The Marriage That Came Later Episode 2: Anshu's Invisible Strings

Anshu had always been the dependable one.

The quiet boy who never talked back. The son who came home straight from school, the teenager who ran errands without a sigh, the young man who never questioned when his dreams were gently replaced with responsibilities.

After his father passed, the expectations solidified into something unspoken but heavy. 

His mother, broken by grief yet anchored by tradition, clung to him—not just as a son, but as her emotional world.

He learned early that love, in their home, was expressed through service. 

That the good son sacrificed. That discomfort was a small price to pay for family peace. 

That asking for something—be it solitude, time, or emotional space—was selfish.

So when Amyra entered the picture, Anshu didn’t see her as a new beginning. 

He saw her as an extension of his duties. Another plate on the dinner table, another person to keep from disappointment. 

He didn’t mean to distance her. But love, for him, had always been transactional: give more, ask for less.

He believed he was being good. And in many ways, he was.

He made sure the gas cylinder was always full. He took care of Amyra’s health insurance. 

He remembered her parents’ birthdays. He was never cruel, never loud, never dismissive. But he was also never emotionally there.

He didn’t ask her how her day had really been. He didn’t notice when she stayed in the kitchen longer than needed just to be alone. 

He didn’t see her loneliness—not because he didn’t care, but because he had never been taught to look for it.

He was tethered—emotionally and psychologically—to his mother’s moods. 

If she was unwell, Anshu’s world paused. If she was angry, he treaded carefully. 

Amyra began to recognize it—the subtle shifts in his energy, how his conversations became colder if his mother had a bad day. 

How he’d flinch if she asked for something when his mother was in the next room.

He loved his mother deeply. But it wasn’t just love. It was entanglement. 

His identity was so wrapped in hers that he didn’t realize he had lost parts of himself—let alone that Amyra was waiting for a version of him she never got.

He thought silence was peace. That sharing a room meant sharing a life. That if the bills were paid, if no one fought, then everything was fine.

But Amyra knew the difference.

She knew the ache of emotional absence. The way it seeps into daily life—not through arguments, but through conversations that never happen. 

Affection that never lands. Eyes that look at you but don’t really see.

And yet, Anshu believed he was doing enough. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong.

But kindness, when detached from presence, can still leave someone feeling deeply alone.

He was in the room.

But he had never truly arrived.