“I know.” I take her hand in mine, feeling its softness melt me from the inside. “I don’t mind. It was my fault.”
She nods, and I stand up to kiss her once, on the forehead. She momentarily closes her eyes before stepping away as if being near me will make her change her decision.
I hope it does.
“I won’t be late. I promise.”
She stares at me for a beat before mumbling a soft okay.
I just hope I don’t disappoint her this time.
Aisha Kapoor
On a scale of one to ten, I would place Reyansh’s cooking at a nine, which is weird considering he rarely cooks. But when he does, it’s always so good. Anyone can fall for him if they only ate what he cooked. Till they get to know him, of course.
What can I say? I might love him, but I can’t deny that his social skills are negligible until or unless he is in a professional environment. Otherwise, he is as good at conversations with people as a caveman.
I sometimes wonder how he was able to get me. It’s a thought I ponder upon a lot. I am not too full of myself, but I know my worth.
What I was not expecting, however, was for him to cook Indian food for me. Let alone eat the same food himself. Living with him has made me aware of the fact that he is a picky eater. There are some things that suit him and some that don’t. I have tried to accommodate his special diet in my cooking. I didn’t realize when I stopped cooking the food I liked and our house solely became full of bland British cuisine.
I didn’t want him to feel left out or as if I were doing too much for him—going out of my way. He never knew it, but I would move the sun and the moon for him. He made me happier than I’d ever been—happier than I’d even known I could be—and that was all I needed.
Him cooking for me made me realize one more thing that I had slowly lost in our relationship, and that alone was enough to break my heart into pieces early in the morning.
I didn’t converse more with him—choosing to get ready as fast as I could, say my goodbyes to our moms, and then leave for work.
I took a calming breath as I entered my office building—hoping it would take my mind off of things.
Off of my husband.
* * *
“So, you are telling me that your mom and mother-in-law both have asked—no, let me correct myself—ordered you two to stay together for three months before calling it quits?” Sasha asks me as we sit in our empty office cafeteria with a sandwich in hand.
“Yes,” I repeat. “That’s what happened.”
Honestly, saying it out loud to a third person feels bizarre. No adult would ever listen to their parents regarding their personal life to this extent. But when you are raised in a desi family who values relationships to this extent, you can’t help but take their word into account.
“And you said yes?” she questions, shock etched in her words
“Yes,” I tell her with a sigh. “It is not like I had a choice. Reyansh won’t give me a divorce otherwise. I doubt he will ever. He said no outright when they asked him, and I have never been so angry, Sasha. But then I realized one thing.”
“What?”
“If I make these three months hell for him. If I make him go through shit and don’t cooperate at all, he will have to give up. We only have to be together for three more months.”
When I say it out loud, it sounds easy. But if I think deeply about it, it pierces my heart to think that if I go through this andconsider my luck, we will probably end up divorced at the end of these three months. What will follow after will probably be the worst days of my life on end.
Because no matter what I say, no matter how much I say that this is a good decision, I know a part of me will end up in ruins after our separation. I have only loved one man, only given a piece of myself to him, and only ever yearned for his presence, and that man happens to be Reyansh.
I know they say you shouldn’t be stuck on someone for too long, you should move on and live your life and all that TikTok self-growth bullshit—I am all familiar with that. But I can never see myself looking at another man the way I do at him. I can never fall for someone so freely the way I fell for him. Even the thought of that sends shivers down my spine, and not the good kind.
I’ve always been a Bollywood fanatic. I believe in the whole idea that love is roses and the world stops when you’re in it, because I grew up surrounded by stories like that, even if they sometimes felt unrealistic. And the only man who has ever made me feel that way is my husband.
Sasha gives me a look you would give to an abandoned puppy on the side of the street, and that doesn’t make me feel any better than I was already feeling.
“Do you think you can actually do that?” she asks me, her eyes softening at the edge.
