Desired To Be Yours (Part 1) ✔️

Chapter 53

“I’m getting married,” I whisper to myself, ignoring the people in the same box, then grin like an idiot.

One floor down.

My eyes stay glued to the glowing numbers, tapping impatiently against the metal surface.

Another floor down.

did..did I lock the door? my wallet? Car keys?

A whisper of panic creeps in like an annoying ringtone I can't silence.

One more floor — Screw it. I slip out with the morning crowd, turn around to re-enter and the damn lift doors close on my face.

Perfect. Brilliant.

“Great job, husband of the year,” I mutter, already bolting for the stairs like a man on fire.

My own damn haldi and I’m sprinting like a guilty teenager.

Each step feels like a countdown to judgment day. I don’t even stop to breathe, I just want to be there, with her, beside her. We were supposed to do this together, laugh, maybe sneak in a kiss before everyone sees us. Instead, I’m late. Probably the first groom to screw up before even getting married.

Honestly, what was I thinking?

When I reach my floor, the door is half-open. Of course. I rush in, snatch my wallet, keys, phone and pride. then slam the door shut this time. Properly.

Downstairs, I dive into the car like it’s a getaway chase. Engine roars, tires squeal, and I’m gone.

I weave through traffic like a lunatic, but my chest feels light, because I know what this is.

Nervousness, excitement, anxiety.

I didn’t grow up with family, warmth, someone waiting at the end of the hallway with a smile. But somehow, she showed up like she belonged here, like we belonged to each other.

Just thirty minutes. Thirty more minutes till I see her.

As I halt at the signal, finally catching a second to breathe, a strange itch builds in my chest. Something feels wrong. Like an ache I can’t locate. I glance down at my hands gripping the steering wheel, they feel – empty.

The signal stays red. A couple walks past the zebra crossing, hand in hand, laughing, the girl’s mangalsutra catching a glint of sunlight.

Wait.

My eyes widen. I left it at home, right there, on the bedside table.

My hands fly to my head. “Fuck me.”

My anxiety is already sky-high and now it’s flying straight into catastrophe. This day is turning into a disaster at highest reel.

I swing the car into a sudden U-turn at the next signal, ignoring the honks. Two hours wasted on the road just to go back to where I started.

I pull out my phone, hoping to at least send one last grovelling apology — Dead. Of course I didn’t charge last night.

“Kill me already,” I mutter, tossing the useless phone onto the passenger seat. I clutch the steering like it wronged me and push forward, speeding like it’ll erase lost time.

The ytaffic doesn’t move at all, bumper after bumper.

“I swear to God,” I whisper like a chant. “I feel suffocated” banging my palm against the wheel as my eyes sting.

My chest tightens. She’ll be hurt.

Calm down, think of an alternative.

I take the next exit and manage to swerve into a narrow lane, pulling up at the side. I get out as heat drawn over me, the noise, honking feels unbearable. My eyes scan the road until they land on a guy pulling up on a bike.