15. HURT
DIYA
I don't understand the issue. No, seriously. I genuinely don't. We're living in the twenty-first century, not the eighteenth.
People are acting as though the world has ended because a photograph exists.
A photograph. Not a murder. Not a scandal. Not a heinous crime.
A photograph.
I stare out the window of my father's car as buildings blur past us, trying very hard not to lose my patience. Unfortunately, everyone around me seems determined to test it.
"Do you understand how bad this looks?" my father asks from the front seat.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Barely. "No."
His jaw tightens. My mother doesn't even look up from her phone. She hasn't spoken more than three words since we got into the car. Typical.
"Diya."
I sigh. "What exactly looks bad, Papa?"
"The photograph."
"It's a photograph."
"With a man."
"A man?" I repeat. "You make him sound like a wild animal."
His expression darkens. I look away. Because honestly I don't have the energy.
Not today. Not when my phone has been exploding since morning.
Not when journalists have apparently decided my love life is suddenly everyone's business.
Not when people are acting like I secretly trapped a prince into falling in love with me.
A prince.
I almost laugh. Because that's the funniest part. There is absolutely nothing between me and Veeraj Singh Shekhawat.
Nothing.
The man spends ninety percent of his time looking mildly irritated by my existence.
The other ten percent is spent being annoyed because I won't stop irritating him.
That's our relationship.
Annoyance. Mutual and consistent. The end.
I lean my forehead against the cool glass. Let's entertain this ridiculous idea for a moment. Let's say I was dating Veeraj. Hypothetically. Let's say we were secretly in love. Let's say we spent our evenings staring into each other's eyes and discussing our feelings or whatever couples do.
So what?
Why is everyone acting like that's impossible?
Because he's rich?
Because he's a prince?
Because . . . I have vitiligo?
The thought leaves something bitter in my mouth. I hate that this is where people's minds immediately go. Not that he wouldn't like me. Not that I wouldn't like him. No. That someone like him couldn't possibly like someone who looks like me.
My fingers tighten around my phone.
I hate that. I hate it because once upon a time . . . I believed it too. When I was younger, I used to stare at mirrors. For hours. Looking at the pale patches spreading across my skin.
Waiting for them to disappear. Praying they would. As if God had simply made a mistake. As if one morning I'd wake up and everything would be normal again.
Children at school weren't cruel because they understood what vitiligo was. They were cruel because children can smell insecurity from miles away.
They pointed. They whispered. They stared. And every stare felt like confirmation.
Different.
Different.
Different.
My mother didn't help. Neither did my father. I still remember being fourteen and overhearing my mother talking to one of her friends.
Such a pretty girl, it's unfortunate about the skin.
Unfortunate. Like I was a damaged painting. Like somebody had spilled something on me. Like I was almost worth looking at.
The memory still hurts. Not as much as it used to. But enough. I close my eyes briefly. Then open them again. Because dwelling on old wounds never helped anyone.
The funny thing is . . . the people who healed those insecurities weren't adults. Adults rarely heal anything. They usually create the damage. Children fixed what they never broke. I smile despite myself.
The first time Raj touched my face, he'd been seven. He traced one of the white patches on my jaw before signing, 'Pretty.'
Just like that. No hesitation. No pity. No awkwardness. Pretty.
The first time Laila saw the patches on my hands she asked if I was secretly magical.
Keshav once informed an entire room that my skin looked like somebody painted moonlight on me.
Lucky spent two weeks telling everyone I had superhero markings.
Rani had simply looked at me and said, 'Good. Now nobody can copy you.'
That was it. Children loving me exactly as I was. Without conditions. Without questions. Without hesitation. Maybe that's why I love them so much.
Because they see me. Adults see flaws.
The car slows. I glance outside and my stomach immediately drops. The Shekhawat Palace rises ahead of us.
Beautiful.
Massive.
Intimidating.
Exactly the sort of place that makes people feel small. I hate places like this. My heart begins beating faster. Not because of the palace. Definitely not because of the palace.
And absolutely not because somewhere inside that palace is a six-foot-something prince who has somehow managed to become the most frustrating person I've ever met.
I don't want to see him. I really don't. Not after that photograph. Not after the whispers. Not after spending all morning trying not to think about how close we'd been standing that night. Or how warm his hand felt on the helmet. Or how his voice sounded when he leaned in.
Or—No. We're not doing that. Absolutely not.
I straighten in my seat. The palace gates grow larger. My pulse gets louder. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
I don't even like him.
He's grumpy. Judgmental. Bossy. He speaks like every word costs money. And somehow manages to make me want to argue with him every single time he opens his mouth.
The car comes to a stop. My father turns around. For the first time during the drive, his full attention lands on me. I immediately know I'm not going to like whatever comes next.
"Listen carefully." His eyes sharp, "You will behave yourself inside."
"I always behave myself." I mutter.
"Don't embarrass us." He snaps, his voice booming in the car, enough to make me flinch. I nod wordlessly. "Let me deal with it, don't you dare utter a word." I nod again.
Don't embarrass us.
Not ‘how are you feeling.’ Not ‘are you okay.’ Not ‘this must be difficult.’ Just don't embarrass us. Same as always.
I shouldn't care. I really shouldn't. I've heard worse. Much worse. Yet something inside me aches anyway. Because no matter how old I get . . . some stupid part of me still wants my parents to act like parents.
My mother finally looks up from her phone. "Fix your hair and don't show that attitude."
I almost laugh. Because that's apparently their biggest concern. Not me. Not the situation. Not my feelings. My personality. Their adopted daughter causing inconvenience is their concern.
Again.
The familiar loneliness settles heavily inside my chest. I've carried it for so long it feels like a second heartbeat.
The driver opens my door. Chilly air rushes inside making me shiver a bit. I take a slow breath before stepping out.
The palace stands before me.
My parents walk ahead without waiting. I watch them go. For a second. Just one second. Then square my shoulders and follow. Because whatever is waiting inside . . . I'm going to face it.
Even if that means facing Veeraj Singh Shekhawat.
And honestly? That might be the most terrifying part of all.