(Speaker: Ladies and gentlemen, fasten your seatbelts. This isn't a rom-com detour, this is the crash site. Tonight, the girl in the red lehenga will finally tell her story. Warning: tissues recommended. Or chai. Or both.)
The room was quieter than a graveyard. Shubham sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. His phone had finally stopped buzzing — family exhausted, relatives satisfied enough to gossip for a week.
But the silence wasn't peace. It was the silence before a dam breaks.
She sat across from him, back straight, hands folded in her lap. His shirt hung loose around her shoulders, the fabric crumpled. The red dupatta she had carried from the bridge was spread over her knees, like a piece of her old life she couldn't throw away.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then, very quietly:
"You want to know what happened."
It wasn't a question.
Shubham didn't move. He just nodded.
"I was supposed to be married yesterday," she began. Her voice was flat, like a machine replaying a recording. "Big hall. Lights. Flowers. People laughing. The usual Indian wedding circus."
She paused. A small, bitter smile touched her lips. "I had dreamed of it, you know? Since I was a girl. Red lehenga, gold jewelry, my parents smiling. The man I loved waiting for me."
Her fingers clenched the dupatta tighter.
"And then… reality. He didn't wait."
Shubham's throat went dry.
"He stood there in front of everyone," she whispered, "and told my family the truth they didn't know. That I was sick. That I had hidden it. That marrying me would be a mistake. That he could not… tie his life to someone who might not have one."
She sucked in a breath, but it trembled.
"The worst part? He was right. I am sick. I do have blood cancer. My family doctor knew. My parents knew. But they never told him. They thought—" she laughed, harshly, "—they thought marriage would fix everything. As if vows are medicine."
Shubham felt something twist inside his chest.
She lifted her chin. Eyes burning. "And then… then he married her. The other woman. The one he had been with all along. Same day. Same mandap. Same flowers. He gave her the promises he once gave me. Over the top, filmy dialogues — 'I'll fight the world for you,' 'You're my forever' — all the words he had once poured into my ears. Now said to her, while I sat there… wearing red, watching my own life dismantle."
Tears slipped down her cheeks, but her voice stayed cold. "People laughed. Some cried. My relatives whispered that my family deceived his. That I was cursed. That I had tricked him."
She looked away, staring at the wall as though it held her shame. "And me? I just sat there. Because what could I do? I didn't even have anger left. Just… emptiness. Like the disease had already eaten me whole."
The silence after her words was suffocating.
(Speaker: If this were a movie, this is where violins would play. But in real life? Just a creaky fan, a boy holding his breath, and a girl trying not to fall apart. Our hero, for once, has no jokes ready. He's hearing the kind of bug you can't fix with semicolons.)
Finally, Shubham spoke. His voice was rough.
"You're not cursed."
She gave a hollow laugh. "That's what people say when they don't know the truth."
"I do know," he shot back, surprising himself. "I know you're alive. I know you're stronger than anyone I've met. I know you walked away when most people would have… stayed on that railing."
Her eyes snapped to him. Searching. Testing.
And he froze under that gaze. Because suddenly, he realized something.
He had always admired her. Quietly. Secretly. From a distance at the office cafeteria, when she walked in with her marketing team, confident and radiant. He had noticed her laugh. The way her dupatta always slipped off one shoulder. The way her presence lit up even the dull fluorescent corridors.
He had liked her. Maybe even loved her. But he had never spoken. Because what right did a code-obsessed introvert have to stand beside someone like her?
And now… here she was. Shattered. Broken. Sitting in his shirt, in his room.
Fate had done the talking he never dared to.
"You know what I hate most?" she whispered, breaking his thoughts.
"What?"
"That I believed him. That I thought his promises were real. That I let myself dream of… forever." Her lip trembled. "I should've known better. People don't marry broken things."
Shubham's chest ached. He wanted to tell her she wasn't broken. That she wasn't something to be thrown away. That she was still — despite illness, despite betrayal — the bravest person he'd ever seen.
But words jammed in his throat.
So he did the only thing his terrified heart allowed: he reached out and placed his hand gently over hers.
Her breath caught. She looked at their hands, then at him.
And for the first time since the bridge, she didn't look like she was falling.
(Speaker: And there it is, folks. No filmy dialogues. No dramatic background score. Just one awkward coder and one broken bride, holding on like two bugs in the same crashing program. But sometimes… that's enough.)
Shubham cleared his throat, pulling his hand back quickly. "Uh. Okay. So… we'll figure this out. Together. Somehow."
She tilted her head, almost smiling through her tears. "Together?"
He nodded, eyes fierce now. "Yeah. I don't know what that means yet. But you're not alone. Not anymore."
And for the first time since her wedding day, she believed it.
Cliffhanger → Shubham makes an unspoken vow: if fate betrayed her once, he won't let it happen again. But vows, as she knows, are dangerous things.