Because loving someone sometimes means freeing them. Even when it hurts. And right now it hurts more than I imagined possible.
For a moment after the words leave my mouth, the room goes completely still. Aditya doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. The expression on his face shifts slowly—from confusion, to disbelief, and then something else entirely, something sharper that makes my stomach twist.
I wipe my cheek quickly, annoyed that I’m crying in front of him like this. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” I mutter, staring down at the floor. “It’s just… something I heard and it got into my head and—”
I don’t finish the sentence. Because suddenly his hand closes around my wrist. Not rough. But firm enough that I stop talking. “Divya.” My name comes out low and almost as a...growl.
I look up and before I can say another word—he kisses me. He's not gentle. He's not hesitant. This one feels is urgent. Like he’s trying to stop every terrible thought running through my mind at once. My brain freezes for half a second in pure shock. Then my fingers grab the front of his shirt automatically, holding on like I might fall otherwise. The kiss lasts only a few seconds.
But when he pulls back my heart is racing so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
“What exactly,” he says, slightly breathless, “gave you the idea that I’m stuck?”
I blink at him. “I just—”
“Yes,” he interrupts, running a hand through his hair, “we married because we needed something.” His voice is steady now. “But that’s not what this is anymore.”
I swallow. “Aditya—”
“I feel so much more for you now, Divya.” The sincerity in his eyes makes my chest tighten painfully. He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to collect his thoughts.
“Actually,” he mutters, glancing toward his desk, “I had planned to say this in a less chaotic situation.”
He walks over to the desk and opens one of the drawers. I watch him, confused and slightly dizzy from everything that just happened.
When he turns back, there’s a small box in his hand. Plain. Teal. He places it on the desk in front of me. “Open it.” His tone is almost commanding.
I hesitate. “Aditya…”
“Just open it.” My fingers feel strangely clumsy as I lift the lid. Inside the box is a small book. Hardbound. Simple. The title is written across the front in neat lettering.
Where My Heart Belongs.
My brow furrows.
“What is this?”
“Open it.” I slide my thumb under the first page and turn it carefully. My eyes move across the paper. And then stop. Because it’s not printed text. It’s handwriting. Aditya’s handwriting. I flip through the pages. Poems. Unmistakably written for me. The words talk about the first time he saw me in the bookstore. About a girl standing between shelves looking for a story that reminded her of her father.
My throat tightens immediately. I flip to the next page. Another poem. Then another. My hands begin to shake slightly. “What… is this?”
I look up at him, completely stunned. Aditya leans against the desk, arms folded, watching my face with a mix of embarrassment and stubborn pride. “I wrote them.”
“You… what?”
“I wrote poems.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “You wrote poems?”
“Yes.” He admits. “For you.” He rubs the back of his neck and lets out a short laugh. “I fucking wrote poems for you, Divya.” I stare at him dumbfounded. “You think I’m just being kind?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not that generous.” My heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest. “You wrote… a whole book?”
“Technically it’s more of a collection.”
“Aditya.”
He runs a hand through his hair again, suddenly looking slightly nervous. “I fucking wrote poems for you, Divya.” He repeats. The bluntness of the sentence makes me laugh through my tears. “And you think I’m just being kind?” He takes a step closer. His eyes search mine intensely. “I love you.”
