Drowning Love

chapter 1

Pihu's POV

"Love feels like sipping hot chocolate on a cold day... warm, comforting, and sweet.
But sometimes, it spills — and burns you in ways you never expected."

I'd just returned from my grandfather's house — the OG rebel of our family. He lives alone in a tiny countryside village, in a house wrapped in old memories and older paint. We've begged him to move in with us a hundred times.

But does he listen?

Of course not.

"Yahan ke mitti se mohabbat hai mujhe." (I love the soil of this place.)

Translation: I'm not leaving my dead plants, creaky bed, and the memories of my late wife for your modern AC.

We stopped arguing long ago. Dad tried. He failed. The end.

⸻

I had barely unpacked when Tanvi, my human version of a double-shot espresso, barged into my room like a confetti cannon.

"PIHUUUU!" she shrieked, practically tackling me into a hug.

"I missed you!" she beamed, eyes sparkling like she was auditioning for a toothpaste ad.

I laughed, hugging her back. "Missed you too, drama queen."

She pulled back and blurted out, "GUESS WHAT? I got the job! Surat, baby! I'm shifting next Saturday!"

"WHAT?!" I squealed, jumping up. "That's amazing! OMG Tanvi!! Proud of you!" I squeezed her tighter.

We had our moment of girlie joy, complete with squeals and imaginary confetti.

Then she asked, "What about your interview?"

Boom. Reality check.

"I... didn't make it," I mumbled, avoiding her eyes.

Tanvi's smile softened. "That's okay. You'll get it next time, idiot. You're allowed to fail, you know. You're not a robot."

I smiled weakly. That's why she was my best friend. Kind. Unfiltered. Loyal since we were six and used to fight over who gets the bigger half of a chocolate bar.

She stayed a while, we talked about everything and nothing, and then she left — like she always does — leaving my room warmer than she found it.

⸻

I wandered to the living room for some aimless TV scrolling but spotted Mom and Dad deep in serious discussion.

I turned to tiptoe out.

"Pihu, baitho yahan." Dad's voice stopped me mid-escape.

That tone. That authority. No arguing with Mr. Army-General-Vibe Dad.

I sat.

Without a sliver of buildup or warning, he dropped the bomb.

"Tumhara rishta fix kar diya hai. Kal ladke wale aa rahe hain."
(We've fixed your marriage. The boy's family is coming tomorrow.)

Excuse me. What?

I blinked. Then blinked again. Was I in a bad soap opera dream sequence?

My eyes shot to Mom for rescue, but she looked like a prisoner who'd accepted her fate. A small sad smile — the universal Indian mom code for "I'm sorry but I can't help you, beta."

I gulped. "Um... kya main kuch saal baad shadi kar sakti hoon? Abhi itni jaldi kyun?"

(Can I marry after a few years? What's the rush?)

My voice trembled, but hey — I said it. Baby steps.

Dad squinted like I'd just asked to marry a cartoon character.
"Nahi. Ladka acha hai. Deri nahi karenge."
(No. He's a good boy. We won't delay.)

Mic drop.

I silently left the room, dignity dragging behind me.

⸻

As soon as I reached my room, I collapsed on the bed and cried like my Spotify playlist just betrayed me with ads during an emotional moment.

Mom followed. Held me. Let me cry.

"Chup hoja meri bachi." (Don't cry, my child.)

"Maa, please. Papa se baat kijiye na. Mujhe abhi shadi nahi karni."
(Mom, please talk to Dad. I don't want to get married yet.)

She stroked my hair, eyes full of helpless love.

"You know your father. I can't change his mind."

And that was it.

⸻

After she left, I opened the one place where I could speak freely — my journal.

My safe space. My therapy. My free therapist.

I poured my heart onto the pages. Scribbled every fear, every tear, every silent scream.

And by mistake, I landed on that page.

The one about my old crush.

The boy who never knew I liked him.
Correction: His sister told him.

He never said anything. We never spoke again.
Silence answered louder than words.

I smiled bitterly at the memory. Then closed the journal.

As sleep pulled me in, I whispered to myself,
"Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up, and this will all be a dream."

Spoiler: It wasn't.

"Dear diary,
I said I wanted a job.
Life gave me a husband.
Sincerely,
Not Ready."

***
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