The living room felt too small.

Aarohi sat on the edge of the sofa, hands locked together, elbows on her knees. Her bag still lay near the door where she had dropped it. The workshop folder had slid halfway out, forgotten.

Her mother sat across from her. Her father remained standing for a moment longer, then finally took the chair opposite.

No one spoke first.

Aarohi broke the silence.

“Start from the beginning. And don’t skip the parts you think I can’t handle.”

Her father exhaled slowly. “You already know the outline.”

“I know the outline. I want the details.”

Her mother glanced at her husband, then back at Aarohi. “When you were twelve, your father’s business partner disappeared with a large amount of money. We were close to losing everything — the house, the workshop, your school fees. We had two weeks before the bank would take action.”

Aarohi’s voice was flat. “And the Malhotras helped.”

“Yes,” her father said. “Arjun’s father and I had known each other from college. He didn’t just lend money. He restructured the debt, spoke to the bank, and gave us enough breathing room to recover. He refused to call it a loan. He called it ‘family helping family.’”

“And in return?”

Her mother answered quietly. “In return, nothing was demanded. But a conversation happened. If both children grew up and were willing… the families would be joined. It was spoken as a hope, not a contract. At the time it felt like gratitude. Not a cage.”

Aarohi let out a short, humourless breath. “It feels like a cage now.”

“I know,” her father said.

“Does he know all of this?”

“Arjun? Yes. He has known for years.”

“And he still accepted the guest professorship at my college.”

Her mother hesitated. “He told his parents he would handle the situation carefully. We didn’t expect the two of you to end up in the same classroom.”

Aarohi looked up. “Handle the situation carefully. What does that mean?”

“It means he never agreed to force anything,” her father said. “He only agreed not to disappear from the responsibility.”

Silence stretched.

Aarohi rubbed her forehead with both hands. “So for weeks I’ve been arguing with him about beam depths and thermal breaks while this… this thing was sitting over both of us.”

“Yes.”

“And on Sunday I’m supposed to sit at a table and smile like this is normal.”

Her mother leaned forward. “Sunday is not a wedding, Aarohi. It is a conversation. Both families want to know where the two of you stand. Nothing will be forced that night.”

“You say that like force only happens in one moment. You’ve been forcing the possibility for years by not telling me.”

Her father flinched slightly, but didn’t deny it.

Aarohi’s voice dropped. “What happens if I say no?”

The question sat in the middle of the room like a third person.

Her parents looked at each other.

Her father spoke first. “Then we will respect it.”

“Will the Malhotras?”

“Arjun’s mother is… traditional. His father is unwell. There is pressure on their side. But Arjun has made it clear to them that he will not proceed without clear consent from both sides.”

Aarohi stared at the floor. “He said something similar. That neither of us was asked.”

“He was telling the truth.”

She laughed once, quietly. “He’s very good at telling partial truths in complete sentences.”

Her mother reached out, then stopped halfway, as if unsure whether touch would help or make things worse. “Beta, we never wanted you to feel trapped. We kept waiting for the right time. The right time never came.”

“So you chose the wrong time instead.”

“Yes,” her father admitted. “We did.”

Aarohi stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the streetlight flickered the way it always did. Everything looked ordinary. Nothing felt ordinary.

He’s my professor, she thought. He corrects my drawings. He tells me to arrive on time. He lends me umbrellas and talks about vapour barriers. And somewhere behind all of that he has been carrying this.

She turned back. “I want to speak to him before Sunday.”

Her mother frowned. “Aarohi—”

“Not as a student. Not in the studio. I want a real conversation where no one is protecting anyone else’s feelings.”

Her father studied her face. “Do you want me to call him?”

“No. I’ll do it myself.”

“When?”

“Soon. Before Sunday.”

Her mother stood. “You’re angry.”

“Yes.”

“With us.”

“Yes.”

“With him?”

Aarohi was quiet for a moment. “I’m angry with the situation. He’s just the person standing in the middle of it.”

Her father nodded slowly. “That is fair.”

She picked up her bag from the floor, then set it down again, as if she had nowhere to put the weight she was carrying.

“I’m going to my room,” she said. “I need to think.”

“Aarohi,” her mother called softly as she reached the stairs. “Whatever you decide… we will stand with you.”

Aarohi paused on the first step, back still turned.

“I know you mean that,” she said. “I just wish you’d stood with me earlier — by telling me the truth.”

She went upstairs without waiting for a reply.

Her room felt unchanged. Same desk. Same scattered pencils. Same half-finished sketches pinned to the board. The only thing that had changed was the knowledge sitting in her chest like a stone.

She sat on the bed, pulled out her phone, and stared at the blank screen for a long time.

Then she opened a new message and typed.

Aarohi:

We need to talk.

Not in college.

Not with parents.

Just us.

Before Sunday.

She stared at the words.

Deleted them.

Typed again.

Aarohi:

I know the full version now.

I still have questions.

Can we meet somewhere neutral?

She stared at that version too.

Finally she deleted everything, locked the phone, and dropped it on the bed beside her.

Not yet, she thought. If I message him now I’ll say something I’ll regret. Or something I won’t be able to take back.

Downstairs she could hear the low murmur of her parents’ voices — careful, tired, still trying to decide how much damage control was possible.

Aarohi lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

The workshop brief still sat half-out of her bag on the floor.

Pune. Design. Structure. Deadlines.

All of it suddenly felt smaller than the single word that had entered her house tonight.

Marriage.

She closed her eyes.

Somewhere across the city, she knew, Arjun Malhotra was probably still awake, still calculating, still carrying the same weight with better posture.

The thought should have made her angrier.

Instead it only made the room feel quieter.

She reached for her phone one more time, unlocked it, and this time typed a single line without overthinking.

Aarohi:

We need to talk before Sunday.

Tell me when and where.

She hit send before she could delete it again.

Then she turned the phone face down, rolled onto her side, and waited for a reply that would decide how the next few days would feel.

The house remained still.

Outside, a scooter passed, then another.

Inside, the waiting began.