| ISHA SURI |

Red.

Tell me? when you see red, or any shade of it, what does it stir in you? Hmnh...Let me tell you If you're in love, maybe it's the shade of passion, the flush of warmth. And If you're angry, it's the sear of rage, the spark before the burn. And if you're consumed by fury it becomes blood, doesn't it?

Isn't it beautiful, in a cruel way, how red can be both the sweetest and the most savage color of all? The color of love and the color of ruin.

But for me, red isn't love. It isn't even anger. For me, red is a cage.

My bare feet scrape against the cold floor as I drag the body, the thick smear of blood marking every trembling step—a shivering, wet line of everything I've done. I know I have to get rid of it. There's no other way.

I haul it through the back door, out into the yard, gritting my teeth as I shove it toward the open grave I dug under the cover of night. With a final push, the body rolls into the pit, landing with a heavy, sickening thud.

A shuddering sigh slips from my lips—part relief, part terror—as I straighten up, legs trembling, coated in mud and sweat. I turn back, tracing my steps, only to see the grotesque trail I've left behind: footprints stamped in blood, stretching from the backyard all the way to the living room.

Inside, the mirrored glass catches me, throwing back a warped, shimmering reflection. I freeze. My silky white nightgown is no longer white—it clings to me, soaked through, drenched in crimson. It wraps around my body like a second skin of guilt, tight, suffocating, unrelenting.

I lift my trembling hands, touching my chest, my arms, as if trying to convince myself this is real. My fingers come away stained, slick and red. There's no washing this away.

You know—I used to love this color. When I was a bride, I wore red. A red bridal lehenga, like so many brides before me. I told myself it was fine, even when I wanted something different—because at least the color was my favorite. At least on that day, the red meant love, celebration, beginnings.

And now? Now I am here, in the same color—but not the same shade.
Not love-red.
Blood-red.

From the girl in the red bridal lehenga to the woman crumpled in a blood-drenched nightgown — look at me now. I've come so far, haven't I? I never imagined marriage would look like this. Never imagined it would come to dragging bodies across the floor.

Is this what love is? Is this what marriage truly becomes?

I step into the kitchen, my breath catching when my eyes land on him. Blood streaks his face, a dark smear across his forehead—right where I hit him. My chest tightens, a pang of panic and regret stabbing through me.

I sink to my knees beside him, trembling hands reaching out. With the corner of my soaked nightgown sleeve, I gently wipe the blood away, trying to see if he's hurt, trying to convince myself that maybe, just maybe, I didn't mean for it to go this far.

Then, without thinking, I press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips—a fragile, trembling pause in the chaos.

"It's okay," I whisper, my forehead resting against his, eyes closing against the tears threatening to fall. "I'll fix this."

Because love is beautiful, yes—but it's also devastatingly, terrifyingly scary. And now, standing at this jagged edge between ruin and redemption, I don't know whether to let go of hope or cling to it until it destroys me.

So maybe... maybe we take a leap of faith again.

After all, isn't this what love is?