BANNED
“We didn’t marry out of love or something,” I said, my voice cutting through the suffocating silence. “It’s just a compromise.”
His mother’s face went rigid. His father’s jaw tightened.
“And also after one year—”
I didn’t get to finish.
Adithya’s fingers suddenly wrapped around my wrist. Tight. Urgent.
“Enough,” he muttered under his breath.
Before I could react, he pulled me away from them. I stumbled as he dragged me down the short hallway and into his room. The door banged open against the wall. He pushed me inside, not violently, but forcefully enough to make his point.
“Please shut the fuck up and stay inside for a moment,” he said, his voice low and shaking with anger.
Then he stepped out.
The door slammed.
The sound echoed inside the room like a gunshot.
For a second, I just stood there, stunned. Then irritation flooded in. I rushed to the door and grabbed the handle.
Locked.
From outside.
“This brainrot idiot,” I muttered under my breath, rattling the handle again as if it would magically open. It didn’t.
Voices from the living room seeped faintly through the wood. Muffled. Tense.
I pressed my ear to the door but couldn’t catch clear words. Only tones. His mother’s sharp disbelief. His father’s anger. Adithya’s strained attempts to respond.
I stepped back and ran a hand through my hair, pacing the small room.
I looked around his room while the lock held me hostage.
Everything was neat. Too neat. The bed perfectly made. Books aligned. Table clean. No clothes thrown carelessly over a chair.
The complete opposite of my room.
I let out an irritated scoff. “Of course,” I muttered to myself. Mr. Disciplined. Mr. Order.
I paced once. Twice. Then finally sat down on his bed.
The mattress wasn’t soft like mine—the one I grew up sleeping on, the one that swallowed you whole—but it was still better than the cold floor. I leaned back slightly, staring at the ceiling.
The voices outside continued for a long time. Muffled. Heated. Sharp at times.
Then gradually… silence.
An hour passed. Maybe more. Time felt thick.
Finally, the lock clicked.
The door opened.
He stood there.
His face looked drained. Pale. Eyes darker than usual. Something in him had shifted.
I stood up immediately and walked toward him.
“Who the fuck are you to lock me in a room—” I started, anger rising fast.
“Shut up,” he cut in.
“I just wish you’d die,” he muttered under his breath.
The sharpness of it stunned me for a second.
The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t dramatic.
But they hit harder than any scream.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
My mind replayed it, as if I had misheard.
He looked away almost instantly, jaw tight, eyes refusing to meet mine.
Then he placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me out of the doorway. Not violently—but firmly enough to make distance clear.
I stumbled back a step.
The door shut again.
I stood there in the hall, staring at the closed door.
The anger I had walked in with drained into something colder.
Because insults? I could handle.
Shouting? I grew up with it.
But those words…
They didn’t just sting.
They echoed.
The house was quiet now. Too quiet. His parents were gone. The storm had passed. But it hadn’t left peace behind—only wreckage.
I let out a slow breath and stepped back from the door. My shoulders felt stiff. My chest felt tight, but not in the way it used to when fear took over. This was different.
This was hurt.
Not because he shouted.
Not because he locked me in.
But because of the words he chose.
I just wish you’d die.
I sank down onto the floor opposite his door, resting my back against the wall. The same corner where I had sat earlier. It felt ironic.
I pressed my palms against my eyes for a moment, steadying myself.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
Sitting quietly? Not my talent.
I stood up abruptly and marched to his door like I was about to declare war.
Knock.
No response.
Knock knock.
Still nothing.
I started banging on it. Loud. Dramatic. Absolutely zero shame.
“Open the door!”
A few more aggressive thuds later, the door finally swung open.
He stood there, hair messy, eyes irritated, jaw tight. “What is your problem?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t filter.
“I too wish you would just die,” I shot back.
And before he could even process it, I raised my middle finger right in front of him. Bold. Iconic. Completely unnecessary.
Then I flipped my hair like I had just delivered the most powerful dialogue in cinematic history and turned to walk away.
Silence followed me.
The heavy, stunned kind.
I took three dramatic steps forward, fully expecting him to yell back.
“Are you thirteen?” he asked from behind, voice flat.
I didn’t even turn around. “Mentally? Sometimes. Emotionally? Depends. Physically? Unfortunately no.”
A pause.
“What did you tell your parents about us?” I asked, still staring at my phone like I wasn’t interrogating him.
“That’s none of your business,” he replied.
“Oh yeah?” I said casually and plopped down on the floor right there in the hallway like a protestor refusing to vacate premises.
He stared at me.
I leaned against the wall, crossed my legs, and unlocked my phone with dramatic indifference.
“Whatever. I’m hungry. Cook something.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Husband duties. Go.” I made a tiny shooing motion with my fingers without even looking at him.
“I am not your chef.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You have hands.”
“Yes,” I agreed, lifting them and inspecting my nails. “They are for scrolling and pointing. Not cooking.”
He stared at me like he was reconsidering every life decision that led to this moment.
I added, “If I faint from starvation, people will blame you.”
For a second, I genuinely thought he might strangle me with a pillow.
Instead, he muttered something under his breath and walked toward the kitchen.
I grinned at my phone.
Step one: survive.
Step two: irritate him into submission.
Going smoothly so far.
A few minutes later, he clanged a vessel louder than necessary and announced from the kitchen, “Food is ready. Go shovel it into your mouth.”
The sarcasm in his voice could’ve been bottled and sold.
I didn’t react.
I walked into the kitchen like a dignified queen entering her dining hall, served myself, and ate in silence. It was simple. Hot. Surprisingly good.
I didn’t compliment him. Obviously.
After washing my plate, I walked back and dropped flat onto the floor, arms and legs stretched out like a dramatic crime scene outline.
The ceiling stared back at me.
I unlocked my phone.
Scrolled.
Scrolled more.
I barely take photos. And even when I do, I end up deleting them later. I don’t like evidence. I don’t like freezing moments. They feel too permanent.
But one photo caught my eye.
I paused.
It was old. Very old.
Grandpa.
He was lying on a white hospital bed. Machines surrounded him, wires running across his fragile body. His eyelids were barely open, as if the world was already too heavy to look at.
And beside him—
Me.
Sitting close, sticking my tongue out at the camera while pulling his ear playfully.
Anyone else would think I was inappropriate. Insensitive.
But that was us.
It had been taken on his deathbed.
Yet he was smiling. A small, tired smile.
And his fingers—
He had lifted them weakly, forming a tiny peace sign.
Even then.
Even with tubes attached and breath measured by machines—
He chose to smile for me.
My throat tightened slightly.
I zoomed into his face. The wrinkles near his eyes. The faint curve of his lips. The stubborn warmth that refused to leave him until the very end.
I lay there on the floor, staring at that photo.
I didn’t delete it.
I never could.
Because that picture wasn’t about a hospital bed.
It wasn’t about dying.
It was about the way he looked at me like I was still a child worth smiling for.
Even when his own life was slipping away.
It’s funny how my life revolves around only a countable number of people.
Grandpa.
My brother.
Zara.
And that’s all.
No big circle. No dramatic crowd. Just a few names that actually matter.
A sudden metallic clang shattered the silence.
I flinched and sat up straight, heart jumping into my throat. The sound came from the kitchen.
I rushed there.
A cat stood on the counter like it owned the property. The milk packet lay torn, white liquid spreading across the floor in tragic slow motion.
The cat looked at me.
I looked at the cat.
It meowed once—zero guilt—and sprinted toward the open kitchen window before leaping out like a professional criminal escaping a crime scene.
Perfect.
Right on cue, Adithya stepped out of his room. His eyes landed on the milk, then on me.
The accusation was immediate.
“You’re doing this on purpose just to get on my nerves.”
I blinked. “You absolute batshit, don’t yell at me like that.”
I walked past him and slammed the kitchen window shut. “It was the cat, not me.”
He muttered something under his breath and bent down with a cloth to wipe the milk.
“You or the cat. Both are the same. Always ruining my peace.”
“Thank you,” I replied politely, like he’d just complimented my personality.
I turned and walked to the bathroom, suddenly deciding I would help him. Not because I’m nice. Just because I was slightly responsible for existing in the same space.
I filled a bucket with water.
The sound of rushing water echoed loudly in the small bathroom.
When it was full, I tightened the tap shut dramatically.
Then I bent down, grabbed the bucket handle, and tried to lift it.
Nothing.
It didn’t even move.
I pulled harder.
The bucket shifted half an inch and my soul left my body.
“Why is water so heavy?” I whispered like I’d just discovered gravity.
I tried again.
My arms trembled. My face scrunched. My back protested.
This was betrayal.
After an embarrassing struggle with an inanimate object, I finally dragged it inch by inch across the floor instead of lifting it.
If dignity had a physical form, it would’ve left the house already.
I genuinely thought I was strong.
Maybe I should go to the gym.
Maybe I am strong. Just… selectively.
I sighed dramatically, gathered all the strength stored in my ancestors’ bloodline, and lifted the bucket.
One step.
Two steps.
Victory was near.
And then—
Crack.
The handle snapped.
Time slowed down.
The bucket slipped from my heroic grip and crashed onto the kitchen floor.
Water exploded everywhere.
The milk that he had just finished cleaning?
Now diluted.
Rehydrated.
Reborn.
The entire kitchen floor turned into a miniature swimming pool.
My jaw dropped.
I looked at the bucket.
The bucket looked at me.
Adithya slowly turned his head toward me.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t breathe.
He just stared.
Stunned.
Speechless.
Clearly overwhelmed by my raw, destructive superpowers.
He closed his eyes. Inhale. Exhale. The kind of breathing you do before committing a crime.
“I was helping,” I added softly.
“You flooded the kitchen.”
“It needed hydration.”
He opened his eyes again and just stared at the ceiling like he was asking the universe why.
Meanwhile, I stepped back carefully—
And nearly slipped.
He grabbed my wrist instinctively before I could fall flat on the wet floor.
We both froze.
Water everywhere.
His hand gripping my wrist.
Me standing there like the embodiment of chaos.
I gave my most appealing smile.
“You are banned,” he finally said. “From the kitchen.”
I nodded solemnly.
Fair.