The first to get up was Rahat. Not because he wanted to, but because his bladder had been screaming since dawn. He peeled himself off the bed as carefully as he could, like a guilty thief escaping a dream. Roshni was still curled in a ball, arms tucked beneath her head, her messy hair covering half her face like a wild curtain. He stood there a moment, just watching. She looked... unreal. Not angelic — just real in the most heart-wrenching way. His wife. That word still didn’t sit properly in his chest.

He scratched the back of his head, yawned, and stumbled to the bathroom, stepping around a scattered slipper and the broken handle of his old cupboard. The bathroom light buzzed with that annoying half-dead glow. He opened the rust-stained tap, splashed some water on his face, and grabbed his brush.

Just as he started scrubbing, the door creaked.

“Rahat?” A sleepy, slightly hoarse voice. Roshni peeked her head in, only half-awake, blinking like a cat thrown into daylight.

“Oh—uh, done in a second,” he mumbled, foam dribbling down his chin.

She waited.

He wiped his face and stepped aside, and Roshni squeezed in. The washroom was small enough for two people to fight over air. She looked around — crumbling tiles, a cracked mirror, one toothbrush — blue and crooked from years of use.

She frowned.

Then whispered, “I... I forgot to bring mine.”

Rahat just blinked.

An awkward silence floated between them like a stale towel.

Then, pretending like it didn’t matter, she picked up his brush. “Don’t judge. We’re married now, right?” She smirked, but her cheeks turned a soft pink.

He chuckled nervously and scratched his temple, looking away.

She brushed quietly, trying not to gag at the bristle texture. He stood behind her, stealing glances through the mirror. The bathroom was too small for decency, but the way her lips puckered while brushing, the way she winced at the broken tap like it had personally offended her — it felt absurdly domestic. And kind of... lovely.

She washed her face last and wiped it with the edge of her own shawl. “This mirror,” she said, tapping the cracked glass, “makes me look like I’ve got two noses.”

“Sorry,” he said, like it was his fault she woke up in this cheap world.

But she just smiled. “Don’t be.”

They had barely stepped into the main room again when a sharp knock rattled the door.

Thuk. Thuk. Thuk.

Rahat stiffened. Roshni stood mid-hair-tie, hands frozen in her bun.

The knock came again — not the curious knock of a friend. It was official. Suspicious. The kind of knock you hear in small neighborhoods where everyone knows when someone skips lunch.

Rahat opened the door a crack, only to find Mrs. Mahjabeen, the landlady, standing with a shawl over her shoulder and a steel mug of puffed rice in hand.

Her brows furrowed. “Eh, Rahat? You’ve got guests? I heard some noises, so I thought...”

“Oh! Uh... no, I mean... yes,” he stammered. “I mean, I do. She’s—uh... she’s—”

Before he could implode under the weight of his own anxiety, Roshni appeared at his side. She had changed into a simple cotton kurti, her hair tied in a loose ponytail, cheeks still flushed from the washroom embarrassment.

She stepped forward, her voice just barely shaking.

“I’m his wife, Apa.”

Mahjabeen Apa blinked once. Twice. The steel mug in her hand rattled a little.

“Oh,” she finally said, her voice carrying more surprise than judgment. “Wife, eh?”

Roshni nodded, hands clutching the sides of her kurti, knuckles white. “We got married. Properly. Yesterday. With papers and all.”

Mahjabeen looked at Rahat, who looked like he was about to faint.

She snorted lightly. “Well... what a thing to hear on a Friday morning.”

Then her voice softened just slightly. “You could’ve told me earlier, you know. I wouldn’t throw you both out. As long as you don’t bring drama here.”

“No drama, Apa,” Rahat muttered, eyes down.

“I know,” she sighed. “You’re a quiet one. Wasn’t expecting a bride, though. Hm. Anyway... let me know if you need anything.

And just like that, she turned and left.

Rahat closed the door slowly, hand still on the handle.

Silence.

Then Roshni chuckled — just once.

“You did well” he admitted. I was chickening out there. huh!

She walked over, bumped his shoulder with hers. “Don’t worry. You’re learning.”

They stood there for a second, not kissing, not hugging — just being. The morning was still young. Their marriage even younger. But in that shared silence, surrounded by cracked walls, mismatched plates, and that same old toothbrush, something settled in.

They were going to try.