MY LIFE
VIYANA SINCLAIR
He came out of his room looking fresh.
And me?
I was still sitting on the cold floor, legs tangled awkwardly, fingers nervously twisting into each other on my lap.
I hadn’t taken a shower. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I didn’t have my mint soap, my body wash, my comfort.
It felt ridiculous how something so small suddenly mattered so much.
The doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected.
He didn’t even flinch.
Didn’t move an inch.
So I stood up and walked to the door myself. A delivery guy stood there, rain droplets clinging to his helmet. I took the parcel, muttered a thanks, and shut the door behind me. The cardboard box felt oddly heavy in my hands—heavier than it should have been.
I sighed and placed it on the table, already turning away to go sit back on the floor, when I felt it.
His gaze.
He walked over, picked up the parcel, didn’t even bother to look at my face—and then—
He threw it.
The box flew through the air and hit my chest before dropping to the floor.
I froze.
Not because it hurt.
But because something inside me snapped.
“What is wrong with you?” I asked, my voice sharp but shaky.
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t even look angry.
“Soap and shampoo.”
I blinked.
Soap… and shampoo?
My eyes dropped to the box on the floor. Suddenly, the weight of it made sense.
“You… ordered this?” I asked, my voice softer than I wanted it to be.
He looked away, jaw clenched.
I bent down and picked up the parcel slowly. My fingers lingered on the tape before I straightened up.
I dragged my suitcase closer, fingers clumsy as I pulled out a towel and a set of fresh clothes. I picked up the box and walked into the bathroom, locking the door behind me like I needed protection from the world itself.
I opened the parcel.
Soap.
Shampoo.
I stared at them.
Some painfully ordinary brand. The kind you see stacked on the lowest rack of a supermarket. No fragrance promises. No elegant packaging. No luxury.
I sighed, long and dramatic.
I placed them on the tiny ledge and finally looked around the bathroom properly.
No fancy fittings.
Just a bucket.
And a mug.
“…You’re joking,” I whispered to the empty room.
Was I supposed to fill the bucket? Scoop water with a mug like it was some ancient ritual? My mind refused to accept the reality standing right in front of me.
I pressed my forehead against the wall, the tiles cold against my skin.
“Oh my god,” I breathed. “Save me.”
This house wasn’t just small.
It was humbling.
Every inch of it screamed things I had never had to think about—water, effort, simplicity. Things money usually erased for me.
I straightened slowly, staring at my reflection in the dull mirror.
One year, Viyana.
Just one year.
I twisted the tap open and the water rushed into the bucket, the sound echoing sharply inside the cramped bathroom. I stood there for a second, fingers still on the pipe, watching the water rise.
I was about to strip off my clothes when a thought slid into my mind—slow, poisonous, unsettling.
Why is he doing all this?
The pads.
The soap.
The shampoo.
After everything I did to him.
After the threats.
After ruining his life.
My chest tightened.
People don’t suddenly become kind. Not without a reason. Not after being dragged into a marriage they never wanted.
A chill crept up my spine.
Is he planning something?
I looked around the bathroom carefully now, my eyes scanning every corner. The cracked tiles. The tiny exhaust fan. The dull mirror. My gaze lingered on the shelf, then the door, then the ceiling.
My heart started racing.
What if there’s a camera?
I swallowed hard.
I checked behind the mirror.
Near the switchboard.
Above the door frame.
Nothing.
Still, my skin prickled with unease.
People like him—quiet, righteous, “good”—they were always the most dangerous. They pretended to be moral while plotting silently.
I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed even with my clothes on.
No.
I can’t trust this.
Not after what I did to him.
The water overflowed slightly, splashing onto the floor, snapping me out of my thoughts. I quickly closed the tap, my fingers trembling.
I exhaled shakily.
Stay alert, Viyana.
Very alert.
This man wasn’t kind.
He was calm.
And calm people always scared me more.
I came out of the bathroom only to find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, cooking like this was just another ordinary morning. I gulped and sharpened my voice till it turned cold.
“Did you keep a secret camera in the bathroom?” I asked.
His hand froze mid-air, but he didn’t bother turning around.
“I’m not cheap like you,” he replied.
I clicked my tongue. “Please. You’re too poor to even afford a secret camera.”
With that final jab, I spun on my heel and shut the bathroom door behind me, the sound echoing my irritation.
I sighed dramatically and stripped off my clothes. I scooped a mug full of water and poured it over my head.
Cold.
Freezing.
Absolute betrayal.
“Oh great,” I muttered, shivering. “Now I’ll catch a cold and die in this tragic, low-budget bathroom.”
Still, I poured another mug. And another. Pride may have left the building, but stubbornness stayed. When I was done, I wiped myself dry with the towel, slipped into a sweatpant and a baggy shirt, and took a deep breath.
I slung the towel over my shoulder like a tired warrior returning from battle.
Then I walked out of the bathroom—clean, cold, and dramatically offended by life itself.
I towel-dried my wet hair and walked into the hall, still lost in my own thoughts—when he appeared out of nowhere and slammed something hard onto the table before disappearing just as fast.
I flinched.
On the table lay a toothbrush and a toothpaste.
I picked them up slowly and glanced toward his room. His back was to me now, already retreating into his silence. I let out a quiet sigh.
I really couldn’t judge his character. Not yet.
I tore a sheet from a nearby notepad, grabbed a pen, and sat cross-legged on the floor like a sulking child. I placed the paper down and started writing carefully, as if this were some sacred contract.
Soap
Shampoo
Toothbrush
Toothpaste
I stared at the list for a moment.
“Gonna make it up to him after one year,” I muttered to myself.
I underlined it twice.
After one year, I’ll return every rupee he spends on me. Every small thing. Every reluctant kindness thrown at my face like an insult.
I stood up and marched toward his room. He was standing there, arranging his bed like the world hadn’t turned upside down overnight.
“Hello, Mr. Justice Saviour,” I called.
He turned to look at me, expression unreadable.
“See,” I said, holding the paper up in front of him.
His eyes flicked over it for barely a second before he turned back, already done with the conversation.
“Don’t worry about spending your money on me,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “I’ll pay you back. Every single thing. After one year.”
Silence.
He didn’t reply. Didn’t even acknowledge it.
I let out a small sigh, folded the paper neatly, and tucked it into my bag.
I went back to my corner, sat down on the floor, and hugged my knees loosely. This house was small and felt tight. Like the walls were listening. Like they knew neither of us wanted to be here.
From inside his room, I could hear faint movements. He was getting ready to leave.
Good, I thought. Space is good.
A few minutes later, he walked out, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes fixed straight ahead. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t pause.
He was about to step out when something in me snapped.
“I’m hungry,” I shouted.
The words barely left my mouth before the door closed.
The sound echoed—final, indifferent.
I exhaled shakily and folded into myself, resting my cheek on my knees. Hunger clawed at my stomach, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache blooming in my chest.
Then—
the door opened again.
My breath hitched.
He peeked through, just briefly, as if even staying for a second longer would cost him something precious.
“Food’s in the kitchen,” he said, voice sharp, stripped of warmth. “And I’m not your damn servant to feed you with a silver spoon. Go serve yourself.”
The door shut again.
This time, for real.
I stared at the closed door, my throat tightening. The house felt heavier, quieter, like it was swallowing me whole. I pressed my lips together, forcing the sting in my eyes to retreat.
I slowly stood up, wiping my palms on my clothes, gathering whatever dignity I had left.
I stood there, the kitchen strangely quiet,
opening vessel after vessel—
as if hope might be hiding in one of them.
But no.
Just a simple dosa,
a small bowl of chutney waiting patiently,
like it had accepted its fate.
I sighed, the sound heavier than it should’ve been.
The plate felt unfamiliar in my hands.
I had never served myself before.
At home, food always arrived with love—
in the careful hands of servants,
in my brother’s teasing voice,
in my grandpa’s warm scdings that I should eat more.
I was never alone at the table.
Now I was.
I took a morsel, fingers trembling slightly,
and that was all it took.
Memory does not knock.
It floods.
I was a child again,
standing in white, surrounded by murmurs and prayers,
my mother lying still—
too still.
I remember my cries breaking the air,
raw and unashamed,
the kind only a child can let out
when the world ends without warning.
Through it all, one hand never let go of mine.
My brother’s.
Small fingers, but strong enough
to keep me from falling apart.
He stayed.
He always did.
He still does.
The dosa grew cold on the plate
as another wound opened quietly inside me.
Just a few months ago,
we lost Grandpa.
That pain was different.
Deeper.
Heavier.
Maybe because I was older,
maybe because I understood loss better now.
I didn’t cry in front of everyone this time.
I had learned how to hide grief behind steady eyes
and polite silence.
But that night—
that night broke me.
In the darkness of our room,
it was just me and my brother again.
Two souls aching the same way,
comforting each other without words,
mourning the man who had been our shelter.
We cried quietly,
like grief was something sacred
that shouldn’t be heard by the world.
The morsel dissolved in my mouth,
but the memories didn’t.
They stayed—
warm, painful, real.
Loss teaches you many things.
How to be strong.
How to pretend.
How to eat even when your heart is empty.
But I hate my grandpa for placing restrictions on my right to my own share of the property—I keep asking myself why. Just… why?
If I ever meet him again in heaven, I wouldn’t look at him. I would scold him for everything he did, and then I wouldn’t talk to him at all.
After eating, I washed the plate and kept it aside, watching the water carry away the last traces of the meal. My hands moved on their own, but my mind was far away. That was when my phone rang.
My brother.
I picked up the phone, and the moment his voice reached me, something inside me loosened—like a knot finally giving up.
“You okay, Vivi?” he asked.
I hummed, afraid that if I spoke too much, my voice would betray me.
“I miss you,” he said softly.
I let out a small sigh. “It’s not like we’ve never lived apart,” I said, trying to sound light, even letting out a weak chuckle.
“I know,” he replied. “But this is different. You’re not away for a picnic or work. You’re… married. Living a poor life… with a man.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. The word married still felt strange, heavy—like a dress I hadn’t chosen but was forced to wear.
“Is he a creep?” my brother asked suddenly, his voice turning sharp with worry. “Is he behaving properly with you? He’s not touching you inappropriately, right?”
I closed my eyes.
I was just a little sister again—standing barefoot in the ruins of my life, held together by the one person who never let go of my hand.
“I don’t think he is a creep… yet,” I said quietly.
My brother sighed on the other end. “Still, be careful,” he warned.
I hummed in response, my fingers tightening around the phone.
“How is Zara?” I asked, my voice softening the moment her name left my lips.
“She’s fine,” he said, then paused. “But she keeps asking where you’ve gone suddenly.”
My chest ached. “What did you tell her?”
“That you went on a business trip,” he replied.
I swallowed hard. I miss my baby.
A memory rose uninvited—tiny fingers curling around mine, her small body fitting perfectly in my arms. I remembered holding her close while the courtroom echoed with raised voices, while her parents—my brother and her mother—fought over custody like love could be divided by papers and signatures.
I remembered how Zara clung to me, unaware of laws, unaware of battles, knowing only that my arms felt safe.
And that was all my life revolved around—my brother, business, Zara, comfort.
That was my entire world.
But now… everything had changed.
The familiar rhythm of my life had broken, like a song abruptly cut off mid-note.
The voices I was used to, the warmth I leaned on, the certainty that wrapped around me like a shield—everything felt distant now.
I was standing in a place I never chose, living a life that didn’t feel like mine, learning how quickly comfort can turn into memory.
Nothing was the same anymore.