Chapter The dress that didn’t fit
The dress that didn’t fit
SITARA
Getting ready should feel exciting.
It should feel like anticipation humming under my skin, like the soft thrill of stepping into something new, something beautiful, something that belongs to me now.
That’s what these moments are supposed to be about—mirrors and lights and the quiet chaos of choosing earrings, the nervous smile before stepping out beside your husband.
Instead, my chest feels tight.
The room is bright, too bright, the lights bouncing off the mirror in a way that makes it impossible to look anywhere but at myself.
Or maybe I am panicking. The gown hangs from my shoulders like it’s unsure whether it wants to stay.
I tug at the fabric near my waist, then lower, then higher again, my fingers moving on instinct, on habit.
It doesn’t fit. Not the way it did during the trial, which was only a week ago.
I suck in a breath, subtly at first, then a little harder, as if air alone can fix this. The zipper is already up, but the fabric pulls across my stomach, clinging in places I don’t want it to, outlining curves I suddenly wish I could erase.
Behind me, Maya clears her throat. I meet her eyes in the mirror, my cheeks flushing from embarrassment.
She’s standing near the wardrobe, hands folded neatly in front of her, posture perfect as always. Her expression is… tight. Not unkind, exactly. Just controlled. Measured.
“Have you gained weight, Rani-sa?” she asks lightly, lips curving into something that resembles a smile.
The words hit me harder than I expect.
I freeze.
It’s not the question itself. I’ve heard worse. I’ve asked myself worse, in darker moments, in front of harsher mirrors. It’s the way she says it—casual, almost concerned, like it’s an observation, not a judgment.
My throat closes.
“I—” I start, then stop, because suddenly I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. No? Yes? Does it matter?
Before I can gather myself, she continues quickly, waving a hand as if brushing the moment away.
“It’s okay,” she says. “These things happen. You should wear a saree, anyway. The dress won’t really suit your… body shape.”
Body shape.
Not you. Not your style. Not the cut or the color.
Your body shape.
Something inside me goes very quiet.
“Oh.” My voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.
She turns toward the wardrobe, already reaching for silk and chiffon, for something safe, something traditional, something that won’t draw attention. “The saree will look much better. Elegant.”
I swallow hard.
I don’t argue. I don’t ask her to leave. I don’t tell her she’s wrong or cruel or thoughtless. I simply nod and let her help me out of the gown, my movements slow, mechanical, like I’m made of glass and one wrong step will shatter me.
The saree is beautiful. Of course it is. Deep jewel tones, soft fabric, a blouse that fits perfectly because it was stitched with room to spare.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel… small.
Maya doesn’t say a word as she works, adjusting pleats, fixing the pallu, pinning everything into place with practiced efficiency. I barely feel her. My thoughts are loud enough on their own.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the gown really wouldn’t have looked good on me. Maybe this is safer. Maybe this is what I should stick to.
The mirror reflects a version of me that looks composed, regal even. Anyone looking from the outside would see a queen ready for an event, draped in silk, polished and presentable.
No one would see the knot forming in my stomach.
Maya steps back, inspecting her work. “There,” she says. “Much better.”
I nod again.
When she leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her, the silence rushes in, heavy and suffocating. I grip the edge of the dressing table, staring at my reflection.
Why does one sentence undo so much?
I’ve worked so hard to be kind to myself. Therapy taught me to name the voices in my head, to recognize which ones belong to fear and which ones belong to truth. I know my body isn’t the problem. I know PCOD isn’t a failure. I know weight fluctuates, hormones misbehave, life happens.
I know all of this. And yet. The doubt creeps in anyway, slipping into the cracks I thought I’d sealed shut. Memories surface uninvited—changing rooms with harsh lights, relatives comments disguised as concern, the constant feeling of taking up too much space.
I close my eyes, inhale deeply.
You’re okay, Sitara. You’re okay.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Sitara?” Dhruv’s voice.
My heart stutters. “Yes,” I call out, a little too quickly.
He steps inside, already adjusting his cufflinks, mid-motion—then stops. For a split second, he just looks at me. “You look beautiful,” he says simply. The words are so warm, so immediate, it’s like he has been caught unfiltered. Something in my chest twists painfully.
“Dhruv,” I squeak, the sound embarrassing even to my own ears. “Is it okay if I don’t accompany you tonight?”
The words tumble out faster than I intend.
His brows knit together instantly. He steps closer. “What? Why? Are you okay?”
I shake my head, then nod, then shake it again. “I just… I have a headache. It’s nothing serious. I think it would be better if I rested.”
He studies me the way he does when he knows I’m holding something back. “Are you sure?” he asks gently.
“Yes,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “You should go. It’s an important event. I don’t want you to miss it because of me.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Then I’m not going.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“I’ll cancel,” he replies, already reaching for his phone.
“No!” I protest, stepping forward. “Dhruv, you can’t. This matters. You promised—”
“I promised you,” he interrupts, looking up at me. “And right now, you don’t look fine.”
“I am fine,” I insist, even as my voice wobbles.
He lowers his phone slowly. “Sitara.” That’s all he says. My name. There’s no accusation or argument. Just concern.
Something breaks inside me. I press my lips together, nodding, because if I open my mouth again, I will cry, and I don’t want to explain why I’m crying over a dress, over a sentence, over a body I’m still learning how to live in without apology.
“Please,” I whisper. “Go. I’ll feel worse if you don’t.”
He searches my face for a long moment, then exhales. “Alright,” he says quietly. “But only if you promise to rest.”
“I promise.”
He reaches out, hesitates, then cups my cheek gently. “I’ll stay close. If you need me—”
“I know,” I say softly.
He nods once and leaves the room.
The door closes.
I sit down slowly on the edge of the bed, the weight of the saree suddenly heavy on my shoulders. I close my eyes, finally letting the tears fall. They slide down silently, one after another, soaking into the fabric of my blouse.
I feel guilty—for lying, for making him worry, for wanting him to stay and go at the same time. I feel ashamed—for letting one comment undo me. I feel angry—at myself, at Maya, at a world that never seems to stop measuring women by the space they occupy.
I curl in on myself, arms wrapping around my middle.
I don’t hate my body. But tonight, I don’t love it either. And that hurts more than I want to admit.