I finished telling Aakrit the story, exhaling softly."That's what makes us special, Aakrit. We didn't fall in love. We grew in it. Slowly. Through storms. Through fire. Once roots grow that deep, they don't die just because someone else offers shade."
He didn't respond. Just silence. A silence that knew it could never compete.
That night, the silence at home pressed against me heavier than the years we'd spent apart. I stood at the doorway, fingers clenched, voice trembling."I have to tell you something, Amish," I whispered, unable to meet his eyes.
He sat on the couch, shoulders relaxed, but I knew—he already felt it coming.
I told him everything. Every moment with Aakrit, every doubt that crept into my heart while he was gone, every touch I should've stopped, every fleeting feeling I mistook for loneliness. My voice cracked halfway, but I couldn't stop. I looked up, bracing myself for judgment like a sinner at God's feet.
He didn't move. Didn't raise his voice. He just stared. Cold. Unreadable. Then his words cut deeper than I could have imagined."You say you love me, but if you really did… you wouldn't have fallen for someone else. Because when it's real, it's absolute. What if you repeat it again, Vinnie? Because once a cheater… always a repeater."
I flinched as if struck. But he wasn't done."If someone has to choose between their first love and their second… always pick the second. Because if the first was real—you'd never fall for the second. Maybe… maybe you never truly loved me."
His voice cracked now, but he didn't stop."You say you were lonely. But I was dying in the snow for you. And you… you were falling into someone else."
"I'm sorry," I whispered. Too late. Too small. He stood, walked past me, and said just three words that shattered me."I want divorce."
The papers came a week later. Clean. Official. Ruthless.
I collapsed in the courthouse corridor, knees to the floor, face buried in my hands. I sobbed as if something ancient inside me had died. All the laughter, the bathtub moments, the monsoon dances, his forehead kisses—everything slipped away like dust in the wind. Our home smelled of him, still. And now… he was gone. Not just in distance. Gone in the way that killed the part of me that believed in us.
Amish didn't argue. Didn't linger. He packed a small bag and left Delhi for Nainital. No goodbyes. Just silence. Misty hills greeted him like an old friend.
He settled in a small cottage by a lake. Birds woke him, winds whispered at night. He worked in a quieter CBI division—white-collar frauds, minor corruption. No high-risk chases. He smiled more. Laughed sometimes. But the nights… they still asked for my name.
Then he met Sholi.
She was soft where I was sharp. Gentle where I burned. She ran a small NGO for orphaned girls and domestic abuse survivors. Her eyes sparkled when she spoke of kindness; her arms were always open—strangers, lost dogs, broken hearts. Silence around her felt warm. Amish began helping her with small legal matters. Coffee, books, mountain rain, forgotten poems. He never spoke of me. She never asked.
Their rhythm became quiet companionship. Painting walls, distributing winter clothes, standing silently beside him in the rain. Once, on a rainy afternoon, she found him drenched by the lake. She didn't speak. Just stood there, letting the sky cry with him."You still love her?" she asked once.
He nodded.
"Then love her in peace," she said softly.
Some loves are not meant to stay. Some are meant to heal.
I sit here in Delhi, staring at the door every evening. Waiting. Hoping. But he never walks in.
And yet… my heart still aches with every passing moment.