Riya felt something crack in her chest. Not from sadness. From recognition.

The priest chanted. The fire crackled. Meera’s mother started crying. Riya’s phone buzzed—an invite for wedding number eight, next weekend.

The season wasn’t over. But for once, she didn’t mind.

But here, in this cold, chaotic field, with the smell of ghee and woodsmoke in the air, she understood. The Indian wedding season wasn’t about the food or the outfits or the drama. It was this. Two people, terrified and hopeful, promising to try. And everyone who loved them showing up, exhausted, broke, and cranky, just to say: We saw this. We were here.

It was her childhood best friend, Meera. The wedding was in a small town near Varanasi. Riya drove six hours through fog so thick it felt like driving through a bowl of milk. She arrived at 2 AM. The wedding was at 8 AM.

It was the seventh wedding that broke her.

And then Riya saw Meera.