The living room got that weird tension the second Arjun's family walked in. You know that awkward shuffle when everyone's trying too hard? "Namaste," "Aaiye, baithiye"—the usual polite crap, but you could hear the rustle of sarees, chairs screeching, teacups clinking like some badly rehearsed play.
Meera was perched on the sofa like someone glued her there—back straight, hands folded, She fixed it quick, feeling eyes on her. Her mom did the whole intro thing, voice sweet but practiced: "This is Meera."
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