Page 55 of The Ruin I Chose

ROXANNE

I sat by the window, watching Sicily shrink beneath the clouds.

My heart was heavy, a pressure sitting square on my ribs. I’d been crying on and off since my breakdown in the car on the way to the airport.

I just stared, replaying every moment—his touch, his silence, his kiss, his rage. My lips still felt the weight of his goodbye.

I wanted to forget. But forgetting him felt like erasing the only time I’d felt alive. I didn’t know what he felt after I said goodbye—was it pain, anger, sadness, betrayal?

I didn’t know if he’d read the letter. Or if it would matter— if he’d care. But I knew I’d told the truth. And that had to be enough.

During the layover in Dubai, the ache sharpened. This was where I first met Marcello—bumped into him, actually. I half-hoped I’d bump into him again.

I took out my phone, hovered over his name, and typed:

Then I deleted it. Because I knew he wouldn’t reply. Because I didn’t deserve to be forgiven. Some truths are meant to be buried, not sent.

Instead, I opened the hidden folder of photos I’d taken—him in Rome, in Sicily, laughing, brooding, sleeping, beautiful.

I stared at them, my thumb grazing the screen until my chest tightened, breath hitching in a shallow stutter.

Marcello would never forgive me. He was too hurt. Too proud. And maybe, I didn’t deserve forgiveness.

When I landed, Kyra was waiting with a bouquet of pink carnations and a grin that could melt stone. She ran into my arms, her voice bright and proud.

“Mumma! You’re finally home! I got these for you!”

I smiled, holding her close, burying my face in her hair. She smelled of oat cream, soft powder, and sun-warmed skin—like innocence bottled in warmth.

“They are beautiful. Just like you. I love them.”

“See, Pappa,” she turned to Vihaan and beamed, “I told you Mummy would love them.”

Vihaan—my husband-stood a few feet behind her, hands in his pockets, watching. He didn’t say much. Just shrugged, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

I had almost forgotten what he looked like. He was decent-looking—not striking enough to turn heads, but grounded in a way that once felt safe. Before I met him, I was reeling from a long-term relationship that ended in heartbreak.

At that point, Vihaan was the quiet I needed. But by the first year of our marriage, I realised I wanted someone who could stir the storm sometimes. Life had become monotonous. Everything was done because it had to be done.

Kyra wasn’t planned. She happened after a drunken night in Nagpur, during a friend’s wedding—when we finally found time for each other. We made the most of it. And she became our most beautiful accident.

Vihaan gave me an awkward side hug. His touch felt foreign like something I’d outgrown. I wanted to flinch. But I didn’t. Because pretending was easier than explaining.

“Missed you, Roxy.”

I smiled politely as he helped me load my bag into the car. I sat in the front, with Kyra on my lap, chatting away and humming to her favourite songs. She was the reason I kept going.

Throughout my pregnancy, I had doubts—whether I’d be a good mother, whether we had the patience, the money, the strength. Whether my body could carry and deliver a child without breaking.

I worried our relationship wouldn’t survive the shift.

Then came Kyra—my precious. So precious that I thought even my mother was handling her wrong. I became possessive. Protective to the point of paranoia.

Postpartum depression crept in quietly—like fog rolling in at dusk. I didn’t recognise myself. I felt like a ghost in my own home—a version of myself I didn’t recognise. I’d stare at Kyra and wonder if she deserved a better version of me. One that didn’t cry in the shower. One that didn’t feel like she was failing at everything.

Vihaan said he’d take care of everything—finances, me, the house. And he did. But the whole episode changed me. And he didn’t understand. He kept saying I was making excuses. That I needed to snap out of this phase.

But how do you move on from a version of yourself you never asked for? A version of yourself you couldn’t recognise—even in the mirror.