Amyra tried.
Not just in the way most new brides are expected to try—but with her whole being.
She walked into Anshu’s family home like a guest hoping to earn her stay.
She learned how to drape her saree the way his mother liked.
She memorized prayer timings, grocery lists, and the family tree down to third cousins she had never met.
She adjusted to rituals she didn’t understand and smiled through conversations where her silence was safer than participation.
At first, she believed it was just the beginning.
That new homes take time. That Anshu, though distant, would eventually make space for her in his world.
That once she proved herself, she'd be seen—not just as a daughter-in-law, but as Amyra.
But the days turned into months, and the months into years. And slowly, without even realizing it, she started disappearing.
Not physically. She was always there. Waking before the others. Preparing breakfast.
Making polite conversation with relatives. Playing the role so well that no one noticed the performance was hollow.
But emotionally, she was vanishing.
She laughed at jokes she didn’t find funny, sat through hours of television she didn’t like, celebrated festivals with the right amount of joy, even when her heart felt numb.
She convinced herself that this was just what marriage looked like—especially the kind you don’t get to build, but are expected to maintain.
Anshu never shouted. He never dismissed her harshly. He just… didn’t notice.
He didn’t notice when she stopped reading her favorite books.
When her kurtas faded but she didn’t ask for new ones. When she stopped calling her friends back.
When her eyes dulled, like a curtain slowly being drawn on a window no one looked through anymore.
She gave. All of it. Her time, her care, her presence. But what she longed for was never returned.
Not the companionship she had hoped for.
Not the emotional security she needed.
Not even the feeling of being truly known.
Amyra was not a wife. She was a placeholder—someone who made sure the machinery of the household ran smoothly, who filled the expected roles in ceremonies and photos, who never asked for too much, lest she be told she was ungrateful.
Her hopes became quieter. First she stopped expecting love. Then, conversation. Then, even acknowledgment.
She stopped dreaming, not out of bitterness—but because she was too tired.
And with each unmet need, each word she swallowed, each moment she longed to be held and wasn’t—a part of her dimmed.
Quietly. Softly. Like a lamp that flickers when no one is watching.
No one switched it off.
No one noticed it fading.
But it did.
And Amyra—who once entered the home with curiosity in her eyes and hope in her chest—was no longer fully there.
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