In an Indian family, you learn quick that love means making yourself a little smaller so everyone else fits easy, like parents dumping their worries on you or cousins calling only when their stuff falls apart. At a family get-together, chachi says something pointed about you still being single, it stings bad, but you laugh it off quiet because speaking up stops all the talk and everyone stares at you like you started trouble. That college cousin goes missing for months, then calls to vent about their startup mess without asking how your job’s crushing you, so you carry that extra weight and your neck gets all tight.
Romance sneaks it in softer, over evening chai when you tell them the real hurt inside, words coming out messy and true, hoping they share their own tough bits back. They nod, talk turns to cricket or family stuff, and you watch the steam go away from your cup, thinking maybe asking for that real talk makes you too much for someone who keeps feelings shut tight. We look for that perfect match everyone talks about, but end up with two people going around each other—one spilling everything open, the other locked up—and your stomach still knots from the sign you keep ignoring.
Family makes it stick hardest because duty keeps you there, like on those nights Mummy brags about what you’ve done, not seeing you juggle her stress and Papa’s quiet moods just to keep things calm. You smile right, step out to the balcony for night air with far-off temple sounds that let you breathe for real. At weddings, aunties chat non-stop till you say life’s feeling heavy, talk dies quick, and that alone feeling hangs thick.
One day you just say it straight, voice tired and thin like old cloth, that you’ve worn down your own self to hold it all up. Standing open when others stay closed feels so raw, and that sorry for wanting space almost slips out, weird like blaming rain for coming down. Nobody’s bad here—we all got ways from when we were kids to get by, one pulling in to hide the soft parts, the other reaching for the little closeness we got back then.
It evens out quiet, like finishing a bill, starting shaky when you brush off mausi’s questions with “all good, more chai” to skip deeper. You text the cousin chats need to go both ways, no one dumping alone, doubt pulls a bit but your chest feels looser for good breaths. Boundaries start rough like new shoes that rub, but get comfy like old ones that fit your real shape, not changing for theirs.
The hurt comes in waves at weddings dancing alone, family trips where everyone’s with someone, or balconies under stars with empty spot next to you, but mixes in this soft steady pride like ink drying on skin. You stop trying for a spot in their half-done story, draw your own with the turns and air it needs, where all of you fits full—not a bet, but the whole picture done right.
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