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For fifteen years, I lived what looked like a picture-perfect married life. But the truth? We had never once shared a bed the way most couples do. And the day I overheard my husband speaking with his best friend, everything I thought I knew unraveled.
People saw us as an ideal match. We worked long hours at reputable companies. We left for the office together every morning, returned home at dusk, and appeared side by side at every community event. Our apartment was always tidy, our Sunday routines predictable: potted plants watered, shoes lined up, dinner ordered from the same corner takeout.
But for all the neatness on the outside, inside our ninth-floor apartment, a silence lived between us — one deeper than words. We had been married for fifteen years, yet not once had we been intimate. Not a single night. Not even on our wedding night.
No one suspected a thing. Not the maid, not the doorman, not the delivery boys. They assumed we were like everyone else. But behind the doors of our home, our two pillows never touched.
The Life We Pretended to Live
Our bedroom was always open, no locks, no barriers. But it may as well have had a wall running down the middle of the bed. He slept on the right, I on the left. His bedside lamp cast a cold white glow. Mine was warm, soft, and shielded with a cloth cover.
On stormy nights, when the rain rattled against the tin roof of our balcony, I curled up facing the wall, and so did he — in the opposite direction.
Still, I kept up the act.
I washed his shirts with care. I aligned his toothbrush just so. I celebrated his birthdays and watched him light incense on the anniversary of my mother’s death. And when relatives asked why we hadn’t had children yet, he would offer the same practiced line:
“Work has been demanding. We’ll see after the next project.”
His answer always bought us time. But deep inside, I was fading. The flame inside me, once hopeful, had long gone dim.
The First Night — And Every Night After
I remember our wedding night clearly.
It was during the rainy season, a soft drizzle in the air. After the guests had left and the rituals were done, his mother placed her hairpin in my hand and said gently:
“It’s the daughter-in-law who keeps the household fire burning.”
But that night, when I stepped into our room, I saw fresh sheets and a book — my favorite — set neatly on the nightstand. He smiled gently and whispered:
“You’re tired. Rest tonight.”
Then he turned over and pulled the quilt over himself.
I thought maybe it was just the first night. That he was being thoughtful.
But it happened again the next night. And the one after. And the one after that.
Each time I moved a little closer, hoping he would meet me halfway, he shifted away. Not harshly. Not cruelly. Just… as if he knew exactly where the invisible line between us lay — and refused to cross it.
Trying Everything — Except the Truth
By year ten, I had typed out a divorce petition, saved quietly on my laptop as der_late.docx. I edited it often, sometimes deleting it entirely, other times preparing to print.
By year thirteen, I finally handed it to him.
He read it carefully, then looked at me and said, “Give me some time.”
“Time until when?” I asked.
He stared out the window.
“After this season.”
I didn’t know which season he meant — monsoon, winter, or the season when I’d finally stop waiting.
We tried therapy. I tried honesty. I tried shouting. The counselor asked if he struggled with desire. He nodded. With orientation? Another nod. With trauma?
Silence.
The Day I Came Home Early
It was a rainy day, typical for Delhi. I got home early and unlocked the door quietly, soaked from the sudden downpour. I didn’t mean to listen in, but his voice echoed from the study.
“Hello? Aarav?”
Aarav — his best friend, and my classmate from school. He often came over on Saturdays. They drank beer and talked late into the night. I never once felt jealous.
Until that moment.
I stood still, listening.
“She’s filed for divorce again,” my husband said.
“Divorce?” Aarav’s voice cracked.
“Fifteen years, Aarav. I’ve kept the promise. But I won’t divorce. I gave my word.”
“To whom?”
“To you. And to him.”
There was a long silence.
Then I heard him say, “That night… I still hear the brakes.”
I pressed a hand against the wall to keep from falling.
Secrets Spilled — And a Name From the Past
That night, I confronted him.
“Do you love Aarav?”
He looked at me, eyes tired but sincere.
“I love promises. The ones I made to you. The ones I made to him.”
I left the next day. Took only a suitcase, a potted cactus, and a heavy heart. At his desk, I found three things:
- A life insurance policy with me as the sole beneficiary. If our marriage ended within 24 months, the payout would be void. The policy had been signed two years earlier — on September 23.
- A receipt from the hematology ward. He had been undergoing chemotherapy.
- A photo of me and someone from my past — Rohan, my first love. He had died in a motorcycle accident, or so I had believed. On the back, I’d written:
“Showers always come early this season.”
Beside it, a note: “I’m sorry. – V.”
Vikram — my husband.
The Man I Thought I Lost Was Always There
I found Aarav. He met me with tears in his eyes. Slowly, he explained:
“I am Rohan. After the accident, my face was disfigured. Vikram’s car had hit me. He took me to the hospital, promised to protect you, and asked me to let you move on.”
And he had. He changed his name. He stayed close. And Vikram, the man I had called husband for 15 years, had known all along. He made a vow never to touch me — not because he didn’t love me, but because he believed he didn’t deserve to.
He waited until the insurance would cover my future. Then quietly handed me divorce papers, already signed.
Finally Choosing Myself
We divorced shortly after. He moved to a flat near the hospital. I returned to my mother’s house and bought a new bed with just one pillow.
Aarav — or Rohan — reached out a few times. One day, I answered.
“I’m Rohan. The coward who ran away.”
I said softly:
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