Can I Ask U Something

It happened on a dusky July evening, the kind where the sky turns a moody shade of blue and the monsoon clouds finally surrender, sending sheets of rain tumbling over the town. The final school bell had just rung, echoing through empty corridors, when Shubha met Thanav for the very first time.

She was the quiet kind, one of those children who always seemed to be half-lost in thought, like her mind belonged to someplace softer than the world around her. Her fingers bore the faint smudges of ink, and her notebook was never fully closed, its pages fluttering like they still had things to say.

Thanav was everything she wasn’t. A burst of energy, a storm in sneakers. He was the boy who carried a cricket bat everywhere, whether or not there was a match, whether or not anyone else showed up to play. He didn’t just walk, he launched himself across staircases, climbed windows he wasn’t supposed to, slid down railings like the world was his playground.

Their meeting wasn’t destined, just conveniently timed. Their mothers, both new to the town, both slightly lost in the sea of unfamiliar names and coffee-stained report cards, had crossed paths during a parent-teacher meeting. With tired smiles and polite nods, they settled beside one another, exchanging small talk and sighs that hinted at shared fatigue. Behind them, on hard steel benches, two kids sat. Thanav, ever the unfiltered one, casually offered Shubha half his samosa without so much as asking her name. She accepted it with a nod and quietly wrote something in her notebook.

Curious, he leaned closer. “What did you write?”

She didn’t look up. “I write the date whenever someone does something kind for me,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the lines she penned.

He blinked. Then laughed with a little confusion. “That’s… cool,” he said with a grin.

She barely smiled. But inside, she was amused that someone called such a boring habit cool. And just like that, they became friends.

Thanav was notorious in school. The kind of boy every teacher secretly liked but officially warned. His name often echoed through complaint forms and staffroom discussions, and his mother was a regular visitor, her sighs becoming as familiar as the school bell. But despite the scoldings and the pranks, Thanav was sharp. Too sharp. One minute, he was solving math problems faster than the topper; the next, he was caught sketching the biology teacher as a wizard mid-lecture. His grades confused his parents; should they be proud or concerned?

Shubha didn’t change him. She never tried. She simply gave him something else, something quieter, to focus on. After she entered his orbit, his mischief dulled, not because she disapproved, but because suddenly, there were better ways to spend time. Ways that didn’t involve detention or scraped knees. He had someone now. Someone who listened, who shared her thoughts in metaphors, who offered biscuits from her lunchbox, and never judged him for being loud. Sometimes, they just sat in silence, and oddly, it never felt awkward.

Time, as it does, began to blur. Months folded into years. What started as post-school chats turned into weekend visits. Birthdays became joint affairs. Their families celebrated together, their homes echoing with overlapping laughter and mismatched crockery clinks.

“Thanav is like my second child,” Shubha’s mother would say, almost proudly.

And Thanav’s father, ever shaking his head at his son’s impossible energy, would often joke, “Shubha’s quieter, but she’s the one keeping him sane.”

They studied side by side, fought over pens, and argued about everything from cricket scores to favorite authors, but none of it lasted. Thanav would always be the first to stand up for her if someone made fun of her poems, and Shubha always packed an extra packet of glucose powder in her bag on hot days, knowing he’d forget to hydrate in the middle of chasing cricket balls like they were lifelines.

Shubha wrote in quiet corners. On bus rides, in the back row of classes, under dim yellow lights during power cuts, whenever a thought tugged at her sleeves, she scribbled it down. Small poems, fleeting quotes, fragments of emotion that lived between pages. Sometimes she sent them off to groups or publishers. Occasionally, one would find its way into a magazine or a blog. But very few people around her ever noticed.

None of her friends cared much for literature. Her family, though supportive, didn’t quite understand her need to write. And Shubha, being who she was, never brought it up. She didn’t post it on stories. She never tagged people or asked them to read her work. That just wasn’t her way. Advertising herself felt loud, and Shubha preferred whispers.

But there was always one person who knew. One person who walked beside her through all of it.

Thanav.

Whenever she had to drop her writings at a club, attend a literary gathering she was too nervous for, or simply wanted company in a room full of strangers, Thanav was there. Always a step behind or a step ahead, carrying her awkwardness like it was his own. He didn’t understand poetry, not really. But he understood her.

And that was enough.

She gave herself a pen name one day—I.S., Short for Introverted Shubha. It felt safer that way. Like she could put pieces of herself out into the world without anyone knowing it was her.

College came, as it always does, with its fresh rush of chaos. New buildings, longer lectures, unfamiliar faces. Most people drift apart during this time, new circles forming like constellations around different interests.

But not Shubha and Thanav. They remained the same. 

Shubha still walked beside him to class, even if their departments were on opposite ends of campus. Thanav still saved her a seat in the library, even though he never opened a single novel. He would just sit there, headphones in, sketching nonsense or watching random cricket compilations while she buried herself in words.

Every evening, without fail, they met. At the same corner, under the gulmohar tree near the canteen. She’d tell him about a strange professor who quoted Shakespeare mid-lecture. He’d complain about a boring lab session or a failed prank. And then they’d walk home, the city slowly folding into dusk around them.

They grew up like that. Together but different. Like twin lines of a poem written in contrasting fonts.

People who saw them every day assumed they were siblings. They came together. They left together. And maybe that was the most beautiful thing about it, how natural it felt, like the bond had always existed. Not defined by labels, not explained by stories. Just... there.

Time, as it always does, began to shift things.

The everyday routine they once shared, those predictable walks, the quiet library corners, the post-class storytelling, gradually gave way to new rhythms. New classmates. New projects. New deadlines. Slowly, they each found themselves orbiting different circles of friends, chasing different goals. But even as life pulled them into separate streams, neither of them felt the distance.

Because when they did meet, after a week, or maybe two, it was never about who didn’t call or why someone hadn’t shown up. There were no questions like “Why weren’t you there?” or “You’ve changed.” No silent guilt, no unspoken blame. They simply picked up from where they left off.

“How’s your new project going?”

“Did your poetry club finally publish that piece?”

“My lab partner is driving me insane—remind me again why I didn’t choose literature?”

Their conversations stayed warm, fluid, and honest. Like old songs, you never forget the lyrics to.

They still shared smiles, complaints, ridiculous memes, and the kind of small stories that only made sense between them. They still listened to each other’s victories and failures without judgment. And somehow, that quiet comfort remained untouched.

And then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, college ended.

Caps were tossed into the air. Photos were taken with tired eyes and hopeful grins. Everyone promised to stay in touch, though most wouldn’t. The world beyond those campus gates came calling careers, cities, and adult responsibilities. And like everyone else, Shubha and Thanav stepped forward, separately but still silently connected.

Their families, ever-practical and now increasingly sentimental, began speaking in softer tones about settling down. Conversations over tea slowly started including names, horoscopes, and long WhatsApp forwards about the importance of companionship.

Thanav was the first.

There was a girl, someone known to the family. Sweet, steady, and kind-hearted. His parents liked the way she laughed. They liked the way she admired Thanav’s friendly nature and the simple success he had built for himself. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a whirlwind. But it made sense.

He got married on a cool December morning, with marigolds and cheerful relatives filling the air with songs and noise. Shubha was there, enjoyed every event of the wedding, and yet at the wedding moment, she was standing near the back, her soft smile hiding an ache she hadn’t yet named.

The wedding talks had started like background music, low and distant, barely noticeable at first. Then, slowly, it grew louder.

One by one, young men and their well-meaning parents began visiting Shubha’s home. It was the same routine every time: smiles over coffee, polite questions, awkward silences, and a quiet conversation between her and the boy after everyone else conveniently disappeared into the kitchen or balcony.

And every time, after those brief exchanges, Shubha would find a reason, some small detail, some faint discomfort, and gently say no.

Her parents, though confused, didn’t press too hard. They had long since accepted that Shubha wasn’t like other girls who dreamed of wedding decor and perfect couple photos. Her world was made of words and wonder. Her idea of love wasn’t built on family background or salary packages; it was about understanding, respect, and quiet companionship.

Then one day, a different family came to visit.

There was nothing flashy about them. No arrogant smiles, no rehearsed speeches. Just kindness. Simplicity. The boy who came with them didn’t try to impress her; he just asked about her writing. Genuinely. He had read one of her stories in a Sunday magazine and remembered a line she herself had nearly forgotten she’d written. That stayed with her.

Her parents liked his calm nature and the gentle way his parents spoke. And Shubha, for once, didn’t feel the need to find a reason to walk away. So, she stayed. And quietly, softly, she said yes.

The wedding was a simple affair. No grand declarations, no emotional breakdowns. Just warmth. A quiet beginning.

Shubha slipped into the rhythm of married life. She wrote when she could, short stories for newspapers, a column now and then. Her byline I.S. appeared often in forgotten corners of magazines. She didn’t chase attention. Her words still found their way.

She became a homemaker. Not the kind who gave up her dreams, but the kind who folded them gently between the routines of daily life.

Thanav, meanwhile, had his own story unfolding. He became a father, a daughter who stole his sleep and his heart in equal measure. He took to fatherhood like it was his newest adventure. Between late-night feeds and diaper duties, he balanced work, family, and his usual chaos, which now came with bibs and lullabies.

They kept in touch.

Not like before—no long walks, no shared benches. Just the occasional phone call. Once a month, maybe. A few texts in between. Simple check-ins.

He had invited her when his daughter was born, his voice full of pride and childlike excitement. Shubha had wanted to go; she really had, but life had other plans that week. She couldn’t make it, and though he understood, a small part of her felt the ache of missing something important.

After that, the calls became shorter, less frequent. But never empty.

When he called, he talked like he always had—freely, energetically, jumping from topic to topic like a man running through his memories. He spoke about his daughter’s giggles, his wife’s strength, and the chaos of parenting. He laughed at himself, shared the tiny adventures of domestic life, and often turned them into stories of his own.

Shubha listened. Mostly quiet, occasionally amused. She didn’t say much; her answers were short, thoughtful, like her poetry. But she listened with her whole heart.

And even across the distance, she still laughed at his terrible jokes.

It wasn’t the same as before. But it was enough.

Because some bonds don’t need daily calls or constant reminders.

Some people just live quietly in the corner of your life, like a bookmark you never move, always there, always holding the place where it all began.

Shubha had never set out to be famous. She simply wrote because something in her refused to stay quiet. One evening, tucked between the responsibilities of home and her fading writing routine, she poured her heart into a romantic story. A tale of soft glances, missed chances, and the kind of love that grows in silence. She called it Maybe.

It was just another blog post at first. A digital whisper into the void.

But Maybe didn’t stay silent.

People noticed. Readers connected with it. They cried, re-read, highlighted lines, and shared it like a secret they wanted the world to know. And then, almost like fate leaning in with a knowing smile, a small but reputable publishing house reached out to her. They wanted to publish her story. In print.

Shubha hesitated. She was still I.S., after all, Introverted Shubha, the girl who preferred writing under shadows and behind names. But something about this story felt too honest, too raw to keep hidden. So she said yes.

Within weeks, Maybe was out on shelves. A pastel cover. A simple font. Her words, finally resting between pages instead of pixels. Her pen name began to float across small bookstores and weekend reading clubs. Slowly, quietly, I.S. became a name people remembered.

And one evening, as the city lights flickered on like stars, Thanav was walking back home from a long day at work. His bag slung over one shoulder, mind tangled in emails and nap schedules and deadlines, he paused at a local bookstore’s display.

A cover caught his eye.

Two figures on a bicycle. A frozen moment. A soft, fading sun was behind them.

It wasn’t just a design; it was a familiar of a memorable moment he had with Shubha, years ago.

He blinked. Slowly stepped closer.

The title read: Maybe

Author: I.S.

He stood there for a moment, the world outside softening into a blur. And then, a quiet smile crept across his face.

“Wow, Shubha,” he whispered, almost to himself.

“Finally, you became an author, huh?”

He bought the book without a second thought. The moment he got home, before changing clothes or checking messages, he opened to page one. And despite having no time, he found time.

Lunch breaks. Bus rides. Between work emails and lullabies. And three days. That’s all it took to complete that book. And the moment he closed the back cover, something inside him refused to rest. He picked up his phone and dialed her number.

“Hello?” Her voice was soft.

“Meet me, Shubha,” he said, without any further explanation.

She paused. That urgency in his voice, she hadn’t heard it in years.

“When? Where?” she asked, her voice suddenly alert.

“Saturday. Tomorrow. HN Café.”

“Alright…”

Before she could say anything more, the call ended. She stared at the screen, her heart suddenly drumming.

What happened? Why now? Why that voice?

He was already there when she walked in. Thanav sat by the glass wall of the café, where sunlight spilled across the floor and the road outside flickered with slow-moving traffic. He wasn’t scrolling through his phone or looking around, just staring into the steam rising from his untouched coffee mug, lost somewhere far away.

Shubha spotted him immediately. She walked over and, in an attempt to lift the heaviness she sensed, said,

“Coffee won’t go into your mouth just by staring at it, you know.”

It was her version of a joke, awkward, soft-edged, but sincere. 

Thanav looked up and gave a faint smile. “How are you? Want to order something?”

She sighed and pulled the chair opposite him. “Don’t bother, Thanav. You know, formality’s a bit unnecessary between us. Just tell me… why did you call me?”

He smiled again, this time almost absent-mindedly, and nodded.

“Yeah… I will.”

But she caught it. The way he kept looking down, avoiding her eyes, the way his fingers traced the rim of the coffee cup were restless.

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” she asked gently. “Is something wrong?”

Thanav shook his head. “Nothing as such.”

He exhaled and tried to shift the mood. “By the way… I read your book.”

Shubha blinked. “You did?”

A small smile curved on her lips. “Be honest, you’re not the kind of guy who reads novels. You probably just saw the cover, recognized the name, and guessed it was mine.”

He chuckled lightly. “Yeah, book cover caught my attention… but I read it.”

Shubha didn’t know what to say to that. “Hmm. Okay,” she said quietly, unsure whether to laugh or hide behind the menu. And then he looked up, finally meeting her eyes.

“Can I ask you something?”

She nodded, slowly. Thanav’s voice was softer than usual. “By any chance… do you love me?”

She didn’t flinch. She had guessed this moment was coming the moment he mentioned the book. The moment she saw that unreadable expression on his face. Shubha turned her face toward the glass wall. The outside world felt safer to look at. The road was busy. Life was happening. But in her chest, time had paused.

“Yes,” she said softly.

And with that one word, the silence thickened. Then felt something in his throat tighten. Like his body wanted to say something, but the words were trapped beneath the weight of everything he hadn’t realized until now. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly.

“Half of that story… it was us. Our memories. The bike rides. The samosa. The sunsets…”

Shubha nodded gently. “Yes. The first half was real. It was us.”

“And the rest?” he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

She smiled, not sadly, but with a kind of acceptance.

“That was me imagining how life would’ve been… if you’d felt the same. If one of us had opened up. If… maybe…”

Her voice trailed off.

Thanav leaned back, staring at her, his old friend, the quiet scribbler, the girl who remembered kindness through dates in her notebook.

"And what’s next?" he asked.

Shubha didn’t like the way he worded it. She knew his life. She had seen the pictures, heard the stories, his beautiful wife, the 6-year-old little girl who calls him “Appa” with stars in her eyes, the family dinners, the school runs, the career built brick by brick. She knew too much to pretend there could be a next.

Her phone rang, perfect timing or maybe divine escape. She glanced at the screen and casually said, “It’s my husband.”

She stood up, adjusting her bag over her shoulder.

“Sorry, I have to go. I told him I’d be back in a few minutes.”

Thanav looked up, hesitation all over his face. “Should we… talk about it?”

She paused. Her fingers gripped the strap of her bag just a little tighter.

“What’s left to talk about?” she asked, her tone quiet but not weak.

He stepped forward, his voice low and uncertain.

“About us.”

Her eyes lifted to his, slowly, like a storm building in a quiet sky.

“Thanav…” she said, her tone now sharper, not cold, but stinging with something buried. “Before talking randomly like that… ask yourself about the question you asked me.”

He frowned, confused. “What question?”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“The question you should’ve asked yourself first, before asking me if I loved you.”

She paused. There was no tremble in her voice, just stillness.

“Did you ever love me, Thanav?”

That question… hit differently.

She hadn’t asked about the present.

She hadn’t asked for a confession.

She was asking about then.

About the moments that could’ve mattered. The space where something real could’ve grown, if only he had noticed.

There was a flicker of pain in her eyes, subtle, dignified, old.

He stood there, caught in silence, the answer stuck somewhere between memory and denial.

But she didn’t wait.

She turned and walked out of the café with quiet grace, leaving him standing in front of a half-finished coffee, a table full of unsaid things, and a question that would now echo longer in his mind.

That night, Thanav wasn’t himself.

Dinner was ready, the table set like every other evening. Leela fed their daughter and put her to sleep. Normally, the three of them would sit together, laugh over something silly Danya said, and talk about the day. But today, Thanav just sat there, staring at his plate, lost in thoughts he couldn’t explain.

Leela glanced at him and asked softly, “Everything okay?”

He gave a quick smile and said, “Yeah… just not hungry, that’s all.”

She paused. “Want me to make some juice or something?”

He stood up without looking at her, walked to the sink, and washed his hands. “No, it’s fine. Just need a bit of rest.”

She watched him quietly. Then, pulling out the chair beside her, she patted the seat. “Sit for a second. If something’s on your mind, say it. You can talk to me.”

He sat down beside her. There was a pause, long and a little too quiet.

Thanav stared at the floor for a second. Then, as casually as he could, he asked, “Have you ever… had a crush on anyone at work?”

Leela blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? No. Not even before marriage… and definitely not after,” she said, half-laughing. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Wait… are you doubting me?”

He quickly shook his head. “No no, che… nothing like that. Just asking.”

She could sense something off. The way his words didn’t match his eyes. “Why that question suddenly? Did you have a crush on someone at work?”

“No,” he said. Just one word, flat.

Leela was relieved by that answer and stood up, carrying her plate to the sink, a little slower than usual. “Then what is it?”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then he said, “I met Shubha today.”

She kept washing, her back turned, hands steady under the water. “Hmm,” was all she said.

He spoke about how they met, how they talked. How he read her book, the one she wrote based on their memories. He spoke gently, but everything he said felt heavy. And finally, he added, “She asked me a question. One I wasn’t ready for.”

Leela rinsed the last plate, placed it in the rack. “What question?”

He hesitated but said. “She asked if I ever loved her.”

The sink tap went off. Leela grabbed a napkin, wiped her hands slowly.

“I’m tired,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I’m going to bed.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving Thanav alone at the table, his mind a mess of Shubha’s story, his own memories, and the expression on Leela’s face. He didn’t sleep much that night. Just sat on the couch with his head leaned back, thinking.

When morning arrived, the sound of utensils and milk boiling in the kitchen stirred him awake. He opened his eyes to see sunlight spilling into the room, but nothing about the morning felt warm.

He walked into the kitchen, rubbing his face. “About last night…”

Leela froze for a second, then realized it really happened. It wasn’t a dream. She was hoping everything would reset like it always did. But this time… it didn’t. 

She turned her face away and said plainly, “Go wake Danya. She’s going to be late.”

“And don’t forget, you didn’t put your laundry in yesterday. It’s still lying there.”

He stood there, a little stunned. Then nodded quietly and walked away. Her heart was aching, and she thought, 'Why are you so selfish, Thanav?'

That night, Thanav wasn’t himself.

Dinner was ready, the table set like every other evening. Leela fed their daughter and put her to sleep. Normally, the three of them would sit together, laugh over something silly Danya said, and talk about the day. But today, Thanav just sat there, staring at his plate, lost in thoughts he couldn’t explain.

Leela glanced at him and asked softly, “Everything okay?”

He gave a quick smile and said, “Yeah… just not hungry, that’s all.”

She paused. “Want me to make some juice or something?”

He stood up without looking at her, walked to the sink, and washed his hands. “No, it’s fine. Just need a bit of rest.”

She watched him quietly. Then, pulling out the chair beside her, she patted the seat. “Sit for a second. If something’s on your mind, say it. You can talk to me.”

He sat down beside her. There was a pause, long and a little too quiet.

Thanav stared at the floor for a second. Then, as casually as he could, he asked, “Have you ever… had a crush on anyone at work?”

Leela blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? No. Not even before marriage… and definitely not after,” she said, half-laughing. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Wait… are you doubting me?”

He quickly shook his head. “No no, che… nothing like that. Just asking.”

She could sense something off. The way his words didn’t match his eyes. “Why that question suddenly? Did you have a crush on someone at work?”

“No,” he said. Just one word, flat.

Leela was relieved by that answer and stood up, carrying her plate to the sink, a little slower than usual. “Then what is it?”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then he said, “I met Shubha today.”

She kept washing, her back turned, hands steady under the water. “Hmm,” was all she said.

He spoke about how they met, how they talked. How he read her book, the one she wrote based on their memories. He spoke gently, but everything he said felt heavy. And finally, he added, “She asked me a question. One I wasn’t ready for.”

Leela rinsed the last plate, placed it in the rack. “What question?”

He hesitated but said. “She asked if I ever loved her.”

The sink tap went off. Leela grabbed a napkin, wiped her hands slowly.

“I’m tired,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I’m going to bed.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving Thanav alone at the table, his mind a mess of Shubha’s story, his own memories, and the expression on Leela’s face. He didn’t sleep much that night. Just sat on the couch with his head leaned back, thinking.

When morning arrived, the sound of utensils and milk boiling in the kitchen stirred him awake. He opened his eyes to see sunlight spilling into the room, but nothing about the morning felt warm.

He walked into the kitchen, rubbing his face. “About last night…”

Leela froze for a second, then realized it really happened. It wasn’t a dream. She was hoping everything would reset like it always did. But this time… it didn’t. 

She turned her face away and said plainly, “Go wake Danya. She’s going to be late.”

“And don’t forget, you didn’t put your laundry in yesterday. It’s still lying there.”

He stood there, a little stunned. Then nodded quietly and walked away. Her heart was aching, and she thought, 'Why are you so selfish, Thanav?'

Days passed like a machine. The routine stayed the same: morning rush, breakfast, office, Danya’s school, dinner, bedtime stories, but between Leela and Thanav, there was an invisible line that neither of them didn't dared to cross.

They still smiled for Danya, joked with her, played, and talked like any other parents. But when it came to just the two of them, silence had taken over. Not loud, not dramatic. Just cold gaps, awkward pauses, and quiet meals.

Thanav tried to speak a few times, but Leela always managed to slip away, either into the kitchen, or into Danya’s room, or behind the excuse of being tired. She wasn’t angry. Just… distant.

It was just another Friday evening for Leela. The sky outside was dimming into a soft orange, and the quiet hum of the café felt oddly comforting. She had come here straight after work, wanting a few minutes for herself.

As she waited for her order, her eyes caught someone sitting by the window.

He was alone, hunched slightly, scrolling his phone, but there was something in his face, something familiar. After a few seconds of staring, it hit her. It was him. Shubha’s husband.

She didn’t know why her legs started moving towards him. Maybe she wanted answers. Maybe she wanted to know the version of Shubha that she hadn’t seen. “Excuse me… you’re Shubha’s husband, right?” she asked, hesitantly.

He looked up, surprised. “Yeah… and you’re…”

There was a pause.

“You came to our wedding, right? One of her friends?” he added with a polite smile.

“Sort of. Not exactly a close friend. A friend of a friend,” she replied, forcing a light smile.

He nodded and gestured across the empty chair. “Want to join?” 

She hesitated for a moment, then pulled out the chair and sat opposite him as she took a sip of her coffee. Something in her stirred, a mix of confusion and concern. She didn’t plan to ask anything. But the words slipped out.

“So… how is she? How are you both doing?”

She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to hear. Did she want to know if he knew the full truth? If Shubha had told him everything? Or was she hoping to find answers she hadn’t found with Thanav? 

He froze for a moment. Then placed his phone down. His smile faltered, just a little.

“She didn’t tell you?” he asked softly.

Leela shook her head. He looked out the window for a beat before turning back. “We’re not together anymore. We’re separated.”

Something about that hit her deeper than she expected. “Oh,” she murmured, eyes fixed on her cup. “Why?”

There was a silence. He was not someone trying to defend himself or blame anyone. He seemed like a man who had replayed this moment a thousand times in his head. He stared out the window for a moment, gathering his words.

“I used to be a fan of her writing,” he began. “That’s how I knew her. When we met before our marriage, she told me that her poems, her stories, were all inspired by someone she once loved. One-sided, she said. That he never knew. And that he was already married.”

Leela’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup.

“She warned me. She was honest, actually. Said she couldn’t promise love. But I… I still thought, maybe I could change that. I told her to move on,” he continued, a bitter smile on his lips. “I said, ‘Let’s write new stories together.’ ”

He exhaled slowly. “She was kind. Gentle. She did everything a wife would. Cooked. Cleaned. Talked to me about work. But it always felt like… she was present, but never here. Like her soul was still somewhere else. She was kind to me, that’s all it ever was, the kindness.”

He looked down at the table now. His voice dropped a little. “One evening, she was out. She’d left her notes open. I normally never touch them, but that day… I was curious and I read one.”

He paused. “It was about him. Again. Still after everything. It wasn’t just nostalgia… she was still living in that space. She was imagining a life with him. A life that never existed, but meant everything to her.”

“I was nowhere in it,” he whispered. “Not even as a shadow.”

Leela didn’t say anything. She just listened. He wasn’t telling her this to gain sympathy. He was just finally… saying it out loud.

“I didn’t yell. I didn’t fight. I just… knew,” he said. “I moved out. We told our parents it wasn’t working. They believed it was temporary. But when someone is living in a different world, there’s no space for you, no matter how much love you offer.”

She finally spoke, “You loved her, didn’t you?”

He looked at her, and for the first time, his eyes filled with that quiet ache, the one people carry when they’ve accepted heartbreak without noise.

“I did,” he nodded. “But it’s like loving a ghost. You reach out, and there’s nothing to hold. You smile, but she’s looking through you, remembering someone else’s smile."

Leela looked up and said gently, “It hurts, doesn’t it? When you love someone, but you can’t even look at them… because you’re not where their heart lives.”

He looked at her, a tired but warm smile playing on his lips. “It did… for a while. But then I realized, why search for a rose on a deserted island?”

Leela blinked, processing the words. “Huh?” 

He chuckled softly. “Sorry… not great with metaphors like Shubha.”

She smiled, then added, “Maybe… instead of searching for a rose in a desert, find a garden that has plenty of roses for you.”

He laughed, more freely this time. “Wow. You’re worse than me.”

They both laughed. The tension between them melted a little, replaced by a strange comfort, two strangers, linked by one person and their own losses. After a while, they stood and walked out together. Then parted ways with a nod.

But as Leela walked back, something inside her felt heavier. The tangled thoughts in her mind now had more threads. Her heart, already tired, now carried the weight of someone else’s heartbreak too.

And somehow, everything felt even more complicated.

Saturday, there was a small family gathering planned at Thanav’s parents’ place. The house was filled with laughter, voices, and familiar chaos. But Leela and Thanav didn’t talk, not even for the sake of it.

Later that evening, Thanav offered to step out for grocery shopping. He needed fresh air more than vegetables. He finished his shopping, and that’s when, right outside the store, he saw Shubha.

She was checking her phone, her hair tied loosely, looking just the same but more… tired. He walked towards her. “Hi,” he said, unsure of her reaction.

She looked up, surprised for a second. Like old times, she didn't want to argue, so she gave a small smile. “Oh wow, you came to your hometown too?”

“Yeah, for a function. You?”

“Visiting parents,” she said, gently.

They stood for a second in silence. Then Thanav spoke. “I told Leela… about us.”

Shubha’s face changed immediately. “What?” Her voice was sharp. “Are you out of your mind, Thanav?”

He was confused. “What did I do wrong? I just told her the truth.”

She took a deep breath, clearly holding back anger. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? Honesty is good. But dumping everything without thinking of the other person’s heart, that’s not honesty. That’s carelessness. Do you even think how devastated she might have felt?”

He lowered his eyes. “I am sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

She looked away and said, “Then go tell her that. I’m not the one who needs to hear your sorry.”

And without another word, she walked away. His mind was a jungle of thoughts, and he didn't know what to say or where to go. After the function, Leela was in the kitchen again, cleaning up. Thanav followed her, gently trying to speak. But as usual, she picked up something and tried to walk away. He reached out and softly held her hand. She paused. Didn’t look back.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She didn’t move.

“I wasn’t thinking. I just… needed someone to talk to. And you’ve always been that person for me. I didn’t mean to be selfish, Leela… but I was.”

She still didn’t say anything. But she didn’t pull her hand back either. Then she turned to look at him, with her tired eyes, but calm. “Let’s go out for a walk,” she said. 

They walked down the empty lane that led to the park. The air was crisp with the end of summer heat, the sky burning faint orange. They bought tea from a street stall, sat on a wooden bench under a dying gulmohar tree. For a while, neither spoke.

Leela took a sip, then broke the silence. “So… what was your answer?”

He looked at her, puzzled. Then he understood. The question. Did you love her?

He sighed and looked at the horizon. The sunset was soft, like a secret it didn’t want to tell.

“How do I even answer that? When I don’t even know the name of what I felt?” he began. “She was my comfort zone. I didn’t have to pretend with her. I could just… exist. I made her laugh, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I spoke about her to others, lifted her up when she doubted herself. Being with her, it was peaceful.”

He paused, recalling a memory. “Once, while riding back from some trip, I saw this view, a sky full of yellow and orange cotton clouds over a lake. The next day, I dragged her on the cycle for kilometers just so she could see it. She smiled the whole way.”

He turned to Leela. “And even after all this time… even after marriage, distance, silence… I never felt she was far away from me. Because the space she held in me didn’t need reminders.”

Leela listened. Every word chipped away at her. Leela didn’t speak. But she understood.

He hadn’t figured out the answer even now.

She placed her empty tea cup beside the bench and slowly stood up. Just like always, her eyes looked away.

“I should head home,” she said quietly. Then added, “Come after some time.”

He nodded, unsure of what she meant. But then, her next words froze him.

“And… I think it’s best if we get divorced.”

His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak. She wasn’t angry. She was… broken. Her voice trembled. But her walk was steady. As she stepped away, her eyes welled up and tears finally streamed down her cheeks. He didn’t stop her. He didn’t call her name.

He just sat there, holding a half-drunk cup of tea that had gone cold, while the sky turned darker, clouds slowly covering what remained of the light.

Leela had never imagined that she would be the one to initiate this moment. But there she was, standing in front of both their families, her voice steady though her heart trembled.

“We’ve decided to get a divorce,” she said quietly.

The room fell into stunned silence. Eyes widened. Gasps escaped. Just weeks ago, they had all been laughing together, planning Danya’s school project and talking about a holiday trip.

Leela’s father was the first to find his voice. “Why, beta? What happened?”

Leela swallowed the lump in her throat and replied, “Because he is in love with someone else.”

A sharp gasp escaped her mother’s lips. “An affair?”

Leela shook her head. “No. It’s not an affair… It’s Shubha.”

Thanav’s mother looked confused and quickly interjected, “Oh, Shubha? No, no… they’re just childhood friends. That’s all. They’ve always been close.”

Leela exhaled slowly, as if explaining something that cost her every bit of her strength. “No. He’s in love with the idea of her. With her memories, her presence in his past. His heart is filled with thoughts of her. Maybe he hasn’t fully realised it himself yet, but… I have. And I know this marriage can’t survive in a space where I exist only in the shadows of someone else’s memories.”

The days that followed were turbulent. Conversations became arguments, and decisions about Danya’s custody, financial responsibilities, and other practical matters were dragged through the courtroom corridors. What once felt like a shared life began to split, piece by piece, into documents and verdicts.

The day of the divorce arrived, quiet, heavy, inevitable. Thanav sat alone on one of the wooden benches outside the court chamber, head bowed, fingers nervously rubbing his wedding ring, now removed. His eyes were vacant, the weight of loss finally catching up with him.

Leela walked over and sat beside him, the silence between them speaking volumes.

“You were a good man,” she said softly, not looking at him. “But I chose to leave because… It’s no use staying with someone whose heart belongs to someone else.”

Thanav’s eyes welled up. He turned to her, barely able to whisper, “I’m sorry… for all of this. For the mess I made.”

Leela stood up and dusted her palms, as though preparing to walk away from more than just a bench. “Before I go,” she said, “I’ll give you two tips.”

Thanav looked up, confused.

“First,” she said, “Shubha is divorced. And yes… she still loves you.”

He looked at her, stunned. “What? When? How do you know?”

She smiled faintly, without warmth. “How I know isn’t important.”

She took a step forward and turned back, her voice firmer now. “Second tip, you’re someone who has always been straightforward, always said what was on your mind. Then why did you stop when it came to love? Think about it. When you figure that out, you’ll find the answer you’ve been searching for.”

She gave a small wave and said, “Let’s stay in touch, for Danya’s sake.”

Thanav couldn’t speak. His eyes brimmed over, and tears began to fall, silently. All he could do was nod. As Leela walked out of the courthouse, the sun outside felt too bright, too ordinary for a day that changed her life. She didn’t look back. But in her heart, she whispered bitterly to herself:

“You fool. You made me help you solve your love story while leaving behind the story of ours.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she wiped them away with quiet dignity. She had accepted the path she had chosen, the heartbreak, the clarity, and the silence.

And somewhere far behind her, Thanav sat alone, holding a cup of memories, finally looking into the mirror of his own heart, trying to make sense of all the echoes he had ignored for too long.

After the divorce, Leela took a step back from the noise of the past. She needed space, not just physically, but emotionally too, to rebuild a life that was hers alone. With her daughter Danya as her anchor, she moved out of the apartment that once held shared memories and started afresh in a quieter part of the city.

A new home. A new school for Danya. A new chapter.

One afternoon, as the school bell rang and children spilled out in laughter and chatter, Leela waited near the school gate to pick up Danya. As she stood there watching the little ones run to their parents, her eyes caught a familiar face, one she hadn’t expected to see again.

It was Shubha’s former husband. For a fleeting moment, both were surprised. But then he smiled with a friendly warmth that made her feel at ease.

“Well, we meet again, Shubha’s friend,” he greeted.

Leela returned the smile and said, “Leela.”

“Prajwal,” he said with a soft smirk. Before the conversation could go further, a woman walked up to them, holding Prajwal’s hand gently. She was dressed simply, a pleasant calm on her face, and she looked at Leela with polite curiosity.

“You’re Danya’s mother, right?” she asked.

Leela nodded, smiling. “Yes. And you are…?”

“I teach mathematics here,” the woman replied warmly. “I’ve seen you a couple of times during pickup.”

Just then, Prajwal chimed in with a grin, “Ah, what a small world.”

He gestured between them with a playful smile and said, “This is my fiancée, Chandrika. Maths teacher.”

Leela raised an amused eyebrow. “So you found your garden, huh?”

They both chuckled at the shared metaphor, a quiet callback to a conversation from a more complicated time. Chandrika looked between them, slightly puzzled at first, but then smiled too, realizing some stories didn’t need explaining.

In that simple, sun-dappled moment by the school gate, there was no trace of old pain, only soft smiles, new beginnings, and the quiet understanding that life moves forward, gently but surely.

A couple of months had passed. Life had moved on, at least on the surface. That evening, the city’s literary crowd gathered in quiet reverence for the reading of Maybe, Shubha’s latest book. The room echoed with soft applause, murmurs of appreciation, and the gentle rustle of pages as her words found a home in the hearts of many.

After the reading, she smiled, posed for pictures, signed a few copies, and waved goodbye to her circle of friends. The evening air had turned cooler, and she stepped out, the early evening breeze brushing against her saree.

That’s when she saw Thanav sitting quietly on a bench just outside the venue. Shubha paused; her steps faltered. The last time they’d spoken, his life had been in Chaos. And yet, there he was, calm, collected, smiling. She walked up to him, unsure, her heart already beating faster.

“Have some time?” he asked.

Shubha blinked, surprised by how natural it still felt between them. “Yeah… always,” she replied.

They walked side by side to a quiet pond not far from the venue. The place was surrounded by trimmed grass, blooming flowers, and a silence broken only by the rustling of leaves and distant chirping. Thanav leaned gently against the iron grill, eyes fixed on the water reflecting the dusky sky.

“It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?” he murmured.

Shubha stood beside him, her fingers brushing the cool iron, and nodded. “Yes… it is.”

After a quiet pause, she asked softly, “So… what happened? Did you apologise to her?”

He nodded. “Yes. We talked… went for a walk… cleared the air, in a way.”

Shubha gave a faint smile. “That’s good. Communication always matters, no matter how late.”

He took a long breath, and then, almost too quietly, said, “We’re divorced.”

The words hit her like a sudden wind. “What?” she gasped. “Was it because of what you told her? Did she… misunderstand something between us?”

She was shaken now. “Maybe she thought there was more than friendship between us. You should have told her the truth, that there was nothing between us!”

Thanav didn’t reply immediately. His eyes were still on the water. “Is that so?” he said, more to himself than her.

Shubha turned, a hint of irritation rising in her voice. “Thanav!”

But he exhaled and finally turned to face her. His eyes held a calm intensity.

“Do you remember that Ganesha festival we celebrated in college?” he asked out of nowhere.

She blinked, thrown by the sudden change in direction, but nodded. “Of course. Students from all departments joined in. The entire college felt alive.”

Thanav smiled faintly. “We even brought in a dhol team. Everyone was dancing like mad.”

Shubha laughed. “Yes, even the shy ones were on their feet. You were jumping around like a maniac!”

He nodded slowly. “That entire day… You were with me.”

She tilted her head playfully. “Come on, not just that day. I was with you all the time, like your little shadow.”

He chuckled. “Yes… But that day, I held your hand while dancing. And you were laughing… free, wild, beautiful. We went to the immersion together. Came back, exhausted.”

Shubha’s smile softened. “Yeah, we both took the next day off. We couldn’t move!”

He turned fully to her now. “That evening… when I saw you that happy, I wanted to hug you.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I didn’t,” he said. “I held your hand the whole day, not because it was part of the dance, but because I didn’t want to let go. Even when we walked back home… my heart kept telling me, stop her, hug her, say something. But I didn’t.”

Shubha stood still, heart thudding. His voice had dropped to a bare whisper, the kind that only confessions carried.

“I told myself it was just a fleeting moment. I thought that I was mistaken, your warmth with desire. I thought I was being inappropriate, that my feelings were physical, and that I should not confuse them with love. So I buried it under the label of ‘friendship’ and never let it out again.”

He paused and continued.

“Later, life moved on. Our paths drifted. Calls became fewer. But still, I never felt distant from you. Because even in silence, you made me feel understood. I never had to wear a mask with you.”

Shubha’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. All this time, she had carried the weight of one-sided love, certain he’d never felt it. She had trained herself to be okay with just being a memory in his life. And now here he was, laying down the truth like pages he had hidden from himself too long.

“I was foolish,” he added quietly. “For taking such a big decision in my life without first talking to you.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her heart, long shut to the possibility of ‘maybe,’ fluttered. She had written poems from her ache, novels from her silence. But nothing she had ever written felt as real as the words that just passed between them.

He walked slowly toward her, each step deliberate, as though weighed down by years of unspoken emotions. Shubha stood still, her breath caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. Her heart thudded so loudly that she feared he might hear it.

Without a word, Thanav came closer and gently rested his head on her shoulder.

“I was in love with you, Shubha,” he whispered.

His voice trembled, and she could feel the warmth of his tears soaking into the fabric of her saree. She stiffened at first, caught off guard, and then softly asked, “Are you… crying?”

In a fragile voice, he replied, “I’ve always been in love with you. This is the first time I’ve said it out loud. And… my heart finally feels free, Shubha.”

Her own eyes filled with tears. She wrapped her arms around him and stroked his hair gently, calming him like a memory long waiting to be touched.

“I love you too,” she murmured, her voice trembling with relief, wonder, and a happiness she had taught herself to live without.

In the days that followed, they spent quiet evenings together, not in haste, but in gentle conversations—untangling the web of emotions, rediscovering memories, and allowing themselves the luxury of being vulnerable again.

One afternoon, as they sat beneath a flowering gulmohar tree in the park, Thanav turned to her with a nervous smile.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, brushing a fallen leaf from her shoulder.

Shubha smiled playfully. “What is it?”

Taking a deep breath, he looked into her eyes and asked, “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, time paused. She stared at him, stunned. The question echoed in her mind like a forgotten dream suddenly remembered. It was something she had once longed for, cried for, buried deep within layers of poetry and silence.

And now, here it was—real, unpolished, and beautiful.

She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Yes.”

She threw her arms around him and they held each other tightly, as if to make up for all the years they hadn’t. Their lips met in a tender kiss, just as the breeze picked up and swirled around them, as if the universe had chosen this moment to celebrate with them.

In that stolen moment, with petals falling, hair tousled by the wind, and the world fading into background, the air was filled with nothing but love.