Page 56 of The Ruin I Chose

We arrived at Khushnaaz—an old Parsi building nestled in Dadar Parsee Colony.

I lived in a penthouse on the top floor, overlooking one of the five gardens. The building had old bones, weathered walls, creaky lifts, and tenants who’d lived there for decades.

But with my expertise, we restored it—preserving its charm while reinforcing its strength. There was parking on the ground floor, a small garden in the compound, and only two apartments per floor.

Mine was the entire top level. A mix of old Parsi furniture and modern artwork. A perfect balance.

My terrace was my sanctuary—lined with bougainvillaea, shaded by a frangipani tree, and kissed by the breeze. This is where I could breathe. Where silence wasn’t punishment. Where I could cry without being asked why. It was the only place I didn’t feel like a fraud.

Sometimes I worked there. Sometimes I escaped there. It was the only place I felt like myself.

My mother decided to visit and help me unpack.

That evening, I didn’t get a chance to breathe. Kyra filled the house with chatter—stories from school, drawings she’d made, questions about my trip to Italy.

I joked, “I think I left a little bit of my heart there.”

A tightness curled low in my stomach, because I knew exactly where I’d left it. With Marcello.

Vihaan looked up from the dining table, eyes full of questions he didn’t ask.

That night, Kyra curled up beside me in bed, her tiny fingers wrapped around mine. She was my light, my strength. The only part of my life that felt pure. Having her close, breathing in her scent, grounded me.

It was a wise decision to return on a Friday. I had the weekend to recover from jet lag, to be with Kyra, and to avoid Vihaan. I hated using her as an excuse, but I couldn’t bring myself to be alone with him. Not yet.

On Sunday, my mother came to take Kyra to her friend’s birthday. Vihaan took the opportunity. He sat me down at the dining table, his tone rehearsed but trembling.

“I want to try again,” he said. “This time I’ll listen. I promise. Let’s give us a shot. Not for us, but for Kyra.”

I kept fidgeting with my fingers, avoiding eye contact.

“Do you really want her to be one of those kids who says she comes from a broken home?” he asked.

I didn’t respond. He continued, voice rising with frustration.

“I’ve done everything. Provided for you. Let you work. Let you stay with your mom whenever you wanted. Never forced you to live with my folks. I even gave you days off to travel for your project. What more do you want from a husband?”

His words landed like a checklist—cold, transactional. I looked at him, eyes burning.

“That’s your duty, Vihaan. Not a favour. And those weren’t days off. I was building my career—something you insisted I pursue.”

I shot back.

“Every time I try to bring up things that concern me, you gaslight me—make me feel like I’m in the wrong. You belittle me. You make me feel inferior,” I continued.

I could feel the heat rising in my chest. I got up and walked towards the sofa, sitting, clutching a cushion, as if it could shield me from him, from the truth clawing at my chest. From the version of me that had tasted something better and now couldn’t forget.

“Whether it’s not waking up early, or just being who I am—I’m either too fat for you, or not responsible enough, or not serious enough. Nothing I do is ever enough.”

My blood boiled as words spilt out of me, damaging, to a point of no return.

“We haven’t had a decent conversation in years, and it’s been months since we were intimate. Every time I lean in for a kiss, you always say not now. Don’t I have needs too?”

Vihaan fell silent. He walked up to me. Tears began to fall.

“I was never seen,” I croaked. “I never felt seen by you. Not once.”

He crouched down, placing his hands on my knees.