The first days after the wedding always feel like dreams—half real, half imagined—and this morning was no different. Pale sunlight spilled into the bridal room, casting gold patterns across the white bedspread where rose petals still lingered from the night before.

Gatha stirred slowly, still wrapped in the dupatta she had fallen asleep with, her hair undone and spilling across her shoulder. She blinked against the light, unsure if she should move or wait. Her body was tired, her mind still carrying the heaviness of rituals and farewells.

When she turned her head slightly, she saw Siddharth already awake. He sat by the small table near the window, flipping through one of his medical notebooks, his turban gone, his hair slightly messy. He glanced up the moment he noticed her eyes open.

"Good morning," he said softly.

She lowered her gaze, shy as always, and answered barely above a whisper, "Good morning."

He closed his notebook immediately, stood up, and walked toward her. On the tray in his hand was a glass of warm water, a habit his grandfather had taught him long ago.

"First sip of the day," he said, kneeling so he was at her level.

She hesitated, the weight of shyness pressing on her chest. Having someone attend to her so closely, so gently, was new. She reached for the glass slowly, her eyes still avoiding his. When her fingers brushed his as she took it, she flinched slightly, then steadied herself.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Siddharth smiled but didn't tease. He simply nodded, watching until she finished, then took the empty glass and set it aside.

The lehenga from the wedding still lay folded in the corner, heavy with embroidery, as though the night had captured all its weight. Today, she needed something lighter, simpler. Siddharth opened the wardrobe, where her clothes had already been arranged neatly.

"Blue, yellow, or white?" he asked, holding up three kurtas.

She looked at them for a moment, then shyly pointed at the soft blue one.

"Good choice," he said with mock seriousness, as though she had passed a test.

She gave the faintest smile, quickly lowering her eyes again.

He helped her sit upright, careful not to rush her. When she fumbled with the ties of her kurta, he leaned closer, speaking gently, "Shall I?"

Her cheeks warmed instantly. She froze, fingers still clumsy on the thread. After a pause, she nodded lightly, not meeting his eyes.

His movements were slow, deliberate. He fastened the hooks one by one, adjusting the fabric so it fell neatly over her shoulders. He didn't comment, didn't make her embarrassment heavier. When he was done, he stepped back.

"Perfect," he said simply.

Her dupatta was next. She tried to drape it herself but struggled to make it sit properly. Siddharth reached out, arranging it over her shoulder. He pinned it at the side gently, making sure it wouldn't slip.

"There," he said, and this time, she did look up—just for a second—before glancing down again, her face tinged pink.

Later that morning, Siddharth moved about the room, rearranging shelves and drawers.

"This one," he said, pointing to the lower shelf, "will hold your daily things—hairbrush, clips, tissues, diary. No stretching, no struggling."

She watched quietly from her chair, her dupatta pulled slightly over her face.

"And here," he continued, pulling a small box forward, "are your study books. I've kept them within easy reach. Physics, chemistry, biology—all lined up. Don't worry, I'll quiz you when you're ready."

Her lips curved faintly, though she didn't say anything. She traced the edge of her diary with her finger, feeling a small warmth spread inside.

He even organized a small basket on the table: almonds, dates, a bottle of water, her medicines. "Dietician's orders," he said firmly.

She blushed. "You sound like... like my Dadu."

"Good," Siddharth said, straightening with a grin. "Then you know you can't disobey me either."

Her laugh was soft, almost hidden, but it slipped out before she could stop it.

By afternoon, Siddharth brought his own stack of medical books and placed them beside hers.

"Alright," he said, "Doctor Gatha, today's topic: the human heart."

She blinked, startled. "Now? Already?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "If you can wear a blue kurta today, you can learn two chambers of the heart too."

Her eyes widened, then dropped again, and she bit back a smile.

He began quizzing her, asking simple questions, guiding her through the answers. Whenever she hesitated, he leaned closer, not with impatience, but encouragement.

When she finally answered one correctly, he clapped his hands once, dramatically. "See? Topper already."

She giggled, covering her mouth. "You're making fun of me."

"Not at all," he said. "I'm telling the truth. You'll be a doctor. I'll make sure of it."

Her chest tightened at his words. She lowered her eyes, shy again, but deep inside, her heart steadied.

At lunch, Siddharth served her plate himself, making sure the portions were right. He added vegetables, dal, rice, and just a little pickle.

"Eat properly," he said gently. "You'll need strength for studying."

She took the plate quietly, but when he turned to pour her water, she whispered, "Thank you."

He looked back, smiled warmly, and replied, "Always."

That night, after he helped her change into a soft cotton kurta and carefully folded her dupatta aside, she sat with her diary on her lap. Her hands trembled slightly as she wrote:

"Today I realized what it means to be cared for without feeling small. He helps me with everything—clothes, food, books, shelves. At first, I felt shy, almost ashamed. But he never made me feel weak. He just makes things easier, quietly. If this is marriage, then maybe... maybe it is not so frightening. Maybe it is soft, like the way he pinned my dupatta, or the way he made me eat almonds before physics. I don't know what tomorrow will be, but today, I feel safe."

She closed the diary, pressing her palm to the cover, her lips curving into a shy, secret smile.

Across the room, Siddharth watched her for a moment before turning off the lamp. "Goodnight, Gatha," he said.

She lowered her eyes, whispering, "Goodnight."

The Morning Siddharth's Pov:

I don't need an alarm anymore. My body wakes up before 4 a.m., like it has learned there is something greater than sleep waiting for me each morning. By 4:30, I have already showered, dressed, and laid out her clothes neatly on the chair — a soft cotton salwar kameez, something simple and comfortable for her classes.

At 5, I sit by her side. "Gatha," I whisper. She stirs, her lashes fluttering before her eyes open slowly.

She always looks shy, as if waking to find me near is still new to her. "Five already?" she murmurs.

"Yes," I say with a smile, "doctor sahiba has classes today."

She lowers her gaze, cheeks faintly pink. She never argues. I help her sit up, support her back with a cushion, and bring her toothbrush and water. I steady her while she freshens up. She says nothing, only nods when I ask, "Is the water okay? Should I bring warmer?"

When it's time to dress, I gently help her. First with the kurta, carefully sliding her arms through the sleeves, then fastening the hooks. My hands are steady, though my heart always beats harder at her nearness. She keeps her eyes down, shy, silent.

I comb her hair into a neat braid, slipping a clip at the end. She blushes every time, though she no longer stops me.

By 6, breakfast is ready: milk, paratha, and fruit. I sit with her, watching to make sure she eats. If she skips a bite, I tease lightly, "Topper doctors need strength." That always makes her smile, faint and shy, before she takes the next bite.

By 7, we are ready to leave.

The canteen smelled of samosas and strong chai. Groups of students filled every table, their voices rising and falling in bursts of laughter. I sat with four of my classmates, the people who hovered around me most often. I wouldn't call them brothers — not even close — but they were the kind of friends who shared notes, who cribbed about professors, who tagged along to chai breaks.

And then there was Aarav, my best friend since first year. He was different — quieter, more thoughtful. He never teased me like the others did. He just sat back, watching.

That afternoon, as we ate, the teasing began.

"So, Siddharth," Rohan smirked, nudging my arm. "Our serious, boring genius suddenly got married, haan? Tell us — who's the lucky girl?"

"Yeah yaar," another chimed in, tearing a samosa in half. "We heard it was arranged. Must be some rich girl, no? Big house, big property?"

I ignored them at first, focusing on my food. But they wouldn't stop.

"Arre, show us her photo, na," Rohan pressed. "Don't hide her. What's the big deal?"

"Yeah," another added with a laugh. "We bet she's the serious type like you. Maybe with glasses this thick." He gestured, making circles with his fingers.

Someone else snorted. "Or maybe she's a doctor's daughter, right? High status, high contacts. Come on, Siddharth, at least tell us if she's pretty."

They all leaned in, grinning, their voices buzzing in my ears.

Shree stayed silent, watching me with that calm look of his. He didn't join them. He never did.

I clenched my jaw. I didn't want to show them. My marriage was not entertainment for them. But the way they kept pressing, smirking, whispering, it got under my skin. Finally, I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over the wedding album.

Before I could even tap the photo, one of them laughed. "What's the suspense, yaar? She must be perfectly normal. Siddharth's family would never agree otherwise."

"Of course," another said. "A topper like him, he wouldn't be given to someone with problems."

Their words hit me like stones. Problems. That's what they'd call her.

I should have stopped. I should have walked away. But something inside me rose like fire.

"You want to know?" I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "Fine. She's my wife. And yes — she's handicapped. She can't walk."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then the faces came. Twisted, mocking, pitying. One of them snorted, shaking his head. "What? Handicapped? You married a handicapped girl?"

Another pulled a face, half-pity, half-disgust. "But... why would you? Siddharth, you could have had anyone."

A third leaned back, smirking. "So the rumors were wrong. It wasn't about beauty. It was about obligation, no?"

My blood pounded in my ears. I wanted to hit them all.

"She's not just handicapped," I said, forcing each word through gritted teeth. "She's brilliant. She's preparing for medical entrance. She's stronger than any of you can imagine."

They laughed. They laughed.

"Strong? Come on, yaar. How strong can someone be if they can't even walk?"

"She must be a burden, Siddharth. Admit it. Carrying her every day, feeding her — what kind of life is that?"

Another added cruelly, "What did your family do? Trap you into sacrifice?"

I couldn't take it anymore. I opened the gallery and shoved the phone onto the table, her wedding photo bright on the screen.

There she was: my Gatha. In her red lehenga, her face glowing under the bridal dupatta, her eyes shy but shining.

The laughter died instantly.

Their smirks fell. Their mouths opened slightly. For a long second, none of them spoke.

Then, as expected, the lust began creeping into their eyes.

"Arre... she's beautiful," one whispered.
"Not just beautiful — stunning."
"Lucky bastard."

I felt my stomach twist. Their eyes were wrong. Dirty. The way they stared at the photo made me want to smash the phone against the wall.

Except for Aarav. He looked once, then looked away, his face calm, respectful. He said nothing, but the way he closed his notebook told me he understood.

The others leaned closer, their gazes hungry. "If I had seen her first..." one muttered, letting the sentence hang.

That was it.

I slammed my hand so hard on the table that plates jumped and tea spilled. The sound echoed through the canteen.

"Enough!" I shouted. The entire hall went silent.

I leaned forward, my voice low, shaking with fury. "Don't you ever speak about her like that. Don't you ever look at her with those filthy eyes. She is my wife. Not your joke. Not your fantasy. Mine."

They froze, fear flashing in their faces. They knew I wasn't bluffing.

"If I see you look at her photo again, if I hear even one word — I will break you." My voice was steady now, colder, sharper.

They stammered excuses. "Relax, bro... we were just joking."
"Itna serious kyun ho raha hai..."

But I didn't wait. I snatched my phone back, stood up, and walked out, my heart hammering.

Behind me, the canteen remained silent. Only Shree quiet eyes followed me, steady, understanding.