Elena Das
Episode 1 — The First Glance
The resort stood at the edge of the sea like a secret, white walls catching the late afternoon sun, palm trees bending as if whispering to the tide. Rhea adjusted her dupatta over her navy-blue kurta as she stepped out of the shuttle van, her colleagues already scattering toward the reception desk with the restless excitement of a three-day corporate retreat. She wasn’t sure what she felt—perhaps weariness from the long drive from Mumbai, perhaps a dull ache of detachment she had carried for years in her marriage to Kabir, who hadn’t even asked if she needed help packing.
Inside the lobby, laughter echoed, luggage wheels clattered, and the smell of jasmine garlands mingled with faint perfume. Rhea took her room key card and turned toward the elevator, but her eyes caught a figure across the marble floor—a man in a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, tall, his head bent slightly as he signed a register. Something about the line of his jaw, the quiet intensity of his posture, made her pause. Their eyes met for a brief second, not enough to be called a stare, not short enough to dismiss as chance.
Arjun Mehra. She remembered the name from emails and presentations, a senior project lead transferred from Bangalore. She had never worked directly with him, though his reputation was that of a perfectionist, brilliant but distant. He looked up again, as though confirming her presence wasn’t a mirage. Then he smiled, only the corners of his mouth tilting, a restrained acknowledgment that felt like the beginning of a sentence not yet spoken.
That evening, the team gathered by the poolside where fairy lights swung in the breeze and a band played mellow Hindi retro songs. Rhea sat at a table with two of her closest colleagues, sipping lime soda instead of the wine offered. She laughed at the right moments, nodded at the right jokes, but her mind wandered, tugged by a curiosity she didn’t want to admit. Across the pool, Arjun stood near the bar, glass in hand, listening intently to someone’s story. His gaze, however, shifted through the crowd, lingering once again in her direction.
She told herself it was nothing. She was a thirty-five-year-old woman married for eight years, mother to a six-year-old daughter. Her life was defined, mapped, bound. Yet when the evening games began—a ridiculous contest of balancing lemons on spoons, then charades—she found herself next to him in the same group.
“You’re Rhea, right?” His voice was lower than she expected, calm, with a trace of warmth that unsettled her.
“Yes,” she replied, careful not to sound eager.
“I’ve heard your design presentations are the sharpest,” he said, holding out a hand. “Arjun.”
She shook it, the contact brief, formal. Still, a tremor ran through her palm as if she had touched something forbidden.
The night stretched with music, laughter, colleagues slipping into easy camaraderie under the influence of cocktails and sea air. Rhea slipped away earlier than most, walking down the stone path lined with lanterns back to her villa room. She wanted the quiet. She wanted to think. But more than anything, she wanted to still the strange flutter in her chest.
The next morning, after breakfast, the group assembled for a workshop. The conference hall overlooked the beach, glass windows flooding the room with sunlight. Rhea sat with her notepad, listening to the trainer, when a chair scraped beside her. Arjun had chosen the empty seat, though plenty were free elsewhere. He offered a polite smile, then focused on his laptop.
Throughout the session, she found herself aware of his presence—the faint scent of aftershave, the measured way he typed notes, the occasional tilt of his head. At one point, when the trainer asked the group to pair up for a short exercise, he turned to her as if it were obvious they would be partners.
The task was simple: build a mock strategy for a fictional client. She spoke her ideas quickly, half-hoping he would disagree, half-hoping he would approve. Instead, he listened with unexpected attentiveness. “You think through the emotional layers,” he said finally. “Most people here only see the numbers.”
She laughed, deflecting the compliment. “Emotions don’t always sell products.”
“They do when you’re selling them to humans,” he countered, eyes steady on hers.
The moment stretched, weightless, until the trainer’s voice interrupted. They returned to their notes, but something had shifted—like a thread pulled loose from a tightly woven fabric.
At lunch, colleagues gathered around large tables, noisy with chatter. Rhea chose a seat near the window, enjoying the view of the restless sea. A minute later, Arjun arrived with his plate and sat opposite her. She wanted to move, to escape what was beginning to feel dangerous, but she stayed. Their conversation was casual—about the food, about the resort—but beneath every word lay a quiet undertone, like music just beyond hearing.
By evening, the group was scheduled for a team-building exercise on the beach: building sand sculptures together. Rhea laughed at the absurdity, kneeling in the sand with her colleagues, hands gritty, hair tossed by the salty wind. She tried to focus on the task, but when she glanced sideways, Arjun was there again, sleeves rolled higher, shaping towers of sand with deliberate patience. Their eyes met, and this time neither looked away immediately.
The sun lowered, the horizon bleeding into shades of gold and crimson. For a heartbeat, it felt as if the world shrank to the space between them—the waves roaring, laughter echoing, and yet only their silence mattered. She caught her breath, then turned back to her sculpture, scolding herself for the foolishness.
That night, alone in her room, she tried to call Kabir. The line rang, then went to voicemail. She left a short message about their daughter’s homework, about the sea breeze, about nothing that truly mattered. She waited, staring at the phone, hoping for a reply that didn’t come.
On the bedside table lay her conference folder, and tucked inside was a scrap of paper she didn’t remember placing there. Her name, written in neat handwriting, followed by a single line: “The sea is louder when it carries secrets.” No signature, but she knew.
Rhea closed her eyes, the sound of the ocean outside filling the silence. Something had begun—fragile, dangerous, undeniable.
Episode 2 — The Lingering Touch
The paper stayed on her nightstand long after the retreat ended. Folded once, tucked inside her diary, it seemed to hum with an energy she could neither deny nor explain. Each time Rhea opened the pages to scribble grocery lists or thoughts she would never speak aloud, her eyes found the words again—The sea is louder when it carries secrets. They read like a promise and a warning at once.
The retreat had ended with predictable farewells: tired colleagues packing hastily, shuttle vans waiting, selfies taken against the backdrop of palm trees and ocean. Rhea avoided Arjun that last morning, keeping to her group, laughing too loudly, leaving quickly. Still, as the bus pulled away, she turned back once, only to see him standing by the lobby’s archway, hands in his pockets, eyes searching. For a fleeting moment, their gazes locked, and it felt as though the silence between them stretched across the distance, stronger than any spoken goodbye.
Back in Mumbai, life resumed its familiar rhythm—school runs, deadlines, evenings filled with Kabir scrolling through his phone while she tried to coax her daughter, Meera, to sleep. The retreat blurred into memory for everyone else. But for her, it lingered, like the faint scent of salt still trapped in her hair.
It began with an email. Professional, crisp, and entirely ordinary. “Rhea, I’d like your thoughts on the draft presentation for the Hyderabad client. Regards, Arjun.” She read it twice, though there was nothing unusual about it. She replied quickly, attaching her suggestions. He responded within the hour, thanking her, adding a note about the clarity of her points. Professional. Harmless.
But over the weeks, their exchanges multiplied. First, project-related. Then, comments that edged toward personal. “Long day? You sound tired in your last message.” Or “Do you always work this late? You should rest.” She found herself waiting for his replies, checking her inbox more than necessary, smiling faintly when his name appeared.
One evening, when Kabir was away on a business trip, she sat at her desk after putting Meera to bed. Her phone buzzed—an email notification. This time, the subject line read simply: “Not work.” She hesitated, then opened it.
“Do you ever miss the sea? I can still hear the waves from that night. Strange how certain sounds don’t leave us.”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She could delete it. She could ignore it. Instead, she typed: “I miss it too. Sometimes I think I can still smell the salt in the air.” She sent it before she could change her mind.
From that moment, a thread tightened between them. They exchanged messages almost daily—snippets of poetry, thoughts about books, fragments of confessions disguised as casual remarks. She told him about her daughter’s stubborn love for drawing. He told her about his sleepless nights, the loneliness of living in rented apartments that never felt like home.
Weeks blurred into months. Their conversations slipped onto WhatsApp, where the rhythm of their lives began to sync. She would wake to his “Good morning,” and he would fall asleep after her last “Take care.” She told herself it was harmless, that words carried no weight if they never crossed into touch. But late at night, when Kabir turned away from her in bed, she scrolled through their chats, her heart racing with every vibration of her phone.
The first time they met outside work, it was at a café hidden in a quiet lane of Bandra. She had insisted it was unnecessary, even foolish. But when he wrote, “I’d like to see you without a screen between us,” she found herself agreeing.
She arrived early, choosing a corner table, her nerves twisting into knots. The café smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon. Every time the door opened, her pulse quickened. Then he walked in, dressed simply in a pale grey shirt, sleeves rolled up as always, his eyes scanning until they found hers.
“Rhea,” he said softly, as though her name was something fragile.
She smiled, awkward, unsure. “You found the place.”
They talked for an hour, about everything and nothing—traffic, books, the absurdity of corporate jargon. But beneath their words was a current that pulled them closer. At one point, when she reached for her cup, her fingers brushed against his hand. The contact was accidental, fleeting, yet her breath caught. He didn’t withdraw immediately; instead, his hand lingered a second longer than necessary before moving away.
The world outside remained indifferent—cars honked, waiters bustled, cups clinked—but inside that corner table, time seemed to shift. She left first, citing errands, her heart pounding as she walked quickly down the street. That night, he texted her: “Your laughter stayed with me.” She stared at the words, trembling, before replying: “And your silence stayed with me.”
After that, meetings became inevitable. A bookstore in Colaba, where they both reached for the same novel and laughed at the coincidence. A walk along Marine Drive, where the sea wind tangled her hair and he gently tucked a strand behind her ear, his fingers grazing her skin. That touch—so small, so simple—was enough to undo her.
At home, she played her role. She cooked, cleaned, attended parent-teacher meetings. Kabir remained unchanged, distracted by work, grateful for her efficiency, blind to her distance. Yet inside her, a dual life bloomed. The safe, familiar world of her marriage, and the dangerous, intoxicating world of Arjun.
One evening, when the monsoon had begun and rain blurred the city lights, she sat with him in his car after another “accidental” coffee. They talked about nothing, about everything, about the rain itself. Then silence settled, thick and heavy. He turned toward her, his eyes searching.
“I don’t want to cross a line you’ll regret,” he said quietly.
Her chest tightened. She whispered, almost to herself, “Maybe the line was crossed long ago.”
The words hung in the damp air. His hand reached for hers, not hurried, not hesitant, simply inevitable. Fingers intertwined, warmth flooding through her. It was only a touch, yet it carried the weight of all their unspoken desires.
When she returned home that night, Kabir was asleep. She stood at the doorway of their bedroom, watching him breathe. Guilt rose like a tide, fierce and choking. She slipped into bed, careful not to wake him, her hand still tingling with the memory of Arjun’s touch.
Lying in the darkness, she realized there was no turning back. What had begun as a glance across a lobby, a scrap of paper, had grown into something that now lived inside her veins. The sea was louder indeed, and she could no longer silence it.
Episode 3 — Unspoken Confessions
The city was a blur of headlights and honking horns, but inside the cab, Rhea sat in silence, her phone glowing in her lap. Arjun’s last message lingered on the screen: “Do you ever wish life were simpler? Just two people, no maps, no roads, only the horizon?” She had stared at it for five minutes before typing back, “Sometimes I do. But then I remember there’s no such place.” Even after pressing send, her hands trembled. It was the closest she had come to admitting aloud the storm that now lived inside her.
At home, Kabir was at the dining table, his laptop open, earbuds in. He looked up briefly when she entered, offered a distracted smile, then returned to his screen. Meera ran into her arms, chattering about a drawing she had made at school. Rhea hugged her tightly, guilt pricking her skin. She told herself that she had not betrayed anyone yet, not truly. But the distinction felt fragile, a thin thread stretched too tight.
Late that night, when the house was quiet, she sat by the balcony, the rain tapping on the iron railing. Her phone buzzed again.
Arjun: “Are you awake?”
She hesitated. Then: “Yes.”
“Can I call?”
Her pulse quickened. She glanced at the closed bedroom door, then plugged in her earphones and answered.
His voice was softer than she remembered, hushed as though he, too, feared being overheard. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I kept thinking of you.”
The words struck her like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples across everything she had built her life upon. She should have ended the call, laughed it off, said something light. Instead, she whispered, “I’ve been thinking of you too.”
Silence hummed between them, filled only by the sound of his breathing, and the rain outside her window. Then he asked, “When did this begin for you?”
She swallowed. “That night at the retreat. The note. Maybe even before that. I don’t know. It feels like it was always there, waiting.”
“And you?” she asked, needing his confession as much as she feared it.
“The first time you looked at me,” he said simply. “I knew I shouldn’t… but I wanted to.”
Her breath caught. In the darkness of her balcony, with the city spread out like an indifferent witness, they confessed without naming the word itself—love, desire, temptation. They spoke in fragments, in half-sentences, the truth threading itself through what was left unsaid.
The days that followed became a haze of anticipation. She went through her routines, yet every moment was punctuated by thoughts of him. At work, she caught herself staring at her phone too often, waiting for his name to light up the screen. When it did, she felt alive. When it didn’t, she felt hollow.
One afternoon, during a meeting, she received a message: “Can you step outside?” Her heart raced. She excused herself under the pretense of a phone call and slipped out of the office lobby. Arjun was waiting near the parking lot, leaning against his car, his presence both casual and electric.
“You’ll get us caught,” she said, half-angry, half-thrilled.
He smiled. “I just wanted to see you.”
She shook her head, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. They stood too close, their shadows merging on the pavement. He didn’t touch her, but his nearness was a touch in itself. When she turned to go back, he murmured, “Tonight. Call me.”
That night, after Kabir fell asleep, she lay in bed with her phone hidden under the blanket. Their call stretched for hours, voices low, words spilling like water from a broken dam. He told her about his childhood—his mother’s illness, his father’s distance, the loneliness that carved itself into his bones. She told him about the way Kabir had stopped noticing her, the way she sometimes felt invisible even in her own home.
“You’re not invisible to me,” Arjun said. His voice was steady, certain. “You’re the only thing I see.”
Her eyes stung. She pressed her palm against her lips, afraid of the sob rising in her throat. It wasn’t just desire anymore. It was the ache of being seen, after years of fading quietly into the background.
The first time she admitted it aloud came unexpectedly. They were walking along the seaface one evening, the Arabian Sea restless under a sky smeared with clouds. He bought her roasted corn from a vendor, the salt and spice stinging her tongue. She laughed at something he said, and when she turned, he was watching her with that intensity she had come to know.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, suddenly self-conscious.
“How then should I look at you?”
“Like a colleague. Like a friend. Not like—” She stopped, biting back the word.
“Not like someone I want?” he finished for her.
Her silence was answer enough. She turned away, but he caught her wrist gently, his thumb brushing against her skin. The world around them carried on—children chasing balloons, couples strolling, hawkers shouting—but in that touch, something irrevocable was spoken.
She pulled her hand back, trembling. “This is wrong,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Maybe,” he replied. “But it doesn’t feel wrong when I’m with you.”
That night, lying awake beside Kabir, she realized she had crossed into a territory where truth and lies blurred. She wasn’t just speaking to Arjun anymore; she was carrying him inside her, his words echoing long after their conversations ended. She thought of the way he had looked at her on the seaface, and for the first time in years, she felt beautiful.
Days turned into weeks, and with them came the small betrayals that marked her double life. She lingered in the office under the pretense of work, when in truth she was waiting for a chance to catch a few minutes with Arjun. She silenced her phone at home but checked it obsessively when Kabir wasn’t looking. She grew adept at lying—tiny, careful lies that stitched themselves into her daily fabric.
Yet amid the guilt, there was also a kind of lightness. She smiled more often. She sang absentmindedly while cooking. Even Meera noticed. “Mama, you look happy these days,” she said one evening, crayons scattered across the floor. Rhea’s heart clenched, but she only nodded, kissing her daughter’s forehead.
One Friday evening, after a particularly long week, Arjun texted: “Can I see you tonight?”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Kabir had mentioned he might go out with colleagues after work. The thought of an empty evening at home both frightened and tempted her. She typed, “Yes.”
They met at a small café, the kind hidden in an alley, where no one would think to look for them. The lights were dim, the music soft, the tables secluded. They spoke little. Words felt unnecessary. At one point, his hand reached across the table, covering hers. She didn’t pull away. Their fingers intertwined, and she knew, with a clarity that terrified her, that something inevitable was approaching.
When he dropped her home later, they sat in the car outside her building for a long moment. He leaned closer, just enough that she felt his breath on her cheek. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Instead, he whispered, “I’ll wait until you ask me to.”
She stepped out, her knees unsteady, her heart wild. Inside, the apartment was silent. Kabir had left a note on the counter: “Out late. Don’t wait up.”
Rhea held the note in her hands, then let it fall to the floor. For the first time, she admitted the truth to herself—not in words, not in messages, but in the restless beating of her heart: she was falling, and she didn’t want to stop.
Episode 4 — The First Betrayal
The air in Mumbai carried the damp heaviness of monsoon, the kind that seeped into walls and skin alike. That Friday night, Rhea lay awake long after Kabir had left for an office dinner. The apartment was quiet, except for the rhythmic drip of water from the balcony awning. She scrolled through her phone, hovering over Arjun’s last message: “When the rain stops, will you let me see you?”
Her finger trembled as she typed: “Yes.”
Half an hour later, she slipped on a simple kurta and jeans, tied her hair in a loose bun, and left the apartment with the careful silence of someone committing a crime. The elevator’s descent felt endless, each floor a reminder of what she was about to do. Outside, the streets glistened under streetlights, puddles reflecting distorted images of passing cars.
Arjun was waiting in his car just beyond the gate. She slid into the passenger seat, heart pounding so loud she was certain he could hear it. He said nothing at first, only offered her a faint smile before starting the engine. They drove through rain-slicked streets in silence, words unnecessary in the presence of something larger, heavier, inevitable.
He parked near a quiet stretch of Marine Drive where the sea crashed against the stone walls. They sat for a moment, watching the waves hurl themselves at the shore. Finally, he spoke. “I told myself I wouldn’t ask you again. That I’d wait until you wanted this as much as I did. But tonight…” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the restless water.
She turned to him, her throat dry. “And if I said I wanted it?”
His eyes met hers, and in that moment, the world outside disappeared. He reached across the console, his hand cupping her cheek with a gentleness that broke her open. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, and when his lips found hers, it was less like a kiss and more like surrender.
The taste of him was new yet achingly familiar, as if she had been waiting her entire life for this moment. The kiss deepened, urgent, pulling years of silence and longing into a single breath. She gasped when he pulled back, her pulse wild. “Arjun,” she whispered, the name trembling on her lips like a confession.
They drove again, this time to his apartment in Worli. Her hands shook as he unlocked the door, the dimly lit space revealing bookshelves, half-finished canvases, and the faint smell of paint. It felt lived-in yet lonely, a place that had waited too long for warmth.
She hesitated at the threshold, torn between retreat and abandon. But when he reached for her hand, she stepped inside. The door closed behind them, and with it, the final remnants of hesitation.
He kissed her again, slower now, as though memorizing her. She melted into him, the years of restraint dissolving in the heat of his touch. When his fingers brushed the edge of her dupatta and slid it from her shoulders, she didn’t stop him. Instead, she let herself be led into the uncharted, the forbidden.
Later, lying against him, her skin still humming with the aftermath, she stared at the ceiling fan turning lazily above. Her chest rose and fell with the weight of realization: she had crossed the line she once thought sacred. She had betrayed Kabir. She had betrayed herself.
Yet, beneath the guilt, there was also a strange, fierce relief. For the first time in years, she felt alive. She felt seen, desired, chosen. Arjun traced circles on her palm, his voice low. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… let this be real, even if only here, even if only now.”
She turned to him, searching his eyes. “And after this? What happens to us?”
“We live with it,” he replied simply. “Whatever it means. Whatever it costs.”
The days that followed blurred between ecstasy and torment. At work, they maintained their facades—polite, professional, distant. But the smallest glance across the conference room carried the memory of intimacy. Every email, every brush of hands while exchanging files, felt charged with hidden fire.
At home, Rhea played her role as wife and mother, but her body betrayed her. She flinched when Kabir’s hand brushed hers, not from rejection but from guilt. She lingered in front of mirrors, studying her own reflection as though searching for proof of the secret written on her skin.
One evening, Kabir mentioned casually over dinner, “You seem distracted these days. Everything okay at work?”
She froze, spoon midway to her lips. “Just… too many deadlines,” she murmured, forcing a smile.
He nodded, accepting the excuse. But the words lodged in her chest like stones. Kabir wasn’t suspicious—not yet. But how long before he noticed the way she checked her phone too often, the way she slipped out for fabricated errands, the way her smile carried shadows?
Her meetings with Arjun grew more reckless. They met in hidden cafés, in hotel lounges, in his apartment when Kabir traveled. Each time, the passion was fiercer, the guilt sharper. She told herself she could stop—that she would stop. But the moment she saw him, the resolve shattered.
One rainy afternoon, as they lay tangled on his couch, she whispered, “We can’t keep doing this.”
He looked at her, eyes steady. “Do you want me to stop?”
She closed her eyes, tears burning. “No.”
And there it was—the truth she couldn’t escape.
By the end of that month, she realized she had constructed two lives: one woven of routine, family dinners, school runs; the other a secret world of stolen hours, whispers, and touch. The boundary between them grew thinner each day, threatening to collapse.
One Sunday morning, as Kabir read the newspaper and Meera drew cartoons on the living room floor, Rhea’s phone buzzed on the counter. A message preview flashed—Arjun: “I miss you.” Panic surged. She grabbed the phone quickly, her hands trembling, praying Kabir hadn’t seen. He didn’t look up. Relief washed over her, but it was laced with terror.
That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She knew the affair was no longer a flicker she could snuff out. It was a blaze, consuming everything in its path. And though it scared her, part of her wanted to let it burn.
The sea had carried their secrets to shore, and now the tide was rising.
Episode 5 — Between Shadows and Sunlight
The mornings had begun to feel like theater. Rhea would wake before Kabir, slipping into the kitchen with practiced quiet, brewing his coffee, preparing Meera’s breakfast, arranging her schoolbag. She played her role with steady hands, but inside her, a constant unease brewed. The memory of Arjun’s lips, the weight of his gaze, the scent of his skin—they followed her like shadows stitched to her being.
Sometimes she caught herself humming while chopping vegetables, her body unconsciously recalling the rhythm of his touch. When Kabir noticed, he smiled absently, mistaking it for contentment. “You’re glowing these days,” he said once, his eyes barely leaving the cricket highlights on television. She forced a laugh, guilt rushing in like floodwater.
Her days became divided between two worlds—the familiar sunlight of her home, where everything appeared in order, and the shifting shadows of her secret, where she felt alive yet hunted. The smallest things betrayed her: the way her pulse quickened at the sound of a message, the way her eyes darted to the clock when Kabir mentioned working late, the way her smiles lingered a second too long when she spoke of “colleagues.”
Arjun, meanwhile, had grown bolder. He messaged her at odd hours, his words simple but charged. “I miss your laugh.” “Meet me for just ten minutes.” “I want to hear your voice.” She both dreaded and craved those notifications, terrified Kabir might one day glance over her shoulder and see everything unravel.
One afternoon, under the pretense of a client meeting, she met Arjun at a rented studio flat he had quietly arranged in Bandra. The apartment was sparse—bare walls, a low couch, a small table—but the air inside felt charged with their desire. She dropped her bag on the floor, and before either could speak, their arms found each other.
It wasn’t just passion anymore; it was desperation. They clung to each other as if afraid of vanishing, as if the outside world would erase them if they didn’t hold tightly enough. When it was over, she lay with her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“Do you ever think about where this is going?” she asked softly.
His hand traced patterns on her arm. “I think about now. About you. Isn’t that enough?”
She wanted to say no, that it wasn’t, that the weight of secrecy crushed her. But instead, she closed her eyes. The truth was, she didn’t know what she wanted—only that she couldn’t let go.
The deception grew harder to maintain. At home, Kabir began to notice small inconsistencies—her late returns, her distracted silences, the faint perfume that wasn’t her usual. One evening, as she folded laundry, he asked casually, “You’ve been busy lately. Anyone new at work keeping you on your toes?”
Her heart lurched. She forced a laugh. “Just projects. Same chaos as always.”
He studied her for a moment longer than usual, then nodded, turning back to his phone. The silence afterward pressed against her chest like a weight.
Meera, innocent and observant, once asked, “Mama, why do you smile at your phone so much now?” Rhea froze, then tickled her daughter to deflect, but the question lingered. Children saw what adults ignored.
Arjun, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by the risks. One Saturday, he suggested they drive out of the city. She resisted, terrified of being recognized, but he persisted. “No one knows us outside these streets,” he said. “Don’t you want to breathe without fear for once?”
Against her better judgment, she agreed. They drove along the highway, past green fields drenched by monsoon rain, the city shrinking behind them. She rolled down the window, letting the wind whip her hair, and for a brief moment, she felt free. Arjun reached over, taking her hand on the gearshift. His thumb stroked her knuckles, the gesture tender, almost domestic.
They stopped at a roadside dhaba, where the smell of frying pakoras and chai mingled with the damp earth. Sitting across from him at the wooden bench, she felt the strangeness of their situation—two people who, in another life, could have been husband and wife, sharing meals, building routines. Here, they were only shadows, stealing sunlight where they could.
“Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if we weren’t hiding,” he admitted, stirring his tea absentmindedly. “Waking up with you, arguing about groceries, fighting and making up over silly things.”
Her throat tightened. “But we don’t live in that world.”
He looked at her then, intensity burning in his eyes. “Maybe we could.”
She shook her head, fear rising. “Don’t say that. You don’t know what you’re asking.”
But the idea had already lodged in her heart, dangerous and unshakable.
Back in Mumbai, the weight of their double lives pressed harder. Rhea became hyper-aware of every glance from Kabir, every question Meera asked, every neighbor’s casual observation. She lived in constant dread of discovery. Yet the more dangerous it became, the more intoxicating her stolen hours with Arjun felt.
One evening, after a long day, Kabir suggested they go out for dinner. Sitting across from him at their favorite restaurant, Rhea felt the chasm between them. He talked about office politics, about investments, about a potential trip abroad. She nodded at the right places, but her mind wandered. She thought of Arjun’s hands, his laugh, his whispered confessions.
When Kabir reached across to pour her water, she flinched, startled by the simple gesture. He frowned slightly. “You’re really tired, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, forcing a smile.
That night, lying beside him in bed, she turned toward the wall, clutching her pillow. She felt torn in two—sunlight on one side, shadows on the other. And somewhere in between, she was drowning.
Arjun, meanwhile, grew restless. He wanted more—more time, more honesty, more of her. “I can’t keep meeting you in scraps,” he told her one night in the studio flat. “I want a life with you, Rhea. Not just moments.”
Her breath caught. “You know that’s impossible.”
“Is it? Or is it just that you’re too afraid?”
His words stung because they were true. She was afraid—of destroying her marriage, of hurting Meera, of facing the judgment of a world that had no mercy for women like her. Yet, when he kissed her that night, all her fears dissolved. In his arms, she forgot the world.
But the world would not forget her.
The duality of her existence had reached its breaking point. Each day, she walked a razor’s edge, balancing sunlight and shadows, craving both, terrified of losing either. And deep down, she knew—something would have to give.
Episode 6 — A World of Lies
The lies began as whispers—small, almost invisible. “I have a late client call,” Rhea would say when she slipped out to meet Arjun. “There’s extra work on the Hyderabad project,” she would explain when she returned home after midnight. Kabir rarely questioned her. His trust was both a shield and a blade, protecting her deceptions while cutting deeper into her conscience.
But lies have a way of multiplying. Soon they became routine, stitched seamlessly into her daily fabric. She invented traffic jams that never happened, sudden shopping trips that left no bags behind, colleagues’ birthdays that weren’t on the calendar. Each story was crafted with precision, rehearsed in her mind before spoken aloud. And each time Kabir nodded, distracted or tired, a mix of relief and shame washed over her.
At first, she told herself these lies were necessary, harmless even. A scaffolding to hold up the life she wanted to preserve, while secretly building another. But with every passing week, the scaffolding grew heavier, threatening to collapse.
Arjun sensed it too. “You’re carrying too much,” he said one evening as they lay on the couch of the Bandra flat, her head resting against his chest. “Every time you look at your phone, you flinch, as if the world is about to fall apart.”
“Because it could,” she whispered.
He kissed her forehead. “Then let it. I’ll catch you.”
But she couldn’t. She thought of Meera, her daughter’s wide eyes, the way she ran to Kabir for bedtime stories, the innocent trust that bound their family. That trust was a fragile glass, and one revelation could shatter it beyond repair.
Yet the more she tried to resist, the deeper she sank. Arjun had become a necessity—his voice the only sound that soothed her, his touch the only place she felt real. She carried him with her everywhere, hidden in her phone, in the scent of her clothes, in the private corners of her heart.
The danger sharpened one evening when Kabir unexpectedly arrived at her office to surprise her. He walked into the lobby as she was stepping out, her phone still in her hand from a message she’d just sent to Arjun: “Five minutes away.”
Kabir smiled, oblivious, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Thought we could grab dinner together. You’re always so busy these days.”
Her stomach clenched. She forced a smile. “Of course. Just let me finish one quick call.” She turned away, pretending to dial a colleague, while secretly texting Arjun: “Not today. Go home.”
When she slid into the car with Kabir, she felt her pulse racing, the close call leaving her dizzy. He chatted cheerfully about a new project at his firm, unaware that her silence wasn’t attentiveness but panic.
That night, as she tucked Meera into bed, the child asked, “Mama, why are you so tired lately? Did someone make you sad?”
Rhea’s throat tightened. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, whispering, “No, sweetheart. Mama’s fine.” But she wasn’t. She was drowning in a world of lies, unable to see where truth ended and fiction began.
Meanwhile, Arjun grew impatient. “I’m tired of being your secret,” he admitted one night. They had just made love, the rain drumming against the window of the flat. He sat up, running a hand through his hair, frustration in his voice. “We can’t live like this forever, Rhea. I want you fully. Not in pieces.”
She pulled the sheet around herself, her voice trembling. “And what about Meera? Kabir? My family? You think they’ll let me walk away without tearing me apart?”
“I don’t care about them,” he snapped. Then, softer, “I care about you. Don’t I matter?”
She looked at him, torn in two. “You matter too much. That’s the problem.”
The cracks were beginning to show. Their once-secret paradise grew tense, filled with arguments and reconciliations. He wanted more. She wanted both worlds. And she knew one day she would have to choose.
At home, Kabir noticed the distance. One Sunday morning, as they had breakfast together, he put down his cup of tea and asked, “Are you happy, Rhea?”
She froze. “Of course I am.”
He studied her face for a long moment, as though searching for something hidden. Then he nodded, though his eyes held doubt. “You just seem… somewhere else lately.”
The guilt nearly broke her. She wanted to confess everything, to spill the truth at his feet and beg for forgiveness. But when she imagined the fallout—the shattered trust, the broken family, the judgment of relatives—her courage crumbled.
So she smiled, touched his hand lightly, and said, “I’m just tired. That’s all.”
That evening, she wrote to Arjun: “We need to be careful. He’s starting to notice.”
Arjun replied almost instantly: “Careful is killing us. Don’t you see? Every day we hide, we lose a part of what we could have.”
His words haunted her. That night, as Kabir slept beside her, she stared at the ceiling, imagining two lives like parallel trains—one bound for safety, the other for fire. And she was trapped between them, unable to leap, unable to step back.
The next week, her lies grew bolder. She told Kabir she had a two-day conference in Pune. In truth, she spent those days with Arjun in Lonavala, tucked away in a hillside cottage. The air smelled of wet earth and pine, and for once, she allowed herself to live openly, if only in that secluded bubble. They cooked together, laughed over silly jokes, walked in the mist, and at night, made love without fear of the clock.
But when she returned, the lie weighed heavier than any before. Meera clung to her legs, asking why she had been gone so long. Kabir kissed her cheek, but she noticed the faint frown on his face, the way his eyes lingered on her suitcase. She wondered if he smelled Arjun on her clothes, if he saw the change in her smile.
In the bathroom mirror, she barely recognized herself. The woman staring back wasn’t the Rhea who had once lived a simple, predictable life. She was someone else now—someone divided, someone deceitful, someone alive in ways she couldn’t explain.
But the mirror also whispered a truth she didn’t want to face: lies could stretch, but they could not hold forever. Eventually, something would snap.
And when it did, everything would fall apart.
Episode 7 — The Storm Within
The storm didn’t begin with a discovery. It began with doubt—the quiet kind that settles like humidity before monsoon, invisible but suffocating. Kabir had grown more observant in recent weeks, his casual glances lingering longer, his questions sharper. Where once he accepted her excuses without pause, now he watched her with the uneasy suspicion of someone who could sense a shift, even if he couldn’t name it.
Rhea felt it in every room of their apartment. His eyes on her when she texted too quickly. The silence when she returned late, keys jingling nervously in her hands. The way he studied her face when she laughed too brightly at nothing. It was as though the air itself had changed texture, heavier, charged with something unsaid.
One evening, as she was packing Meera’s schoolbag, Kabir leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You’ve been out a lot these days,” he said evenly.
She didn’t look up. “Deadlines. Clients. You know how it is.”
He nodded, but his silence pressed like a weight. She felt his gaze burning into her back. Later that night, when they lay side by side in bed, he turned suddenly. “Rhea… is there something I should know?”
Her breath caught. She forced herself to meet his eyes, steady and searching. “No,” she said, her voice calm, almost too calm. “There’s nothing.”
But her heart pounded so loud she was sure he could hear.
Arjun noticed the shift too. When they met at the Bandra flat, her laughter carried an edge of anxiety. She checked her phone compulsively, fearful Kabir might call unexpectedly.
“He’s starting to suspect, isn’t he?” Arjun asked one evening, pouring her a glass of wine.
She sighed, leaning back against the couch. “He doesn’t say it outright. But I feel it. Every look, every pause—it’s like he’s waiting for me to slip.”
Arjun set the glass aside and reached for her hand. “Then don’t go back. Stay here. With me.”
She shook her head, panic flashing in her eyes. “I can’t. Meera—” Her voice broke. “I can’t tear her world apart.”
“And what about you?” His voice sharpened. “What about what you need? How long will you keep breaking yourself in half?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Instead, she pressed her forehead to his chest, clinging to him as though he could hold back the tide that threatened to engulf them both.
The storm grew louder a week later. Kabir returned home early from work, unexpected, and found Rhea slipping into the apartment with damp hair and a hurried smile. “Client meeting ran late,” she said quickly, placing her bag on the table.
He said nothing, just stared at her. Then, quietly: “Which client?”
She froze, fumbling for a name. “Hyderabad team,” she muttered.
He nodded slowly. “Funny. I spoke to Rajeev from Hyderabad this afternoon. He said they wrapped up by five.”
Her stomach lurched. Words tangled in her throat. She managed a weak smile. “I stayed back to finish reports.”
Kabir studied her for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then he turned away, walking to the bedroom without another word.
That silence was worse than anger. It gnawed at her, left her trembling in the kitchen long after he closed the door. For the first time, she realized the ground beneath her was splitting, and she could no longer pretend it wasn’t.
At work, her nerves showed. She stumbled in presentations, snapped at colleagues, forgot small details. Arjun noticed the strain and grew frustrated.
“You’re unraveling,” he said one afternoon, pacing the flat. “This life of lies—it’s eating you alive. You can’t keep pretending with him forever.”
Her voice shook as she answered, “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I sleep at night without hearing the lies in my own voice?”
“Then leave,” he urged. “Choose us.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “And what if there is no ‘us’ after that? What if I lose everything, and all that’s left is regret?”
Arjun’s face softened, but his silence was heavy. He didn’t know how to answer, and she feared that meant he hadn’t thought that far ahead either.
The breaking point came on a Saturday morning. Kabir suggested a family outing to a mall. They wandered through shops, Meera tugging at her mother’s hand, giggling at toy displays. For a moment, Rhea let herself believe in normalcy, in the possibility that nothing had changed.
But as she and Kabir sat on a bench while Meera played, he turned to her abruptly. “Are you in love with someone else?”
The words hit like a thunderclap. Rhea froze, her lips parting soundlessly.
His eyes were steady, filled not with rage but with wounded clarity. “I can feel it, Rhea. You’re here, but you’re not with me anymore.”
Her throat burned. She wanted to deny it, to weave another lie. But her silence betrayed her. Kabir looked away, his jaw tight, his hands clenched.
She reached for his arm, desperate. “Kabir, please—”
But he stood, walking toward Meera, leaving her trembling on the bench.
That night, Kabir barely spoke to her. The dinner table was silent except for Meera’s chatter. He avoided her eyes, his face a mask of calm. When they went to bed, he lay turned away from her, the distance between them wider than the sea itself.
Rhea lay staring at the ceiling, her body rigid with fear. The world she had built with Kabir was cracking. The world she had with Arjun demanded more. And she, caught between them, felt herself splitting apart.
The storm inside her grew unbearable. She couldn’t concentrate at work, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t breathe without feeling the weight of her choices pressing down. The once-thrilling secrecy of her affair now felt like a prison. Every message from Arjun both lifted and crushed her. Every silence from Kabir was a blade.
One evening, unable to bear it, she met Arjun at the flat. Rain lashed the windows, thunder rolling across the city. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing.
“I’m losing everything,” she whispered. “Kabir knows. He hasn’t said it outright, but he knows. And I don’t know what to do.”
Arjun held her tightly, his voice fierce. “Then let it happen. Don’t waste yourself trying to hold onto something that’s already gone. Choose me.”
She pulled back, her eyes red, her chest aching. “But what if I lose Meera?”
His silence was long, heavy, unanswerable. Outside, the storm raged, as though the city itself reflected her turmoil.
And for the first time, Rhea realized that no matter which path she chose, the storm would not spare her.
Episode 8 — The Breaking Point
The days after Kabir’s quiet confrontation felt like walking on glass. Every sound in the apartment seemed sharper, every silence louder. Rhea moved through her routines with careful precision—packing Meera’s tiffin, ironing Kabir’s shirts, cooking dinner—all while her body hummed with dread. She could sense Kabir watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking, his eyes filled with questions he no longer voiced.
At work, she barely held herself together. Her colleagues noticed her absent-mindedness, her clipped tone, the way she lingered too long over her phone. Arjun noticed too, but his frustration only grew.
“You’re tearing yourself apart,” he said one evening, pacing the small Bandra flat. His voice trembled with impatience. “How long do you think you can go on like this, lying to him, lying to yourself? You can’t keep living in pieces, Rhea. Not forever.”
She sat on the couch, her face buried in her hands. “You don’t understand. Kabir may not have said it, but he knows. He feels it. And if he confronts me again, if Meera ever finds out—” Her voice broke. “I can’t risk destroying her world.”
Arjun knelt in front of her, his hands gripping hers tightly. “And what about our world? What about the life we’ve been building every time we steal an hour together? Doesn’t that matter?”
Tears stung her eyes. She pulled her hands away, whispering, “It matters too much. That’s why I’m terrified.”
That weekend, Kabir suggested they visit his parents in Pune. The idea, on the surface, was ordinary, but Rhea heard the undertone. He wanted to test her, to see how she would react. Her heart sank, but she forced a smile. “Of course. Meera would love to see Dadi and Dadu.”
On the train ride, Kabir was quiet, Meera bubbling with excitement beside them. Rhea sat stiffly, aware of the distance between her and Kabir. At one point, as Meera leaned against her father’s shoulder, Kabir turned to Rhea and asked softly, “Do you still love me?”
Her chest constricted. She wanted to say yes, to reassure him, but the word stuck. She looked away, staring at the blur of fields outside the window. “Kabir…”
“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice tight. “If you can’t answer, don’t force it.”
The rest of the journey passed in silence.
At his parents’ house, the air was filled with the smell of masala and old books. Rhea helped her mother-in-law in the kitchen, laughing politely, but her smile never reached her eyes. At night, when Kabir lay beside her on the guest bed, he whispered, “I don’t want to lose you, Rhea. But I don’t know who you are anymore.”
She turned away, tears slipping silently onto her pillow.
When she returned to Mumbai, the tension with Arjun boiled over. He had been waiting at the flat, restless. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said the moment she entered.
Fear gripped her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the waiting, the half-truths, the stolen scraps of you. I want you—all of you. Or nothing.” His voice cracked on the last word.
She stared at him, horrified. “Don’t say that.”
“I have to,” he insisted. “Rhea, I love you. But I can’t be the man hiding in the shadows while you play house with him. Choose me. Or walk away.”
Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the couch. “You’re asking me to rip apart everything I’ve built. My family. My daughter’s life. Do you know what that would mean?”
“I know exactly what it means,” he said, his jaw tight. “It means freedom. It means honesty. It means we stop living in lies.”
She buried her face in her hands, shaking. “I can’t. Not yet.”
Arjun’s silence was devastating. Finally, he said, “Then maybe there is no ‘us.’”
The words sliced through her, leaving her breathless.
At home that night, Kabir was waiting in the living room, the lights dim. He gestured to the sofa. “Sit.”
Her heart pounded as she obeyed.
“I need to ask you one thing,” he said quietly. “If I looked through your phone right now, what would I find?”
Her breath caught. She tightened her grip on the cushion in her lap. “Kabir—”
“Answer me.” His voice was sharp now, his eyes burning with a pain she had never seen before.
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Her silence spoke louder than any confession.
Kabir closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. “I knew it.” He stood abruptly, walking into the bedroom and shutting the door.
Rhea sat frozen on the sofa, her chest heaving, her hands trembling. The house felt like it was collapsing around her.
The next day, she texted Arjun: “It’s over. He knows.”
Arjun called instantly, his voice urgent. “What happened? Did you tell him?”
“No. But he asked. He knows. I can’t hide anymore.”
“Then come to me,” Arjun pleaded. “Don’t waste another minute in that house of lies. Be with me.”
Her tears spilled freely. “Arjun, I’m so scared.”
“Don’t be,” he whispered. “We’ll build something together. Just you and me. Please, Rhea. Choose me.”
She closed her eyes, caught between two worlds—the family she had built with Kabir, the fire she had found with Arjun. Both demanded her loyalty. Both could destroy her.
That night, lying awake in bed beside Kabir’s rigid form, she realized she stood at the edge of a precipice. One step would change everything. One choice would unravel the life she knew.
And the storm inside her had reached its breaking point.
Episode 9 — Love or Loyalty
The morning after Kabir’s unspoken accusation, the apartment felt like a stranger’s house. The clink of Meera’s spoon against her cereal bowl, the shuffle of Kabir’s shoes as he dressed for work—everything sounded amplified, harsh, as if the walls themselves were bearing witness. Rhea moved through the motions, buttering toast, pouring juice, her hands steady but her heart in chaos.
Kabir barely looked at her. When he did, it was brief, like glancing at a wound he couldn’t bring himself to examine too closely. Before leaving, he bent down to kiss Meera’s forehead, then straightened. For a second, his eyes flicked to Rhea, a storm of pain and restraint swirling there. He said nothing and closed the door behind him.
Rhea sat at the dining table long after, her untouched toast growing cold. She knew she could not stretch this silence forever. Kabir’s patience was not forgiveness—it was a dam waiting to burst. And Arjun was pressing on the other side, urging her to leap into a life that terrified her as much as it thrilled her.
That afternoon, she met him at the Bandra flat. The moment she stepped in, he closed the door and pulled her into his arms, as though afraid she might vanish if he let go.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispered into her hair. “Tell me you’ll come with me.”
She pulled back, her eyes red. “Arjun, it’s not that simple.”
“It is,” he insisted, his hands framing her face. “It’s you and me. That’s all that should matter.”
Her voice broke. “And Meera? She’s six years old. Do you know what it would do to her if I tore her world apart?”
Arjun’s jaw tightened. “Children are resilient. She’ll adapt. But you—if you stay there, you’ll wither away. Don’t you see? You’re alive here. With me.”
His words sank into her, dangerous and tempting. She wanted to believe them, wanted to believe that love could be enough to rebuild a life. But images of Meera’s smile, of Kabir’s quiet devotion before all this, crowded her mind.
That night, back home, Kabir sat in the living room, his phone in his hand. When she entered, he looked up, his face pale but resolute. “Rhea,” he said quietly, “I can’t keep pretending. I need to know. Are you in love with someone else?”
Her throat burned. She opened her mouth, but no words came. The silence stretched.
Kabir’s eyes closed briefly, then opened, filled with unshed tears. “I thought so.” He set his phone aside, his voice breaking. “I don’t know if I’m angrier at you for betraying me, or at myself for not seeing it sooner.”
Rhea sank into the chair opposite him, her body trembling. “Kabir, I never wanted to hurt you.”
“But you did,” he said, his voice flat. “And now we have to decide what happens next.”
The words struck her like a verdict. Not you have to decide. We. Despite everything, Kabir was still willing to face it together. The realization made her heart ache with guilt.
The next day, she met Arjun again. He was restless, pacing the flat. “It has to be now,” he said. “Pack a bag, take Meera, come with me. We’ll start over somewhere else.”
Her eyes widened. “Start over? Do you even hear yourself? You’re asking me to blow up my entire life overnight.”
“Because your life is already burning!” he shouted, then lowered his voice. “Kabir knows, doesn’t he?”
Her silence was answer enough.
Arjun took her hands, desperate. “Then this is our chance. Before he makes the choice for you. Rhea, please—don’t choose safety over love. Don’t stay in a cage just because it feels familiar.”
She broke down, sobbing into his chest. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yes, you do,” he whispered fiercely. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
That evening, Kabir sat across from her at the dinner table, Meera asleep in the other room. “Rhea,” he said softly, “I won’t beg you to stay if you don’t want to. But I need to know—do you love him?”
Her lips trembled. For the first time, she whispered the truth aloud. “Yes.”
Kabir flinched, as though struck. He looked down, his hands clenched. “And me?”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
His eyes lifted, filled with sorrow deeper than anger. “Then maybe that’s your answer.” He stood, walking into the bedroom, leaving her weeping at the table.
Rhea felt like she was living inside two different currents, each pulling her toward destruction. Arjun’s love was fire—consuming, urgent, impossible to ignore. Kabir’s silence was water—steady, suffocating, impossible to escape. She was drowning in both.
One night, unable to sleep, she sat by the balcony as rain lashed the city. Her phone buzzed—Arjun.
“Tomorrow. Choose us. Or I can’t do this anymore.”
Her chest tightened. She typed back slowly: “If I choose you, I lose everything else.”
He replied instantly: “If you don’t, you lose yourself.”
She clutched the phone to her chest, sobbing quietly so Meera wouldn’t hear.
The next morning, Kabir spoke before leaving for work. His voice was steady, but his eyes were bloodshot. “I’ll wait for your decision, Rhea. But not forever. You owe me honesty, if not love.”
The words echoed in her head all day. Both men were demanding the same thing—her choice. And she knew she could no longer delay.
That evening, she stood at the window, staring at the horizon as the sun sank behind the skyline. For the first time, she admitted to herself that whatever she chose, there would be no winners. Love or loyalty—either way, something precious would be lost.
And tomorrow, she would have to decide.
Episode 10 — The Last Embrace
The city felt strangely still that morning, as though holding its breath. Rhea woke early, her heart heavy, her decision pressing down on her like an immovable stone. Kabir stirred beside her but did not speak. His silence had become its own language, one she could no longer misinterpret.
Meera padded into the room, rubbing her eyes. “Mama, are you coming to school drop today?”
Rhea smiled faintly, brushing her daughter’s hair back. “Yes, sweetheart.” Her voice caught on the promise, knowing every ordinary moment might soon fracture into memory.
After they left, Kabir drove in silence. The hum of the car engine filled the void. When Meera hopped out at the school gate, waving goodbye, Kabir finally spoke. “Rhea, when I come home tonight, I need an answer. I can’t live in this halfway place anymore.” His voice was steady, but his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.
She nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
At the Bandra flat, Arjun was waiting. He had packed a small suitcase, its presence in the corner like an ultimatum. His face lit up when she entered, then clouded when he saw the turmoil in her eyes.
“Tell me you’re ready,” he said, taking her hands.
Her throat ached. “Arjun…”
He searched her face. “Don’t say you can’t. Not after everything we’ve been through.”
“I love you,” she whispered, tears spilling. “More than I thought possible. But love isn’t enough to rewrite a child’s life. Meera needs her father. She needs a home that doesn’t collapse under my choices.”
His grip tightened, desperation flooding his voice. “And what about you? You’ll bury yourself alive in that house, Rhea. You’ll die in silence, piece by piece.”
Her sob broke free. “Maybe that’s my punishment.”
He pulled her into his arms, holding her as though he could fuse them into one. For a long moment, neither moved. The city roared outside, rain slicking the windows, but inside there was only the sound of their breathing, their grief.
Finally, she pulled away. “I can’t walk away from her. Or from the life I built. Not yet. Maybe never.”
His face crumpled, but he nodded slowly, as if forcing himself to accept. “Then this is goodbye.”
Her knees weakened. She wanted to protest, to beg him to wait, to promise someday. But she knew it would be cruelty to tether him to her indecision.
He kissed her one last time—slow, lingering, filled with every unspoken word. When they parted, she felt hollow, as though a part of her soul had been torn away.
That evening, Kabir returned home to find her waiting in the living room. The air smelled faintly of incense; she had lit a candle as if to purify the space.
He set his bag down, his eyes cautious. “Well?”
Rhea’s voice trembled but did not falter. “I’m staying.”
Relief and sorrow mingled on his face. He nodded slowly, sinking into the armchair. “Thank you for your honesty.”
She clasped her hands in her lap. “Kabir… I can’t pretend nothing happened. I betrayed you. I fell in love with someone else. But I choose this family. I choose Meera. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to mend what I broke.”
Kabir’s eyes glistened, but he didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, he whispered, “I don’t know if I can ever forget. But for her sake—for Meera—I’ll try.”
Her tears flowed freely. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet. It was a reprieve, a fragile chance.
That night, after Meera was asleep, Kabir sat beside Rhea on the balcony. The city stretched before them, neon lights flickering through the mist. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was steady. For the first time in weeks, she felt a sliver of quiet.
Still, when she closed her eyes, she felt Arjun’s last embrace, the echo of his kiss, the memory of his words. It would live in her forever, a secret chamber in her heart. She had chosen loyalty, but love—love would remain her ghost.
Months passed. The routines of life reclaimed her—school runs, office deadlines, family dinners. Kabir grew warmer again, slowly, cautiously. They laughed together sometimes, though shadows lingered in his eyes. He didn’t ask about Arjun again, and she didn’t speak his name. It was an unspoken pact: the past had happened, but they would not let it define their present.
Yet, on quiet nights, when the city slept, Rhea sat by the balcony with her diary. Between its pages lay the old note from the retreat: “The sea is louder when it carries secrets.” She traced the words with trembling fingers, remembering the man who had written them, the love that had set her aflame, the choice that had broken her.
She would never see Arjun again. He had transferred to another city, his name appearing only once in a corporate email that she read with trembling hands. But he lived inside her still—in the shadows of memory, in the spaces between breaths, in the ache she carried beneath her ribs.
One evening, as she tucked Meera into bed, the child asked, “Mama, are you happy?”
Rhea kissed her forehead, smiling through tears. “Some days yes, some days no. But I’m here. And that’s what matters.”
Meera nodded sleepily, unaware of the weight in those words.
Rhea returned to the balcony, the city lights stretching like constellations. She inhaled deeply, the night air cool on her skin. She had chosen loyalty over love, duty over desire. It was the harder road, the lonelier road. But it was the road she could live with—for now.
As she stood there, the memory of Arjun’s last embrace came back to her—his warmth, his whispered plea. She closed her eyes, letting the ache settle.
The sea inside her was still loud, still carrying its secrets. But she had learned to live with the noise.
And in the end, that was her last embrace—with love, with loss, with herself.
***
