The world outside the hospital walls felt surreal. The sun was too bright, the sounds of the city too loud. I was a ghost returning to the land of the living, but I felt more dead than alive. Rohan’s ultimatum echoed in my head with every step I took, a cold, metallic ring that drowned out all other thought.

You will stay away from him. You will marry me. You will be a sister to him. Nothing more.

My parents were waiting at home, their faces etched with concern they’d gathered from my frantic, vague texts about a student emergency.

“Beta, what happened? You had us so worried!” my mother exclaimed, pulling me into a hug the moment I walked through the door.

I let her hold me, my body stiff and unresponsive. “A student,” I mumbled into her shoulder, the lie ash in my mouth. “A bad accident. I had to go to the hospital.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” she crooned, mistaking my shock for compassion. “To care so much for your students! But you look exhausted. Come, I’ll make you some chai.”

She bustled off to the kitchen. My father placed a gentle hand on my arm. “Is the student going to be alright?”

The question unleashed a fresh torrent of pain. I saw Vivaan’s still form, the beeping monitors, the doctor’s grim face. “They don’t know yet,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

He patted my arm. “You did your duty, beta. Now you must rest. You have your own life to think about. The wedding plans are waiting!”

Your own life. The words were a mockery. I didn’t have a life anymore. I had a role to play.

The next few days were a masterclass in psychological torture. I was trapped in a gilded cage of wedding preparations, every detail a sharp reminder of the future I was now condemned to.

Mrs. Raichand’s calls came multiple times a day, her voice bright with a forced cheerfulness that didn’t quite mask her underlying anxiety.

“Ananya, beta! The card samples have arrived! Gold foil or silver embossing?” “The caterer needs a final count for the tasting.Can you and Rohan come next week?” “I’ve booked the mehndi artist!She’s the best in Mumbai, very traditional designs!”

Each question was a bullet. I answered in a monotone. “Whatever you think is best, Aunty.” “Yes, Aunty.” “That sounds lovely, Aunty.”

I was a puppet, and she was pulling the strings, weaving the tapestry of my wedding while her younger son fought for his life in a hospital bed. The dissonance was dizzying.

Rohan was my warden. He called every evening. His tone was pleasant, loving even, but there was a new undercurrent—a watchful, vigilant coolness. He was monitoring me.

“How was your day, my love?” “Fine.Did some grading.” “Thinking of you.Only two months to go now.” “Yes.”

The conversations were barren. He never mentioned Vivaan. It was as if his brother had ceased to exist. The Great Erasure had begun. I was expected to participate in it.

The silence from the hospital was deafening. My every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of him. Was he awake? Was he in pain? What had the doctors said? I was starving for information, but I was too terrified to seek it out. Aryan’s number burned a hole in my memory, but texting him would be a betrayal of Rohan’s command, a risk I couldn’t take.

I became a secret addict of social media. I scoured the accounts of Vivaan’s friends, looking for any crumb of information. I found a few vague posts—“Praying for you, bro,” “Stay strong, warrior”—but nothing concrete. It was agony.

The only time the facade almost cracked was during a visit to the Raichand house to discuss floral arrangements. I sat in the same living room where Vivaan had first seen me in a saree, where he had played footsie with me under the table. His absence was a physical presence, a ghost in the room.

Mrs. Raichand’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen, and her face immediately softened with worry. “It’s the hospital,” she murmured before answering. “Yes, Doctor?… He did?… Oh, thank God!… Still groggy, of course… Yes, we’ll be there soon.”

She hung up, tears of relief in her eyes. “He’s awake,” she announced, her voice trembling. “He’s awake and asking for water.”

The world stopped. He was awake. The relief was so profound it felt like a physical blow. My hand, holding a fabric swatch, began to shake uncontrollably.

Rohan, who was sitting next to me on the sofa, noticed. He placed his hand firmly over mine, stilling the tremor. His touch was not comforting; it was a warning. He squeezed my hand, hard enough to hurt.

“That’s wonderful news, Ma,” he said, his voice perfectly calm. He turned to me, his eyes locking onto mine, silently reiterating his command. Nothing more. You will feel nothing more.

I forced a smile, my lips stretching over my teeth. “That’s… that’s great, Aunty.”

Mrs. Raichand was too elated to notice the deadly exchange between her son and her future daughter-in-law. “I must go to him! Rohan, come!”

“Of course,” Rohan said, standing up. He pulled me up with him, his grip on my hand vice-like. “Ananya was just leaving. Weren’t you, darling? You have those papers to grade.”

I nodded numbly. “Yes.”

He walked me to the door, his arm around my shoulders in a parody of affection. Once we were out of earshot, he leaned close, his voice a cold whisper in my ear.

“See? He’s fine. He doesn’t need you. Remember your place.”

He released me, gave me a warm, public smile, and then turned and walked back to his mother, the perfect, concerned elder son.

I stood alone on their grand doorstep, the door closing softly behind me, shutting me out of their crisis, their family, their truth. I was on the outside, forever looking in, trapped in the beautiful, lonely confines of the gilded cage Rohan had built for me. Vivaan was awake, but I was the one who had been put into a coma—a coma of the heart, where I was forced to sleepwalk through a life that was no longer my own.