The invitation to his cousin's wedding arrived like a formal declaration of everything he'd been trying to avoid. Thick, cream-colored cardstock that felt heavy with unspoken expectations. It was to be the first major family gathering since the feud.
His mother placed it on his desk. "You're expected to be there, Dakshin. It's important. For the family."
The "family." Those two words had become a cage.
The day of the wedding was a spectacle of forced cheer. The hall was dazzling, filled with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Dakshin wore a suit that felt like a costume. He moved through the crowd, a ghost at the feast, offering stiff smiles and hollow congratulations. His father was in his element, the respected patriarch, while his mother shot him anxious glances, willing him to play his part
The wedding was a blur of forced smiles and polite conversation. Dakshin stood with his parents, a silent statue in a well-tailored suit. He'd spent the past month building his own walls, trying to numb the ache with routine and isolation. Coming here, to this celebration of union, felt like a special kind of punishment.
He saw her across the room. Anaya. She was with her parents, looking as out of place as he felt. She wore a simple dress, and her expression was a mirror of his own—a carefully constructed neutrality that didn't reach the eyes.
Their gazes met. It wasn't the electric, painful shock of their last encounter. It was something quieter, wearier. A flicker of mutual recognition passed between them—not of love, but of shared exhaustion. They were two soldiers from opposing sides, trapped in the same endless war, both tired of the fight.
He saw her father lean in and say something to her. Anaya gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her eyes leaving Dakshin's to focus on the floor. There was no dramatic turning away, no cold glare. It was a simple, resigned withdrawal.
And for the first time, Dakshin felt no urge to push against it. The fight had gone out of him too. The constant tension, the hope that always led to a dead end, was too heavy to carry anymore.
He turned his attention back to his own family, to his mother who was watching him with worried eyes. He gave her a small, reassuring shake of his head. I'm fine. I'm not going to cause a scene.
The rest of the evening passed in a dull hum. He was aware of Anaya's presence in the room like a distant landmark, but he made no attempt to bridge the distance. He noticed she did the same. They moved in separate orbits, bound by the same gravity of circumstance but no longer trying to break its pull.
Later, as the party began to wind down, he found himself near the exit at the same time as her family. They were putting on their coats. There was a moment of awkward silence as the two families stood mere feet apart, the air thick with everything left unsaid.
Anaya's eyes found his one last time. It wasn't an apology. It wasn't a promise. It was just an acknowledgement. A silent acceptance of the new, painful border that now lay between them.
Then, she turned and followed her parents out into the night.
Dakshin stood there for a long moment, watching the empty doorway. The dramatic heartbreak had subsided, leaving behind a deeper, more permanent ache—the quiet sorrow of resignation. The war wasn't over, but a truce had been called in his heart. He finally understood that some walls were built to last, and the most painful thing wasn't fighting them, but learning to live within the space they left behind.