaw tightens, then relaxes. "Neither do I."
"Then, can we compromise? What if I only draw at home? Where you can see I'm not... doing whatever it is you think I'm doing."
He scoffs. "No."
The bluntness of his response leaves me speechless for a moment.
"What do you mean, no?" I finally ask.
"I mean no, Aishwariya. Drawing at home doesn't solve anything. You'll still be distracted. You'll still be wasting time that should be spent on more important things."
"Like what?" I challenge, my voice rising despite my effort to stay calm.
"Like our future," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Like being present with me instead of lost in some fantasy world."
"It's not a fantasy world—"
"It is," he cuts me off. "And it's time you grew up and left it behind."
I stare at him, unable to recognize the man beside me. "I have grown up. Having a hobby doesn't make me childish."
"It does when that hobby consumes you." His voice softens suddenly, but in a calculated way that makes my skin crawl. "I love you, Aish. I just want what's best for you."
The words sound hollow, rehearsed. Like something he says when he wants to end an argument on his terms.
"I love you too," I say, because it feels like something I should say. But the words taste strange on my tongue.
Aaron reaches for my hand, squeezes it too tightly. "That's why I worry."
I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, wondering how long I can keep pretending that this version of my life still belongs to me.
As we approach our apartment building,
I shake my head, suddenly exhausted. "Can we just go inside? It's been a long day."
"Fine," he says, but makes no move to get out of the car.
He exited the car.
I follow him mechanically, feeling like I'm moving through water. As we approach our apartment door, Aaron speaks again, his voice artificially light.
"I spoke with your father about the wedding date," he says. "We're thinking we should move it up."
I freeze, key halfway to the lock. "Move it up? From December to when?"
"September."
"September?" I echo. "That's barely three months away. My clients—"
"Can be rescheduled," he finishes for me. "Or handed off to your assistant."
"Miranda isn't ready to handle full events on her own," I protest.
"Then they'll find someone else." He shrugs. "Your father agrees it's for the best."
"And were you planning to consult me about my wedding date?" I ask, anger finally breaking through the numbness.
Aaron's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm consulting you now."
"This isn't a consultation. It's an announcement."
He takes the key from my hand and unlocks the door himself. "Don't be difficult, Aish. This is happening. The sooner we're married, the sooner we can put all this... nonsense behind us and start our real life together."
"My art isn't nonsense," I say, but my voice sounds small even to my own ears.
Aaron's expression softens into something almost pitying. "You'll thank me someday." He touches my cheek. "When we have children, and a beautiful home, and you're too busy being happy to miss drawing."
I say nothing as I follow him inside. As soon as I can, I excuse myself to the bathroom, where I sit on the edge of the tub and stare at nothing.
I think about my sketchbook, hidden in my bag. About the look in Aaron's eyes when he said I wasn't ready for marriage.
The walls of our apartment suddenly feel too close, too confining. And for the first time, I allow myself to wonder if this is really the life I want. If a man who sees my passion as a threat is someone I can spend forever with.
But then I think of my father's disappointment. My mother's resignation. The invitations are already being printed.
I splash cold water on my face and look at my reflection in the mirror.
"It's just drawing," I whisper to myself. "Just a hobby. Nothing worth throwing your life away for."
But as I return to the living room where Aaron waits, remote control in hand like nothing has happened, I can't shake the feeling that it's not just drawing I'd be giving up.
It's myself.