The call came two evenings later.
Papa’s phone rang during dinner. He stepped into the other room, spoke for a few minutes, then came back with a small, satisfied smile. Mummy already knew from his face. Ahena looked up from her plate. I kept eating, but my foot found hers under the table and pressed once.
“They said yes,” Papa announced. “Both families. We will fix the engagement date this week.”
Ahena’s cheeks went pink. I grinned at her across the table and mouthed, Told you.
The next days blurred into lists and phone calls and relatives suddenly appearing. Engagement was set for a Sunday afternoon at a small banquet hall near the house. Ahena wore a soft peach lehenga; I wore a simpler mint-green suit so I wouldn’t outshine her. When the rings were exchanged, the bulky man with the thick glasses—now officially her fiancé—looked more nervous than happy. His hands shook a little when he slid the ring onto her finger. I stood right behind her and caught his eye for a second. He gave me a quick, shy smile and looked away.
Later there was music. Someone put on an old Bollywood track. Ahena was pulled into the centre first. He danced with her carefully, one hand lightly at her waist, the other holding hers, glasses reflecting the fairy lights. When the song changed I stepped in, grabbed his other hand, and spun myself under his arm before he could protest. Ahena laughed. For a few minutes the three of us moved together in a loose, awkward circle—him trying not to step on anyone’s feet, me deliberately making it harder, Ahena soft and smiling between us. His palm was warm and slightly damp against mine. Every time the beat dropped I tugged him a little closer just to watch him blush behind those frames.
Shopping filled the weeks after.
One afternoon we were in a bridal store, the kind with heavy lehengas and too many mirrors. Ahena was inside a trial room trying on a deep-red velvet lehenga. I slipped in after her and locked the door.
She stood in front of the mirror in only the blouse and petticoat, arms raised while the shop girl outside waited for instructions. The blouse was low and tight. I stepped up behind her, reached around, and cupped both of her breasts through the fabric, squeezing firmly.
“Saina—” she hissed, but she didn’t pull away.
“Just checking the fit,” I whispered against her ear, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked. “These need to sit properly for the wedding. Can’t have them bouncing when you walk around the fire.”
She met my eyes in the mirror, trying to look stern and failing. “You’re going to get us thrown out.”
“Then hurry up and decide.” I gave one more slow squeeze, felt her breath catch, then let go and stepped back as if nothing had happened. When the shop girl knocked, Ahena’s voice was only a little unsteady.
We bought the lehenga.
In the evenings at home the bond between us stayed easy and physical. Sometimes she would be studying her wedding checklist and I would stretch out beside her, head in her lap, and she would absent-mindedly play with my hair while she read. Sometimes I would steal her phone and make her chase me around the room until we both fell on the bed laughing. At night, after the lights were out, hands still found each other under the blanket—quiet, familiar, never rushed. We never talked about what it meant. We just kept doing it.
The wedding date arrived faster than it should have.
—
The house smelled of marigold and ghee by six in the morning.
I stood in our room already dressed in a simple turquoise lehenga, hair half-done, watching Ahena sit in front of the mirror while the makeup artist worked. Her bridal lehenga—the same deep red we had bought—hung on the cupboard door like it was waiting to change everything.
Outside, relatives shouted instructions, the mandap was being finished in the courtyard, and somewhere downstairs the bulky man with the thick glasses was probably already sweating in his sherwani.
I caught Ahena’s eye in the mirror and gave her a small, private grin.
She smiled back, soft and a little nervous.
Today she would become his wife.
And I would still be the sister who knew exactly how her body felt when it trembled.
The morning passed in a blur of turmeric, oil, and too many aunties.
By the time the sun was high, the courtyard had turned into a controlled mess. The mandap stood in the centre, marigold strings still being tied, the fire pit waiting. Relatives shouted over each other. The priest kept asking for things that were already on the table. I had changed into a darker turquoise lehenga with a thin silver border, hair tied up so it wouldn’t stick to my neck in the heat, and I was already bored of standing still.
So I started giving orders.
“Bhaiya, that string is crooked—no, the left side higher.”
“Aunty, the sweets table is in the sun, move it under the tent or everything will melt.”
“You—yes, you with the tray—take the extra flowers to the back gate, the ones near the stage are enough.”
None of it was necessary. I just liked watching people jump. Ahena, already in her red bridal lehenga and heavy jewellery, sat on the low platform under the mandap while the final touches were done to her hair. Every time I passed she gave me that soft look that said *behave*, and every time I answered with a grin that said *not a chance*.
I was halfway through telling a cousin to rearrange the chairs for the third time when I felt a hand close around my wrist.
“Ahena…”
I turned. One of her office colleagues—tall, nervous, the same one who used to linger near her desk according to her stories—stood there holding my hand like he had finally found courage. His eyes were sincere and slightly desperate.
“I couldn’t propose to you before,” he said in a rush, “but now you’re going for marriage and I… I just needed to say it. I liked you. A lot.”
I made the most dramatic face I could manage, eyes wide, free hand pressed to my chest.
“Oh my my… look who we have. Another aashiq of my didi’s. How sweet.”
His face went white. He dropped my hand as if it burned.
“I—I’m sorry—I thought—”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” I waved him off, already laughing. “Happens all the time. She’s the pretty one, I’m just the spare.”
From the mandap Ahena had seen the whole thing. She was trying not to laugh and failing. Her shoulders shook under the heavy dupatta. When the man stammered another apology and fled, she caught my eye and mouthed *you’re terrible*.
I mouthed back *you love it*.
The ceremony proper started in the late afternoon.
I was told to sit near the front with the family. Papa kept wiping his eyes. Mummy looked proud and slightly tense. Ahena sat beside her almost-husband under the mandap. He wore a cream sherwani that made his shoulders look even broader; the thick black glasses sat firmly on his nose. Every time the priest asked him to repeat a vow he leaned in a little, as if the words might escape if he didn’t catch them with his eyes first.
I watched the way he looked at her—careful, almost shy even now—and the way her soft smile answered him. Between the mantras I caught her glancing at me once. I raised my eyebrows and mouthed *glasses*. She bit her lip to stop a smile and looked back at the fire.
When the pheras began I stood with the others, circling slowly. At one point my hand brushed Ahena’s briefly as we passed. She squeezed my fingers for half a second—warm, familiar—then let go before anyone could notice.
By the time the sindoor was applied and the mangalsutra fastened, the light had turned gold. Relatives threw flowers. Someone started a loud song. Ahena was officially his wife.
I stayed near the edge of the mandap, watching her. The red lehenga, the jewellery, the soft expression she wore when she looked at him. For a moment the noise faded and it was just the two of us again—the same bodies, the same face, one of us now belonging to someone else on paper.
Then an auntie grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the food counters, already complaining that the gulab jamun were running low, and the moment broke.
I spent the rest of the evening doing what I did best: roaming, giving unnecessary instructions, stealing sweets, and every now and then catching Ahena’s eye across the crowd. She would smile that small private smile, and I would grin back, already wondering how long it would be before the house was quiet again and it was just the two of us in one room.
The wedding night was still ahead.
But for now, the courtyard stayed loud, the lights stayed bright, and I kept moving—mischief in every step—while my sister sat beside the man with the thick glasses and began her new life.
The final rituals ended under the night lights.
Relatives had already started crying in that loud, performative way families do. Papa kept clearing his throat. Mummy held Ahena’s face in both hands and whispered things I couldn’t hear. The bulky man with the thick glasses stood a little apart, sherwani slightly crumpled now, looking like he wasn’t sure whether to step forward or stay out of the way.
I waited until the last of the aunts had finished their blessings, then walked straight up to her.
Ahena turned. The heavy lehenga made her steps smaller than usual. For a second we just looked at each other—same face, same eyes, one of us dressed as a bride and the other still in turquoise. Then I pulled her into a tight hug. The jewellery dug into my chest. Her arms wrapped around me just as hard.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” I muttered against her ear.
She gave a watery little laugh. “That leaves me almost nothing.”
I squeezed harder. “I’m serious. If he forgets to take those glasses off before bed, remind him. And if he drinks too much, call me. I’ll come fight him.”
“Saina…” Her voice cracked.
I felt the first tear slip down my own cheek before I could stop it. I hated crying in front of people, but this was different. This was her. My hand found the back of her neck under the veil and held on.
“You’re supposed to be the soft one,” I whispered. “Don’t start crying or I’ll start, and then Mummy will never let me live it down.”
Too late. She was already shaking against me. I pressed my face into her shoulder and let a few tears fall into the red fabric. Around us the noise continued—someone shouting about the car, someone else asking for the garlands—but it all felt far away. For those few seconds it was only the two of us again, the same way it had been last night when we fell asleep tangled and bare.
Someone called her name. The moment broke.
I pulled back, wiped my cheeks with the side of my hand, and gave her the brightest grin I could manage.
“Go. Before I change my mind and hide you in the cupboard.”
She smiled through her own tears, touched my cheek once, then let her new husband take her hand. I watched them walk toward the decorated car. He opened the door for her carefully, glasses catching the fairy lights. Ahena looked back one last time. I lifted my hand. She lifted hers. Then the door closed, the engine started, and the car rolled out of the gate.
The courtyard felt suddenly too big.
I stayed there until the tail lights disappeared, until the relatives began drifting back inside, until Mummy’s hand settled on my shoulder and steered me toward the house. I answered the usual questions on autopilot—*yes I’m fine, no I don’t want more sweets, yes I’ll sleep soon*—and climbed the stairs alone.
Our room was exactly as we had left it that morning.
Two beds pushed close together. Her open makeup pouch still on the dressing table. One of her old nighties draped over the chair. The manga she had been reading days ago lying face-down on the side table. The pillow on her bed still held the faint shape of her head.
I closed the door, leaned against it, and let the quiet hit me.
For the first time in our entire lives the room was only mine.
I walked to her bed and sat down. The mattress dipped the way it always did. I picked up the nighty from the chair, soft thin cotton between my fingers, and brought it to my face. It still smelled like her—her soap, her skin, the faint trace of the perfume she had worn under the bridal scent. My throat tightened again.
I lay down on her side of the bed, still in my lehenga, and stared at the ceiling.
All the jokes, all the teasing, all the nights we had spent tangled together, fingers and mouths and quiet laughter—those belonged to a version of us that had existed until a few hours ago. Now she was in another house, in another bed, with a man who needed thick glasses to see the world clearly and who drank more than he should.
I turned onto my side, pulled her pillow against my chest, and closed my eyes.
My buddy was gone.
The house settled into its late-night silence. Somewhere downstairs a relative still talked in a low voice. Outside, a dog barked once and stopped. I stayed curled around her pillow, breathing in the last of her scent, and let the tears come properly this time—quiet, steady, without an audience.
Tomorrow the relatives would leave. The decorations would come down. Life would start arranging itself into a new shape.
But tonight the room was too empty, and I was the only one left in it.
****
**Scene: That Night Alone**
Sleep never came.
I lay on her bed in the dark, still wearing the turquoise lehenga, her pillow hugged against my chest. The phone screen was the only light. We had been texting on and off since the car left.
**Me:** You reached?
**Ahena:** Just now. House is nice. A bit quiet.
**Me:** Of course it’s quiet. I’m not there to create problems.
**Ahena:** Haha. Miss you already.
**Me:** Liar. You’re probably busy looking at him without the glasses.
**Ahena:** Stop.
**Me:** Make me.
The replies stayed easy for a while—short, familiar, the same rhythm we always had. I told her about Mummy still wiping the same plate downstairs. She told me the new bedroom had an AC that made a weird noise. I sent a voice note of me snoring dramatically. She sent back a laughing emoji.
Then, at 11:03:
**Ahena:** He’s here. Came out of the bathroom. Talk later, okay?
I typed *okay, good night* and waited.
The message stayed single-ticked for a full minute. Then it became double-ticked. No “seen”. No reply.
I stared at the screen.
“So mean,” I muttered to the empty room.
My thumb hovered over the call button. I almost pressed it. Then I imagined her phone lighting up on a new bedside table, him asking who it was, her having to explain. I locked the phone and threw it onto the mattress. It bounced once and went still.
A long sigh left me.
I got up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtain aside. The street below was mostly dark. Under the single yellow sodium lamp two stray dogs were locked together, the male thrusting hard, the female standing braced. The wet, rhythmic sound carried faintly up to the first floor. I watched for a few seconds, then let the curtain fall and turned away.
The room felt even quieter after that.
I lay back down. 12:40. 1:15. 1:50. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the red lehenga disappearing into the car. Every time I opened them the phone screen stayed dark. No new message.
By 2:00 a.m. I was still on my side, staring at the black glass, waiting for a reply that clearly wasn’t coming.
I needed to stop thinking.
My hand slid down under the lehenga, past the petticoat, and into my underwear. I was dry at first. I rubbed slow circles over my clit anyway, trying to force the feeling. Nothing. Just friction and the same hollow ache in my chest. I pushed two fingers lower, spread myself, tried to pretend they were hers. Still nothing.
I sat up, grabbed the phone again, and opened the VPN. The usual sites loaded. I typed without thinking, scrolled past a few thumbnails, and settled on a video of two girls—dark hair, soft bodies, one of them on her back while the other licked her slowly. I propped the phone against her pillow, turned the volume low, and lay back.
This time my fingers found wetness almost immediately.
I watched the girl on screen push her tongue deep, the same way I had done to Ahena only nights ago. My own hips lifted. I slipped two fingers inside myself and fucked them in time with the tongue on the screen, palm grinding against my clit on every stroke. A soft moan slipped out. I bit my lip to keep it quiet.
The video changed angles. Now the girls were in 69, exactly like us. I mirrored it without thinking—knees bent, thighs open, free hand coming up to squeeze my breast hard through the blouse of the lehenga. I pinched my nipple, rolled it, then tugged the fabric down so I could feel skin. My fingers moved faster. Wet sounds filled the small space between my legs and the mattress.
“Fuck…” I whispered to no one.
I added a third finger, stretched myself open, and kept watching. The girl on top was shaking the way Ahena had shaken. I rubbed my clit in tight, mean circles and felt the pressure finally build—hot, sharp, almost angry. My other hand left my breast and gripped the sheet. Hips jerked. The phone wobbled but stayed upright.
I came with a broken, muffled sound, thighs clamped around my own hand, walls pulsing hard around my fingers. The orgasm was strong but empty; it left me trembling and still alone. I kept rubbing through the aftershocks until it almost hurt, then slowly pulled my hand free.
The video was still playing. I locked the phone and let it drop onto the bed.
My breathing slowed. The room smelled faintly of sex and the leftover bridal perfume on my clothes. I didn’t bother cleaning up properly. I just curled onto my side again, pulled her pillow back against my chest, and closed my eyes.
This time sleep came.
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