PRACTICALITY
VIYANA SINCLAIR
I woke up to the unforgiving hardness of the floor beneath me. For a second—just one fragile second—it felt like everything that happened yesterday was nothing but a cruel dream stitched together by exhaustion. The marriage. The hunger. The storm. Him.
But the ache in my back and the chill seeping into my bones told me otherwise.
I hadn’t slept. Not really. The cold marble floor had no mercy, and there were no blankets to soften it.
I, who could never fall asleep without an air conditioner humming in the background, survived only because the rain had cooled the night enough to make it bearable. Not comfortable. Just… survivable.
I stood up slowly and walked to the restroom, changed my pad, and stared at my reflection. Pale. Tired. Stripped of everything familiar.
Another problem waited for me there.
No toothbrush.
Of course.
A tired sigh escaped my lips. I refused to stand in front of him again, refused to ask for something so small only to have it flung at me like charity.
My eyes landed on a toothpaste tube abandoned in a corner.
I hesitated, then shrugged at my own pride.
I rinsed my mouth, squeezed a little paste onto my forefinger, and brushed my teeth with it.
It felt wrong. Undignified. But it worked.
Barely.
After rinsing again, I walked back out and sank onto the floor. I opened my suitcase and pulled out a soft, pale yellow kurti. The fabric felt gentle against my fingers—familiar, almost comforting. I slipped out of the baggy shirt I had slept in.
As I wore the kurti, a strange heaviness settled in my chest.
My mom loves yellow.
The thought slipped into my mind so suddenly that it almost hurt. I stared down at the pale yellow kurti, my fingers tightening around the fabric for a second, as if it could anchor me. Amma always said yellow looked like hope. Like warmth. Like home.
I took my phone and sat on the floor, my back resting against the wall. The screen lit up my tired face as I checked the time.
9:00 a.m.
I let out a dry laugh. I was never someone who woke up this early—not unless there was a flight to catch or a meeting that demanded perfection. And now here I was, awake before the city fully stirred, sitting on a cold floor in a house that didn’t feel like mine.
I started doom-scrolling through reels, letting other people’s laughter, dances, and perfect mornings bleed into my silence.
Then my phone rang.
Vihaan.
My heart bloomed instantly, relief flooding my chest so fast it almost made me dizzy. My brother. My safe place. My person. But the happiness tangled with fear just as quickly. He would be furious. He would know. He would see through every excuse I tried to build.
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Then I answered.
“Where are you, Vivi?” His voice came through sharp, controlled—but I knew him too well. He was angry. Properly angry.
“Vihaan—” I started, but he cut me off immediately.
“Are you stupid, Vivi?” His words sliced clean. “Like—you married him for owning property?”
My chest tightened.
“Don’t shout at me,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.
Silence.
I swallowed hard, staring at the floor as the weight of everything settled deeper into my bones.
“Chill. It’s just a marriage of compromise,” I muttered, tracing invisible lines on the floor with my finger.
He scoffed on the other side of the call. I could almost picture him—jaw clenched, pacing, hand running through his hair the way he always did when he was worried but trying to hide it behind anger.
“Marriage is not a joke, Vivi,” he said, his voice low now. Serious.
“Indeed. A joke for me,” I replied lightly, too lightly. Like if I pretended it didn’t matter, it actually wouldn’t.
Silence again.
This time it wasn’t sharp. It was heavy.
“What if he does something?” Vihaan finally said. “Like… he already doesn’t like us. What if he takes revenge on you for me?”
I swallowed.
“Vihaan,” I said softly, my voice cracking just a little despite my effort, “I can handle this. I chose this.”
There was a pause, then his voice dropped—gentler, breaking through the anger.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I said quickly and cut the call before he could say anything else.
The silence that followed was loud. Too loud.
I placed my phone beside me and stared at nothing, my thoughts tangled, heavy, suffocating. My chest felt tight—like I had just run a long distance without stopping.
A few minutes passed.
Then the door creaked.
Mister Justice Saviour himself walked out of his room.
His hair was a complete disaster—standing in all directions like it had fought a war and lost. His eyes looked half-awake, his face blank, and honestly… he looked stupid. Not intimidating. Not heroic. Just stupidly human.
I watched him shamelessly.
He scratched the back of his neck, and glanced at me for a split second before looking away like I didn’t exist. As if I were just another piece of furniture occupying his living hall floor.
Great.
.....
I shut the bathroom door behind me and dragged the small plastic stool closer, sitting on it with a tired sigh. The bucket beside me held cold water—too cold for this hour, for this mess of a life.
I lifted it anyway.
The water crashed down on my head, shocking, unforgiving. Stupid. I know. But coldness—any kind—felt easier than thinking.
Drops slid down my face as I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, breathing hard. My life had turned into chaos overnight. One signature. One forced promise. And everything I had built slipped right through my fingers.
My job—gone.
My peace—gone.
And she.
Every time I saw her sitting there with that sharp tongue and pride, it reminded me of why my life had shattered so neatly. She was the reason.
I laughed bitterly under my breath.
Here I was, hiding in this tiny rented house like a criminal, lying to my parents, avoiding their calls—just to hide a marriage that never should have existed. A marriage born out of threats and desperation.
I splashed water on my face again, harder this time, as if I could wash away the truth.
But no matter how much water I poured, the weight on my chest didn’t move.
Because when I stepped out of this bathroom, she would still be there.
And so would this mess I was now calling my life.
Yesterday, when she stood in front of me and asked for sanitary napkins, a dark thought crossed my mind.
What if I don’t give her anything?
What if I just let her suffer?
Let her feel helpless. Let her taste even a fraction of what she did to me—threatening my family, cornering me, forcing this marriage on me. For a second, that cruelty felt justified. Easy.
But then another thought followed, quieter yet heavier.
If I do that… then what difference would there be between her and me?
No matter how much I hated her, no matter how unfair this whole thing was, I couldn’t cross that line. I couldn’t become someone who takes advantage of another person’s pain—especially not something so vulnerable, so human.
Periods weren't a weapon.
So I walked out, ignoring the rain, the stares, the exhaustion in my bones. I searched shop after shop, my shirt soaked, my patience thinning, until I finally found those pads. When I came back and threw the packet at her.
Despite everything she had done, I refused to become inhumane.
Because if I lost that too, then this forced marriage wouldn’t just ruin my life—
It would ruin who I am. My character
I took a shower and changed into fresh clothes. As I wiped the fog off the mirror, my eyes fell on the empty rack near the sink.
No extra soap or shampoo for her.
Of course.
I breathed out slowly, resting my palms on the edge of the basin.
No matter how much I tried to deny it, avoid it, resist it—she was going to live under this roof for one year.
One full year. And from the bits and pieces of conversation I’d overheard yesterday.
I knew this marriage wasn’t some accident or impulse.
She had chosen this. For her own reasons.
And now, she wasn’t allowed to use her money.
Which meant—whether I liked it or not—she was dependent on me.
The thought sat heavy in my chest. I wasn’t someone who enjoyed control. I hated the idea of someone being forced to rely on me, especially her. But reality didn’t care about my principles. If not today, then tomorrow. If not soap, then something else.
Avoiding her wasn’t an option. Not for a year.
I picked up my phone, unlocked it, and opened blinkit. My thumb hovered for a second before tapping the search bar.
Soap.
Shampoo.
I added a basic soap bar and a mild shampoo—nothing fancy, nothing luxurious. Just things a person needed to get through the day. As I placed the order, a strange discomfort crept in, something close to irritation but not quite.
This wasn’t kindness.
This wasn’t care.
I told myself it was practicality.
Because no matter how much I despised this situation, I wasn’t going to let another person suffer just to satisfy my anger. And I wasn’t going to become the kind of man who weaponized dependence.
I locked my phone and stepped out of the bathroom, the house unusually quiet.
Somewhere in the other room, she was awake.
I rubbed the towel harshly through my hair, as if I could scrub away everything that had gone wrong with my life. I didn’t want to stay here. Not in this house. Not in this situation. Not where her presence felt like a constant reminder of everything I had lost.
Seeing her again and again would only twist the knife deeper.
I was fired for doing the right thing. Fired for standing against her company, for choosing justice over comfort.
One protest—that’s all it took. Her hospital I worked for didn’t even hesitate.
No warning. No second chance. Just a cold termination letter and a security guard escorting me out like I was some criminal.
Now I was jobless.
And being jobless wasn’t just about me.
It was about my grandparents—their medicines, their frequent hospital visits, the fragile way my grandma clutched her chest when the pain returned, the silent endurance in my grandpa’s eyes.
It was about my mother—her low bone density, the supplements, the tests, the way she winced but smiled anyway so we wouldn’t worry.
It was about Aarushi—her college fees, her dreams. The EMI payments.
It was about all of them.
I had managed for two months. Two fragile months—using the money I had saved over five long years. Five years of night shifts, skipped meals, worn-out clothes, postponed happiness. Money I had tucked away with one single dream in mind.
My own house.
A small one. Nothing grand. Just walls that belonged to me. A place where my parents could grow old without fear. A place where I could finally breathe.
But now… every bill felt like a countdown.
If I kept spending this money, the savings would vanish. And once they did, what then? How would I pay for tomorrow? For emergencies? For dreams?
My eyelids burned as tears welled up, blurring the room in front of me. I turned my face away, clenching my jaw, swallowing hard—but fear doesn’t disappear just because you refuse to look at it.
I was scared.
Not of her.
Not of this forced marriage.
I was scared of failing the people who trusted me with their lives.
I stood there, towel hanging loosely around my neck, heart pounding with uncertainty, knowing one terrifying truth that I have no idea what to do next.