I met him on a humid Tuesday evening.
My hair was a mess, my mood was worse, and he offered me water when I’d forgotten to drink all day.
That’s how it started.
Not with flowers.
Not with fireworks.
Just water.
And softness.
He wasn’t flashy.
No car. No big savings.
But he was present.
He made my silences feel safe.
He remembered what I liked on my toast.
Called me “madam” in the most dramatic way.
Held my hand when I forgot how to hold myself.
We didn’t talk about marriage for a long time.
We didn’t have to.
Love felt like enough.
But then it came up—
quietly, clumsily—on a random night.
He was on his bike, I was on the backseat, arms around him like I’d always belonged there.
“Let’s not waste money,” he said. “We’ll keep it simple. Just the two of us. Maybe a temple. Or court marriage. Then go eat biryani.”
He said it with a smile.
Like it was the most beautiful plan in the world.
And to him, it was.
But my heart sank.
Not because it wasn’t sweet.
But because I could already hear my mother’s voice—
“No guests? No rituals? What will people say?”
“You want to marry without your family blessing?”
“You think love is enough?”
And suddenly… love started feeling like something that needed *justification*.
I didn’t say anything that night.
Just held him tighter.
But a storm had started to brew inside me.
The next day, I brought it up.
“What if we waited? Saved up a little? Had a proper wedding—just to keep everyone happy?”
He paused.
Then he smiled again. “Sure. But you know I’d take a loan if it means seeing you in a red lehenga.”
That was the problem.
He *would*.
And I hated that.
I didn’t want a wedding that buried us in debt.
But I didn’t want a wedding that disappointed my family either.
How do you choose between your mother’s tears… and your lover’s truth?
I went back to my hometown a few days later.
My mother didn’t even ask much.
Just gentle things, like—
“How will you two manage? He doesn’t have savings.”
“Will he move here or will you go there?”
“Does he own anything?”
No accusations.
Just *facts*.
Things I already knew.
But hadn’t questioned.
Until now.
And I hated myself for letting those doubts in.
Because I loved him.
But now when I imagined our future, I didn’t see the temple or the court or the biryani.
I saw bills.
Rent.
Loans.
Arguments.
And guilt.
Guilt for wanting more.
Guilt for not wanting enough.
Am I being selfish?
Or have I been brainwashed?
Is love supposed to be this complicated?
Or is this what happens when the heart and the world speak different languages?
I still haven’t told him what I’m feeling.
I don’t want to break him.
I don’t want to break us.
But I also don’t want to lie to myself.
So I sit here, holding both truths:
I love him.
But I’m scared.
