Page 36 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

She looked my way exactly three times all night.

I know that for a fact because my dumbass eyes barely looked anywhere else. Five seconds here, maybe ten there, but never for long—because how could I look away?

She looked ethereal.

That lehenga—a pale purple with hints of pink shimmer—wrapped around her like moonlight.

The matching choli dipped just low enough to make my pulse spike, and when she moved, her waist would catch the light.

And her abs— God, her abs —taunted every last shred of dignity I was trying to hold onto.

I had to press my palm to my chest at one point because I genuinely thought I was about to drop dead. Literal— not figurative —cardiac pause.

Kiki Aunty had leaned in at some point and whispered the name of her outfit to me.

Lehenga and choli. I saw other younger women wearing something similar, but none of them quite stole the oxygen from the room the way she did.

The aunties were all in their heavy sarees, glittering with embroidery and gold—but Aarohi?

She looked like something carved out of divinity .

And then, like clockwork, came the shattering.

Advik, the chutiya .

With his smug face, his too-perfect hair, and—of course—a goddamn purple sherwani that matched hers. It wasn’t just similar. It was deliberate . Coordinated. Like they’d planned it. Like he had the right.

Fuck . Maybe he did.

His arm was around her waist. His hand brushed her back. And every time he leaned in to whisper something, she laughed. Laughed.

I wanted to bite through my glass.

“Is matching outfits a thing?” I asked Kiki Aunty, trying to sound casual. I didn’t.

She giggled and patted my hand. “No, no, beta . It’s just something this younger generation does.”

She was looking at Ishika and Vikram when she said it. They were also coordinated—gold and cream, traditional and warm. But they were getting married , dammit. They were allowed .

So why the hell was Aarohi matching with him ?

I don’t know what expression I wore the rest of the night, but I do know my chest didn’t stop burning. Not for one second. Every glimpse of them together chipped away at my already brittle sense of belonging.

But then—then she danced .

And everything inside me went quiet.

She moved like the music was coded into her bones. Like rhythm was an inheritance. Hair swirling around her face, laughter spilling out without self-consciousness, feet stamping to the beat with a joy I hadn’t seen in months. Maybe ever.

She was so beautiful it hurt.

Not in the poetic sense. In the literal, punch-in-the-gut, breath-snatched-away way.

I stopped drinking my iced tea. I stopped blinking. I didn’t even realize Kiki Aunty had said something to me until she waved her hand in front of my face.

She danced like she’d choreographed it in her sleep. Like she’d been born in the exact bar of that exact beat.

And when the second song came on, she owned it. Every flick of her wrist, every roll of her hip, every spin of her lehenga was devastatingly hypnotic.

And the best—maybe worst part?

She didn’t even know she was doing it. She wasn’t performing for anyone. She was just... being .

My chest ached. My hands shook. I don’t know how I didn’t fall to my knees with the sheer reverence clawing up my throat.

Because it wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t just guilt or yearning or jealousy.

It was awe .

She is—was—will always be the most painfully, luminously human person I’ve ever known.

And I threw her away. Like an idiot. Like a goddamn coward.

She looked at me one more time—briefly. Right in the middle of the second chorus. Our eyes met, and I swear to God, she almost faltered . Her lips twitched. But then she swiftly resumed her grace.

And I... I just stood there.

Like a ghost at his own funeral.

The rest of the night was a blur.

A blur of music I didn’t know, songs I couldn’t sing, and so much shouting that I was sure I’d lost 20% of my hearing permanently.

But God , it was... alive. The energy pulsed through the courtyard like a current.

Laughter and movement everywhere, like the whole place had been set to a different, faster rhythm than the rest of the world.

Every five minutes or so, either Kiki Aunty or Mina Aunty—Ishika’s mom—would stroll up to me mid-chaos and slip an envelope into my hands without a word.

Just a subtle nod, like I was a human safe deposit box.

Thankfully, the sherwani I was wearing had deep inner pockets.

I kept tucking them away, trying not to look confused.

It wasn’t until Kashvi wandered by—sweaty and annoyed—that I asked what was in them.

“Oh,” she said, deadpan. “Cash.”

“What?”

“ Shagan ,” she explained. “It’s like a token of blessing. Guests give money to the bride and groom’s families. Envelopes instead of gifts. Sometimes gold. In this case—definitely cash.”

“And they’re giving it to me?”

“Well, the aunties don’t have purses, so...” She gave me a once-over. “Congratulations. You’re the designated vault.”

I blinked. I had— conservatively —several thousand dollars stuffed into my fucking jacket. Well... rupees.

Great . Just casually laundering a small fortune.

When the DJ kicked things into overdrive—some mix of EDM and bhangra—I migrated to the sidelines.

I was enjoying the chaos from a distance.

Watching Aarohi dance again, though this time she was surrounded by a horde of laughing cousins, some doing the worm, others twirling and something that looked suspiciously like a snake dance.

And then, out of nowhere, Navya .

The same girl from the other night, with more eyeliner and less sense.

She marched over and grabbed my wrist before I could object, yanking me onto the dance floor like I’d just been summoned to trial.

“You’re not allowed to stand still tonight!” she yelled over the music. “Move!”

I complied for maybe— maybe —thirty seconds. Did the white-guy two-step. Moved my arms a little. She tried to show me something that involved a hip thrust and I promptly gave up. I waved her off politely and began scanning for my out.

And there she was— Kiki Aunty .

Like a beacon of my salvation in a glittery maroon saree.

I immediately made a beeline for her, grabbing both her hands like we were in a Bollywood musical and spinning her dramatically. She laughed so hard I thought she might drop one of the bangles she was trying to hold onto.

She danced with me, giggling, patting my cheeks like I was her second child. Then Raj Uncle cut in, all swagger and elbow bends, and I bowed out gracefully.

I retreated again, breathless, to the corner of the dance floor—grinning like an idiot.

But my eyes?

They never stopped searching for her .

The night has gone completely still now.

The courtyard, which just hours ago throbbed with sound and light, now lies in eerie silence. A few stray workers shuffle across the cobblestones, gathering plastic cups and stray streamers, murmuring softly in Hindi. Even the fairy lights above seem dimmer.

I had changed a while ago—traded the borrowed sherwani for my old t-shirt and shorts.

The teal outfit now folded back into the paper bag it came in, though it barely fit inside.

I didn’t know if they had a dry cleaning service here, but Vikram had told me to return it as-is and not worry.

The cash-filled envelopes had been returned to Mina Aunty.

The only thing I was worried about... was her .

Aarohi wasn’t in the bride’s mansion. I checked every corner I could without looking like a psychopath . Her crew—Kashvi, Ishika, and a few others—were lounging in the main hall with Vikram, nursing half-eaten cold kebabs and sweating through their clothes as they laughed. But not her.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who else was missing.

My pulse stuttered. Shit.

Still, I told myself it was fine. That I was only heading to the groom’s mansion to return the sherwani to whoever was still awake. I was carrying another small bag too—something Aarohi might need.

One of the older uncles—I’m guessing Vikram and Advik’s father—was sipping a drink in the corridor. He looked at the bag in my hand and pointed me in the direction of Vikram’s room.

“You can drop the bag there,” he said casually.

One floor up and I reach his door. I’m maybe five steps away when it opens.

And that’s when my heartbeat stops.

Not slows.

Not skips.

Stops.

Because Aarohi steps out.

Hair tangled. Skin flushed. Lips bare, stained wine-red and slightly puffy like someone had kissed the breath out of her.

Her choli is fastened slightly off-center, the strap resting crookedly on her shoulder like it had been tied in a rush.

She’s still limping—has been for hours from the heels and dancing. But this limp ? This one is different.

This one is killing me. Cauterizing the useless remains of my now-dead, non-beating organ.

Because now it’s not just a theory. Not a fear. It’s not a what-if.

It’s real.

I’ve lost her.

And not in the dramatic, “oh she’s slipping away from me” kind of way. No. I mean in the brutal, final kind of way. In the “she let someone else touch the parts of her I only have the right to dream about” kind of way. The kind of loss that doesn’t leave behind pain—it leaves void.

Advik walks out behind her.

Hair ruffled. His smile lazy. His hand almost grazes her waist like it belongs there.

They haven’t seen me yet.

But they will. Any second now.

And I—

God , I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.

Because my eyes are telling me the truth. But my soul— my soul is still bargaining. Denying. Screaming in a thousand silent ways that this didn’t happen, that I’m misreading this.

But I’m not .

I see it in every exhausted frizz of her hair that’s been tugged and fisted . In every kiss-shaped smudge on her shoulder. In the way she bites her lip like it still holds the echo of someone else’s mouth.

It’s too much. Too fast.

Too... final .

And the second she lifts her eyes and sees me standing there—

Holding two paper bags like an idiot.

I shatter.

Right there in that hallway. In silence. Without theatrics. Without sound.

Just... gone .

And for the first time in my entire life, I understand what it means to want to erase a moment from existence. Not rewind it. Not change it. Just—obliterate it. And I have never felt like this. Never .

But I can’t change this.

Because it’s real.

And I’m still standing here.

Holding everything— being everything —she’s trying to forget.

The second she sees me— really sees me —something flickers in her expression. Surprise. Guilt. Maybe regret. But I can’t hold her gaze long enough to read it. My own drops before I even register the shift in her stance.

I walk the remaining few steps toward them.

I don’t speak until I’m right in front of Advik.

My throat feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, but I force the words out. They come low. Clipped. Mechanical.

“The sherwani .”

I extend the paper bag.

Advik takes it after a second’s pause. His fingers brush mine, but I pretend they don’t. I don’t look at his face. I can’t. Not when I know exactly what it probably looks like—satisfied. Triumphant. Like I’ve been defeated .

Again.

I reach into my other hand. The smaller bag. Aarohi’s.

Still without looking up, I hold it out.

She hesitates. For a moment I think she won’t take it.

But then she does.

No words pass between us. Not a thank you. Not even a fucking nod.

Just... silence.

And I want to scream . To ask her why. Or when. Or how she could. All the unreasonable questions.

But I can’t even lift my goddamn head.

So I turn around.

My steps feel too loud in the empty hallway.

And behind me, they’re still there. Together.

I don’t look back.

I can’t look back.

Because I’m seconds away from breaking. And this time, I don’t want to be seen. I don’t want anyone to witness the moment I come undone.

So I walk.

Faster.

Out of the hallway. Out of that goddamn mansion. Out of her orbit.

And into the silence.

Where I can finally fall apart in peace.