The Butterfly in the Red Saree

The next morning, Minya stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at her reflection as sunlight spilled through the curtains.

The red saree Kevin had chosen the night before clung to her figure like it was made for her—flowing silk, delicate gold borders, and tiny mirror-work that caught every ray of light. Her thick, dark hair was tied in a low braid, messy strands curling around her face, while a small bindi on her forehead added that old-school elegance she hadn't worn in years.

She didn't know whether she looked like a bride or a butterfly that had accidentally landed in a house full of chaos.

"Still thinking about changing?" Kevin's voice slid in like velvet from the doorway. "Because if you do, I'll sue you for breaking hearts."

Minya turned sharply. "What are you doing here? Can't you knock?"

He leaned against the doorframe in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, that maddening smirk playing on his lips. "It's my room too."

"Unfortunately."

He stepped in, slow and casual. "You look good."

"I didn't dress for your compliments."

"Of course not," he nodded, pretending to admire the mirror. "But if destruction was an outfit, it would be that saree."

Her cheeks flushed, and she immediately turned to fix her bangles.

Kevin walked past her, spraying cologne while pretending he wasn't watching her every move in the reflection. He saw her struggling to pin the pallu over her shoulder and, without thinking, stepped behind her.

"Here," he said softly, brushing her hands aside. "Let me."

Minya froze.

His fingers didn't touch her skin—just the fabric, soft and respectful—but his nearness burned. He adjusted the drape over her shoulder with gentle precision, like he'd done it a hundred times in a past life.

When she finally dared to look up, their eyes met in the mirror.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too dangerous.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Kevin stepped back like nothing happened, casually fixing his cuff. "Well, if I'm the reason the relatives think you're the prettiest one today, you're welcome."

Minya grabbed her purse, cheeks still warm. "Get over yourself."

The living room was bursting with laughter, sandalwood incense, and too many aunties asking too many questions.

Minya handled it with grace, pouring tea, adjusting pillows, and politely smiling as Kevin's aunt described a rishta proposal from five years ago—totally unaware that Kevin had just walked in behind her and heard the entire conversation.

"She rejected the boy without even seeing him! Such arrogance at such a young age!"

Kevin chuckled. "She's still got that talent."

Minya turned. "Kevin!"

"What?" he shrugged. "You did."

The aunt giggled. "But now you're married to him, aren't you?"

Minya's lips twitched. "I guess fate works in mysterious ways."

Kevin smirked. "Or maybe I'm just persistent."

One of the younger cousins interrupted. "You guys should totally play couple games!"

Minya blinked. "Couple... games?"

Kevin's mom nodded cheerfully. "Why not? Let's see how well they know each other."

And that's how Kevin and Minya found themselves sitting cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by giggling relatives and judgmental eyes.

Kevin held up a whiteboard with the word "Blue."

Minya revealed her card. "Sky Blue."

Everyone cheered.

"Favorite food?" asked an aunt.

Minya quickly scribbled "Pasta."

Kevin flipped his card. "Minya's homemade pasta."

More clapping. Minya narrowed her eyes.

"Biggest fear?" someone asked.

Minya hesitated. Kevin didn't.

She slowly flipped her card: "Losing the people I love."

Kevin's card said, "Loneliness."

They looked at each other, their laughter stilled.

The aunts cooed, unaware of the silence that settled between them.

Later that evening, Kevin stood on the balcony, nursing a soda, while Minya watered the plants beside him.

"I didn't know you still liked the color blue," he said, watching her.

"I never stopped," she replied. "You just stopped noticing."

He turned to her. "That's not fair."

She didn't answer. Just adjusted the soil of a potted plant.

Kevin leaned closer. "But I noticed tonight. You're still the girl who buys plants she can't name, burns toast every other day, and talks in her sleep."

She looked up, startled. "I don't do that anymore."

"You said, 'Kevin, you idiot,' at 3 a.m. last night," he said, grinning.

Minya gasped. "I did not!"

"You did," he teased. "And then you smiled. It was kind of cute."

She looked away quickly. "You're making things up."

"Maybe. But I missed this."

Minya froze. "This what?"

He shrugged. "You. Me. This arguing, teasing, fighting, not fighting… It used to be my favorite thing."

Her heart skipped. Then steadied. "Then why did you destroy it so easily?"

His smile vanished.

"I..." Kevin began, but a loud voice from inside interrupted.

"Aaah, lovebirds! We're taking group photos!"

Minya stepped away, saving them both.

Kevin stayed back, fingers curling around the balcony railing, wishing he could rewind time—just once.

That night, she came out of the bathroom in a baggy T-shirt and pajama pants, a towel around her neck, her face glowing from her skincare routine. Kevin was already in bed, shirtless and scrolling through something on his phone.

He didn't look up, but he knew she was there. He always knew.

She slipped into bed carefully, keeping a full foot of distance between them like always. Kevin sighed dramatically.

"You know, if someone walks in right now, they'll think we had a huge fight."

Minya rolled her eyes. "We probably did. I just don't remember it."

He turned to face her. "What if we pretended to actually like each other?"

She blinked. "Why?"

"For the visitors."

She narrowed her eyes. "Or for your amusement?"

He chuckled. "Both."

Minya turned her back to him. "Goodnight, Kevin."

A pause.

"You know you talk in your sleep, right?"

"Go to hell."

"Already there, sweetheart."

But that night, neither of them slept easily.

Kevin kept turning to look at her in the dark.

Minya kept pretending not to care.

And somewhere between the silence, the sarcasm, and the space between them—something shifted.

A single thought they were both afraid to speak:

What if this isn't just pretend anymore?