I stood in the hallway, half-hidden by the shadow of the doorframe, adjusting the pallu of my saree for the tenth time. It felt like a costume, too much fabric, too many pins, a heavy sliding weight that kept me tethered to the wall. I felt like a guest in my own family. Then I saw her through the archway. She wasn't wearing silk. She wasn't wearing gold. She stood near the window, away from the center of the room, holding a glass of water. She was defined by a quiet clarity, a silhouette that looked as though it had been folded by the wind rather than stitched by a machine. It didn't shout. It didn't glitter. But in that room of frantic, bright noise, she was the only thing I could really see. A relative walked past her, gesturing wildly, nearly catching her shoulder with a heavy gold bangle. She didn't flinch. She didn't pull her elbows in or check her hair in the reflection of a picture frame. She just stood there, her feet planted firmly on the rug, looking out at the garden. She looked like the only person in the room who wasn't performing...

Some stories are only finished when worn.