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“Call me Aarav. That’s who I am now. You must learn to call yourself that, too.”
We met one evening by the river. I told him:
“I don’t know if I still love you. But I want to learn to lie in the middle of a bed — for once, not pushed to either side.”
He smiled, not as a lover, but as a man who understood.
“This time, I won’t run.”
One Final Gift
When I returned home weeks later, I found a slip marked:
“15 years rent – Vikram”
And a note:
“I did my part: I released the brake. Now do yours. Burn the divorce files. Buy flowers. Place a pillow in the center of the bed. If you ever need someone to hang curtains, I’ll come by — as a neighbor.
— Vikram, the man who didn’t touch you, not from lack of love, but from fear of loving you wrong.”
That night, I turned on my yellow lamp.
I placed a round pillow right in the middle of the mattress.
And for the very first time in fifteen years — I chose myself.
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