The Trial of the Single Heart
Everything that happened after we moved in made my heart jump so violently I thought it might actually leap out of my throat. For someone who had been "single from birth," the sudden shift from a quiet, lonely apartment to this was simply too much to process.
"Alright, Yuvraj, it's time for dinner!" Ananya announced.
She hadn't just ordered takeout; she had prepared a feast. Five different vegetable dishes were spread across the table, each looking like it belonged in a high-end magazine. But the presentation wasn't the shocker—it was the delivery.
She didn't reach for a spoon or a fork like you see in the movies. No, she picked up a portion of food with her own fingers and held it to my lips.
"Ananya, I can eat by myself," I protested, my face heating up.
"My hand is starting to ache from holding this for so long," she countered, her lower lip trembling just enough to make me feel like a villain.
She succeeded, of course. I opened my mouth, and the taste of home-cooked food was almost enough to distract me from the sheer intimacy of the gesture.
But it didn't stop at dinner. She began taking care of me with a terrifying level of devotion. When I tried to take a relaxing bath to wash away the day's confusion, the door clicked open. Before I could even protest, she was there, reaching out to rub my back with a steady, practiced rhythm.
Then came the "evening relaxation." She insisted on giving me a shoulder massage, her small but surprisingly firm hands kneading the tension out of my muscles until I was a puddle of nerves.
And then, the final boss of the day: the bedroom.
There was only one bed. A massive, king-sized expanse of silk and down.
"Since we are married, it's only natural to sleep in the same bed, right?" That was her entire explanation. It was logical, in a devastating sort of way.
I climbed in, hovering at the very edge of the mattress, facing the wall to keep my back to her. My heart was racing so fast I was sure she could hear it through the pillows.
Suddenly, I felt the mattress shift. A soft weight leaned into me, and I felt the crown of her head press firmly against the center of my back.
"Ananya?" I choked out, my voice cracking. "I don't think this is a good idea. You see... I'm a guy."
"It's fine," she whispered, her voice muffled against my shirt but dangerously steady. "You can do anything. We are married, after all..."
The implication hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating. My pulse hammered in my ears, but I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching the blanket like a shield.
"It's not good!" I blurted out, trying to reclaim some shred of my professional dignity. "I will not do anything to you—at least not until you become a college student!"
I could feel her smile against my spine, a silent, triumphant heat that told me she wasn't discouraged in the least.
-----
I stared at the ceiling, my breath coming in shallow hitches. My heart was still thudding against my ribs, trapped in the rhythm of that high-rise apartment and the warmth of a presence that shouldn't have been there.
Why does she like me so much?
The question gnawed at me. Had I done something in the past? Some grand gesture I'd forgotten, or a small kindness that she'd magnified into this obsession? My mind raced back through the years, searching for a spark, a moment, a reason.
In the haze of my memory, I saw a younger version of myself. I was standing in a sun-drenched playground, looking down at a small, teary-eyed girl.
"...Why are you worried about me and helping me?" her small voice had asked, trembling with a mix of suspicion and hope. "Did my family give you money for this? To look after me?"
I remembered the indignant puff of my chest, the way I'd frowned at the very idea.
"Well, your family did tell me to look after you—your dad specifically!" the younger me had replied, sounding far more confident than I felt today. "But there is another reason I want to be friends with you!"
I had reached out a hand then, a simple gesture of connection that felt like it carried the weight of a lifetime.
I gasped, my eyes snapping open as the image shattered.
The luxury apartment was gone. The smell of five vegetable dishes vanished, replaced by the faint, stale scent of my cramped studio. The "demonic" smile and the marriage certificate were nowhere to be found.
"It was indeed a dream," I mumbled, my voice sounding thick and lonely in the quiet of the room.
I sat up, rubbing my face with my palms. The silence of my actual apartment felt heavy, almost suffocating. It had been so vivid—the warmth of her head against my back, the weight of the "Requests" I could never refuse.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand, checking the time. My hand was still shaking slightly. It was just a dream... right?
But as I looked at the dark screen, a cold shiver ran down my spine. The dream had felt less like a fantasy and more like a warning—or perhaps, a memory of a promise I had long since buried.
----