Chapter1

Tara's pov:

The alarm went off at 5:30 AM.

I didn't groan. I didn't curse it. I just stared at the ceiling for exactly three seconds   the way I always do  and then I picked up my phone.

Old habit.

Before anything else, before I even fully registered that I was awake, I opened our group chat.

Me: aa rahe ho na sab??

The three ticks turned blue almost immediately. These girls, I swear.

Shraddha: aarahi hu ✌️

And then, almost at the same time, like they'd rehearsed it

Samiksha: main bhi aarahi hu

Amrita: main bhi 😭

I smiled at my screen for a second longer than necessary, then put the phone down and got up.

Time to feed the house that was never mine.

The kitchen was quiet at this hour. It always is. And I liked it that way  just me, the low hiss of the gas stove, and the sound of the city waking up outside the window. This routine started when I was fourteen. Right after the accident. Right after the world decided that I didn't get to have parents or a brother anymore, and that I'd spend the rest of my teenage years living under a roof that tolerated me at best.

My bua The Sumitra Khanna.

Okay. Let me think of the right words.

.

.

She is... a woman. She exists. She breathes the same air as the rest of us, technically. Beyond that, I genuinely don't know what she is because no dictionary has invented a word ugly enough. A witch feels too poetic. A bull feels too strong. Cow dung is closer, but even cow dung has agricultural value, so that's still giving her too much credit.

I don't know how Sudheer Phupha ji handles her. I genuinely don't. That man must have the patience of a saint or absolutely no self-respect. Possibly both.

And their son, Aryan

You know what? Let's not. I have a full day ahead of me. I'm not starting it with my blood pressure already through the roof.

Focus. Cook.

Today was poha. It's always something I don't particularly love making, but I've been doing it so long it's just... muscle memory now. My real comfort has always been chai and chapati simple, warm, the kind of breakfast that actually feels like something.

Some people have raised an eyebrow at that over the years, like it's strange or sad or whatever they want to make it mean.

To those people: you are not feeding me. You are not paying for my groceries. So kindly keep your opinions exactly where they belong  inside your mouth, swallowed whole.

Thirty minutes later, poha was done. Chapati was done. Chai was done.

I ate my share standing at the counter, the way I always do  quickly, quietly, before anyone else woke up and the house stopped being mine.

Fifteen minutes. Shower done.

I stood in front of my tiny section of the wardrobe and pulled out the only real option I had: my dark green hoodie and my black high-waist jeans. The jeans were old. A little tight now. Worn at the knee and faded at the thigh.

But they were mine. Actually mine. And sometimes that matters more than fit.

I didn't look at the mirror too long. I never do.

But just by looking at the mole over my lip it's so beautiful i just love it .

The way Sudheer Phupha ji looks at me. The way Aryan does too. That slow, top-to-bottom scan that makes my skin crawl, like I'm something to be assessed rather than a person standing right in front of them.

I'm not an alien. I'm a girl. A human girl. In a hoodie and jeans.

Look somewhere else.

I pulled the hoodie sleeves down  a habit so automatic I didn't even register doing it checked the time, and felt my stomach flip.

Shraddha was going to be at the bottom of the street in twenty minutes.

Shraddha does not wait.

I grabbed my bag, shoved my feet into my shoes, and walked out of that house without looking back. Not even once.

The street smelled like Mumbai mornings  chai from someone's window, petrol, something frying two floors above. Familiar. Almost comforting.

Shraddha was already there, leaning against the wall with her bag on one shoulder, squinting at her phone.

"You're almost late," she said without looking up.

"I'm not late."

"Almost."

We fell into step together, and just like that, the morning got easier.

The IT lab was already half-full by the time we got there the usual crowd of people who either genuinely cared about being early or had nowhere better to be.

We slid into our usual seats right as Samiksha and Amrita came through the door, slightly breathless and pretending they weren't.

These three.

My three.

They know everything. Not because I wanted them to  but because one afternoon, my sleeves slipped at the wrong moment, and the scars on my arms said everything I hadn't. I didn't have a choice after that. They saw, and they stayed, and they never made it weird.

That's the thing about the right people. They don't make you explain yourself. They just... stay.

Lectures ended at 12:30.

We migrated automatically  the way we always do  to our spot just outside the college gate. Not a bench, not a café. Just a stretch of wall in the shade where we'd claimed unofficial ownership through sheer consistency.

Samiksha was mid-bite into something when she looked at me.

"So... the scholarship."

I groaned. "Sam—"

"Tara."

"I know."

"Do you though?" She raised an eyebrow. "Because knowing and doing are two very different things."

"I'm accepting it," I said. "I am. I just-" I exhaled. "How do I go to the US? Like, logistically. Realistically."

"The same way anyone goes," Amrita said. "Plane. Passport. Prayers."

"It's not a scam," I added, because I knew what they were thinking. "I've shown you the website. I did a Google Meet with the admissions office. They sent an official email. It's a real, legitimate, prestigious college and they've told me I can either stay in the hostel or rent an apartment."

Shraddha, who had been quiet, looked up at the sky.

"Ganpati Bappa," she said solemnly, hands pressed together, "please show our Tara some way."

I laughed. Actually laughed.

"And the freelancing money?" Amrita asked.

"Saving it. All of it." I nodded. "Dollars don't lie."

"She's going to be fine," Samiksha said, pointing at me. "I'm going to be the one who has a breakdown."

And for a moment  just one warm, golden moment everything felt okay. Like the future was something that could actually belong to me.

Then my pocket vibrated.

I knew before I even looked.

"The witch is calling," I announced.

All three of them immediately leaned in.

I answered.

"TARA!!!"

The screech hit all four of us. Samiksha winced. Amrita pulled back. Shraddha's eyes went wide.

"You come home right now. We have something to discuss  something that will send you somewhere so far you will never come back. Come home. NOW."

Click.Silence.

I lowered the phone.

My three were already staring at me with that look  the one that sits somewhere between fury on my behalf and absolute disbelief that one woman can contain that much volume.

"We heard," Shraddha said flatly.

"I figured."

"You're going?" Amrita asked.

"I have to."

They exchanged a look  the kind that passes between people who've known each other long enough to have full conversations without words.

"Okay," Samiksha said, straightening up. "Go. But the second anything happens—"

"I call you. I know."

Amrita pulled me into a quick, tight hug. "Take care, okay?"

I held on for exactly one second longer than I meant to.

Then I let go, turned around, and walked back toward the house that had never been home.

.

.

.

.

.

The door hit the frame behind me before I even had my bag fully off my shoulder.

I dropped it on the sofa  the one piece of furniture in this house I was allowed to use without being reminded that it wasn't mine  and barely had time to breathe before something hit my face.

Warm. Wet. Familiar smell.

Poha.

I stood there for a second, completely still, the rice clinging to my cheek and my hoodie, and I looked up.

Aryan.

Of course.

He was standing in the middle of the hall with the empty plate still in his hand, and that look on his face  that specific look that made him appear exactly as intelligent as a traffic cone twisted into something uglier.

"What the hell did you make?" he spat. "Doesn't even have any taste. We don't just let you live here for free, you know. You're supposed to work. And if you can't even do that right, then you can come to my room and I'll find another way you can be useful. I'll make sure you can't walk after and it'll keep going every single—"

The sound of my palm connecting with his face echoed off every wall.

Hard. Clean. Final.

My hand stung. I didn't care.

"Don't you dare," I said, my voice dangerously quiet, "speak to me like that. Ever."

He blinked. For exactly one second, he looked stunned  like he genuinely hadn't expected it. Like after all this time, he still thought I wouldn't.

Then his face curdled.

"Where is your mother?" I asked. "Where is your so-called—"

His hands grabbed my shoulders.

I didn't even finish the sentence before he shoved me  full force, no hesitation and the back of my head cracked against the wall so hard that white exploded across my vision.

I slid down slightly. The world tilted.

Something warm started trickling down the back of my skull.

My ears were ringing. My vision blurred at the edges. And somewhere beneath the pain, something older and quieter than anger rose up in my chest  something that had been sitting there since I was fourteen years old, waiting.

I blinked it clear.

Got up.

And punched him square in the nose.

The crack was satisfying in a way I will never apologize for.

Blood. Immediate. Dramatic. Good.

He howled.

And that  naturally  was the exact moment Bua ji decided to make her entrance.

She materialized from the hallway like a force of nature nobody asked for, and before I could even register her presence, her fingers were in my hair  yanking, hard and her palm connected with my face.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

"Tujhe kya lagta hai tu kuch bhi bolegi mere bete ko aur main sun ke lungi?!"

"Maine kaha sune bola?" I said through my teeth, my scalp screaming, my cheek burning. "Kaan band kar lo apne. Aur aapka beta toh deserve karta hai yeh sab."

Something shifted in her face then. The anger was still there  it's always there but underneath it something colder surfaced. Something deliberate.

"Tu sudhregi nahi na," she said softly. That quiet tone she gets that is somehow worse than the screaming. "Tere wajah se mere bhaiye chale gaye. Na tu unko call karke bulati thi functions mein. Na yeh accident hota. Tu bas ek badi panoti hai. Zindagi bhar sirf akeli rahegi."

The words landed exactly where she intended them to.

My parents. My brother.

She has always known exactly where to aim.

I didn't give her the satisfaction of watching my face break. I kept it still  practiced stillness, the kind I've been perfecting for years  even as something inside my chest cracked quietly down the middle.

Then she grabbed my arm and dragged me.

Phupha ji was sitting in the bedroom.

I knew the moment I walked in, because I felt it  that particular quality of attention that makes your skin want to leave your body. His eyes moved over me the way they always do. Slow. Deliberate. Landing in places they had absolutely no right to be. On my breast.

I crossed my arms.

He smiled.

"We've made a decision," he said, in that calm, conversational tone he uses when he wants to remind you that he holds all the cards. "You're getting married. Three days from now."

I stared at him.

"The man is..." he tilted his head, like he was choosing the most polite way to say something repulsive, "...experienced. Mature. Forty-two. But you'll be provided for. At least you did one useful thing for this family."

The room went very quiet.