Sunaina and Rajeev were lifelessly playing the parts entrusted to them by Shikha, who wanted them to act along as if they are happy with the wedding. It broke them from within, but they could not break a promise they had given to Shikha, especially when they knew their actions could reduce the extent of her pain, at least by a fraction. At least, Vikram Singhal would not find a reason to torment her, and that reason would suffice.

Singhals were true to their rituals. Sunaina had opened the door, early in the morning, to seven people carrying seven different dry fruits for them as a part of the ritual. Only if they could buy the happiness of her sister, but alas, they could just erase hunger and not sorrow.

Later in the day, Shikha got ready, bereft of any enthusiasm and soul, for the engagement. Much to their misfortune, the priest found a date for the marriage in a week. Unlike every bride who would be over the moon to get a new name for her relationship with her partner, Shikha stood emotionless.

He had killed her emotions. Destroyed her soul. She stared at the broken mirror of their restroom to see herself. She looked exquisite, just like her sister had said, but broken.

Who said that whatever the mirror said was not true? At least, it was true in her case. The girl who wore nothing but vibrant colors throughout the spectrum had now chosen the simplest of colors, the color which now expressed her situation - white.

White.

The colour which was formed when the seven colors of spectrum blend seamlessly. Just as every emotion of hers turned monotonous and colorless.

The color which was most reflective. Just like every happiness of hers seemed to reflect away from her.

For the first time in her life, she was appreciating the beauty of the pristine white, and she knew it would not be the last time, now that she found her allegiance in it.

Shikha moved back into her own room as she glanced at her wristwatch, knowing that the time of his arrival was approaching close. The nonchalance in her stance was something which she herself found wondering about.

She sat down on her bed, waiting for her sister to escort her when they arrive. She was not eager to meet him, neither was she anxious. She felt nothing. Nothing at all.

The door creaked open to reveal Vikram Singhal as she heard her sister's voice trying to stop him. Maybe he wanted to speak to her. She wondered if she could confer with him with that favor. Yet another.

Something in him broke to see her in a situation as vulnerable as she was. Dark circles had scarred beneath her doe-like eyes, and the eyes which once sparkled with innocent joy were now nothing but lifeless dark holes from which he had sucked every kind of happiness.

"Shikha..."

How ironic did her name feel to him suddenly? Her name was Shikha. Shikha. Spark. Fire. And it appeared as though the spark of life had abandoned her. Metallic taste swept through his taste buds as he bit his tongue in sheer frustration for himself.

She was not rebelling against him. She was just accepting it. All of it. With no question. Something in him broke when he saw the lifelessly moving corpse in front of him against the lively image which was etched in his heart. She was in front of him as he wanted. But she was not the Shikha he had fallen for. She was someone else.

Someone who was not Shikha and someone lacked Shikha, the fire.

"Are you okay, Shikha?"

She shot him an incredulous look, but there was no anger, no hatred, which he suddenly wanted to feel. He was ready to accept even her hatred if it meant she would show some sign of life. It hurt him to see her in one piece, yet too broken.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

What had he done to the lady in front of him, who made his heart feel something long forgotten?

"I think we should go out. I mean, Sunaina was coming to call you for the rituals when I offered to call you myself."

She gave him a blank look, the meaning of which was beyond Vikram's comprehension.

He would ask her if she was fine, but he would not stop the engagement from taking place. Such an irony it was. He posed a question which is a symbol of concern when he actually did not care.

How was he ever going to get back to his old Shikha?

Shikha quietly began walking while Vikram followed her with a somber expression and regret pooling in his eyes as they trailed her reverently. Sunaina, who was feigning joy, in front of Nikita jumped to her feet with agonized features to guide Shikha into her designated seat.

Nikita teased Vikram and Shikha, but both of them had immersed themselves deep in thought, though in two completely different things, to notice it. Fulfilling the rituals, Nikita draped a red veil on her head just as the pain she was enduring had blocked her mind up, and it served as a cover to her inner tumultuous storm which was reflected in her eyes.

Nikita left a dot of henna on her right palm, which had turned like porcelain because of the paleness and lack of life in her system, just as someone's presence left a spot too difficult to erase till it wanted to leave by itself.

Her face which usually radiated emotions was lacking lustre and emotionless and pain clutched Vikram's heart in its ruthless hands, while piercing it with its dainty fingers, making it bleed.

She was a rose. A bleeding rose. A bleeding rose, bleeding because of its own thorn. And he was the thorn who hated being drenched in the blood of someone he wanted to hide in his arms and protect.

Where would it lead to?

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