Bound Souls
Sihara
They say time heals. That if you give pain enough years, it dissolves into nothing but a faint shadow. I wish that was true. I wish my scars had faded with the passing years, but instead, they have only grown deeper, heavier, sharper etched into every beat of my heart, every breath I take.
I was eighteen when the mask slipped off the world and it showed me its teeth. Back then I was still that soft-hearted girl who trusted too easily, the kind who thought a friend would never turn into a monster.
He wasn’t my lover, but a close friend of mine. The one who used to lend me his umbrella on rainy days and crack jokes when life felt heavy. I thought friendship meant safety. I never imagined how easily that word could be twisted.
He asked me to hang out, said he’d found a quiet spot on the hills where we could watch the sunset. I went there like an idiot who believed the people she cared for would care back.
I thought it would be one of those evenings we’d laugh about later. I didn’t know I was walking into a trap.
The place was empty, a forgotten patch of land where nobody would hear a scream. His voice lost its warmth. His eyes turned sharp, hungry. He kept saying he just wanted some “moments with his friend,” as if he was owed something by the universe.
His hand gripped my wrist, not like a friend, but like a captor. Every shred of innocence in me became a weakness he wanted to tear apart. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to conquer. He wanted to swallow my fear and call it affection.
That day, I learned that betrayal isn’t loud. Sometimes it comes softly, in familiar footsteps, wearing the face of someone you once trusted. And it leaves you knowing one thing,
Sweetheart, the wolves don’t always bother with sheep’s clothing. Some stroll into your life bare-fanged and wait for the moment your guard drops.
I remember the panic, the taste of salt as tears rushed down my face. His weight pressed down like a nightmare, his breath foul against my skin. I screamed, shoved, fought like a wounded bird desperate to survive. And somehow, God knows how I managed to run. My legs carried me, stumbling, barefoot, bleeding on the inside, until I reached home.
But home didn't save me.
Society didn't believe me. Instead of protecting me, they judged me. Instead of holding me, they branded me. Their whispers were sharp knives.
"She's ruined."
"She's not pure anymore."
"She has lost her virginity to someone who's not even her husband."
In one night, I went from being Sihara to being a shame.
Even my mother, my Ma, didn't look at me the same way. There was doubt in her eyes, buried behind her tears. As if somewhere inside, she wondered if I was to blame.
But Naksh... my brother... he was my shield. He held me as I shattered, his arms my only refuge. His voice, breaking but firm, whispered to me, "I believe you. I'll always believe you."
The next morning, he did what a thousand people wouldn't, he took me away. We left the city, the suffocating whispers, the stares that stripped me bare. We started over. Or tried to. But the thing about pasts like mine, they cling. They follow. They live in your skin, in your heartbeat, in your nightmares.
Seven years passed. People said I should have moved on, married, smiled again. But I wasn't like other women. I wasn't a blank canvas anymore, I was painted in scars. Still, Naksh never stopped fighting for me. He wanted me to live, to be seen beyond the brokenness. He found me a man- Ayansh.
Ayansh was supposed to be my new beginning. He was kind, soft-spoken. For the first time in years, I dared to hope. I thought maybe the gods hadn't abandoned me completely. I thought maybe I could be a wife, a daughter-in-law, a woman who belonged somewhere without her past dragging her down.
But hope is a cruel thing.
Because on the day of the wedding, dressed in crimson, weighed down by gold, I sat at the mandap trembling with fragile anticipation. My heart whispered, maybe this time... maybe this time, I'll be enough.
And then Ayansh stood up. His eyes burned with disgust as he threw the garland aside.
"I can't do this," he said, his voice loud, clear, deliberate.
"I can't marry a girl like her. She's... tainted."
The world fell silent. My mother gasped, her hand clutching her chest. Guests whispered viciously, their smirks gleaming with cruel satisfaction. And me? I sat frozen, my body stiff, my soul crumbling.
Once again, my past dragged me to the ground. Once again, I was the girl who wasn't enough.
But Naksh didn't let me fall. His hand tightened on my shoulder, his rage burning like fire. He turned, his eyes locking with someone in the crowd. And when I followed his gaze, my breath hitched.
Vansh.
My brother's best friend.
I heard Naksh's voice, urgent, desperate. I couldn't hear the words clearly, but I knew. I knew what he was asking, what he was begging. Vansh's face was unreadable, his jaw tight, his eyes like dark storms. For a heartbeat, hope flickered then fear drowned it.
And then, before the world, before the whispers, before even I could breathe Vansh stepped forward.
The priests hurried. Mantras were chanted again. My veil was adjusted. My numb hands moved when they were guided. I sat beside Vansh Kapoor, not out of love, not out of choice, but because life had cornered us both into this cruel compromise.
The garland touched my neck. His hands brushed mine briefly, somehow unsteady steady, shaking, while mine trembled. We circled the holy fire, witnesses to a marriage neither of us had planned.
And just like that, in a blur of chants and smoke, I became Sihara Vansh Kapoor.
Not a bride. Not a beloved. Just a woman bound to a man out of convenience.
The wedding ended, but inside me, a storm raged. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't look at anyone. All I could think was how much longer will I be punished for something that wasn't my sin?
As the rituals finished, I glanced at Vansh once, just once. His face was cold, unreadable, distant. No anger, no softness, just a wall.
And in that moment, I knew this marriage wasn't salvation. It was another battlefield.
ෆ
The room was quiet when I entered. Too quiet. My bridal anklets jingled against the floor, shattering the stillness as I stood by the door, uncertain, unwanted. This wasn't how I imagined the first night of marriage. Then again, I had stopped imagining "perfect" long ago.
Vansh's bedroom wasn't the kind I had lived in. There was no gold, no grandeur. Just a decent space, a sturdy bed covered with plain sheets, a wooden table stacked with papers and books, a steel almirah in the corner. A single study lamp glowed faintly, casting shadows that made the room look smaller than it was.
It was simple. It was him.
He wasn't a businessman, or some wealthy heir like people in fairytales. He was a University professor. Practical, disciplined, grounded. His room smelled faintly of old books and him, the scent of ink and paper, as if even walls carried his seriousness.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my bridal lehenga heavy on my shoulders. My body screamed for rest, but my heart refused.
The sound of footsteps made me stiffen. Vansh entered, his sherwani slightly disheveled, his face calm but unreadable. His eyes flickered to me once before moving away, as though acknowledging my presence without daring to look too long. He walked to the table, pulled off his watch, and placed it with careful precision.
That was Vansh, every move neat, controlled, deliberate.
I lowered my gaze, clutching my dupatta tighter around me. The silence stretched, thick, suffocating. For a moment, I wondered if he hated me for this sudden marriage. If he felt trapped, just as I did.
My eyes wandered again across his room, trying to distract myself. Books, so many of them lined the shelves. Literature, philosophy, history. There were notes scattered, pages filled with handwriting so precise it almost looked printed. A life of discipline, of carrying responsibility far too young.
He turned then, his gaze landing on me, just for a second. Our eyes met. His, sharp but distant; mine, trembling but full of words I couldn't say.
"Change out of that," he said finally, his voice deep, even. He nodded at the heavy bridal outfit I still wore. "You'll be more comfortable."
It wasn't cruel. It wasn't tender either. Just... practical. But maybe, just maybe... soft.
I swallowed, nodding silently, and rose to my feet. My hands trembled as I gathered my clothes and slipped into the small washroom. When I came out, I was in a simple cotton salwar kameez, soft blue, plain, nothing bridal. I felt more like myself, but less like a bride. Maybe that was fitting.
Vansh hadn't moved. He was sitting on the chair by the table now, flipping through a file, his posture straight, his expression unreadable. It was almost as if my presence didn't matter.
I sat back on the bed, careful, quiet. My heart thudded against my ribs, unsure of what came next. Should I speak? Should I thank him? Should I apologize? My throat tightened, and words died before reaching my lips.
Finally, he closed the file and leaned back, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. He looked tired. Older than his years.
"I know you didn't want this, Sihara." he said suddenly, breaking the silence. His tone wasn't accusing. It was a statement, plain, factual. "Neither did I. But Naksh asked. And you're his sister." His eyes flickered to me then, holding mine. "So here we are."
So I only nodded. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible.
His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't be. None of this is your fault."
I froze. The words were simple, but they pierced me. Nobody had ever said that to me. Not Ma, not the neighbors, not even Ayansh. Everyone else had blamed me, directly or indirectly. But here he was, Vansh Malhotra, looking at me with steady eyes, telling me it wasn't my fault.
Something inside me cracked. My eyes burned, tears threatening to fall. I quickly lowered my gaze, afraid he'd see the storm in them.
The silence returned, heavier this time, but not suffocating. More like... uncertain. Like two broken people sitting in the same room, aware of each other's scars but too afraid to touch them.
Vansh rose after a while, pulling a blanket from the cupboard. He placed it on the couch and sat down, stretching his legs with quiet exhaustion.
"You can take the bed," he said simply, his voice final.
And just like that, the distance was marked. Two people bound by marriage, sharing a room, but separated by invisible walls.
I lay down on the bed later, staring at the ceiling, my hands clutching the pillow. I could hear the faint sound of his steady breathing across the room. My heart ached with everything unsaid with the love I once had, with the shame I carried, with the fear of what tomorrow would bring.
This wasn't the fairytale I had dreamt of as a child. It wasn't even the redemption I had prayed for as a woman.
It was something else. Something fragile, uncertain, and painfully real.
And as sleep slowly pulled me under, one truth echoed in my chest. Vansh and I weren't strangers. We were two souls bound by betrayals we never deserved.
To be contined. Follow, vote & comment.
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