By the tenth year, I drafted a divorce petition, saved as der_late.docx. Deleted, rewrote, over and over. By the thirteenth, I printed and placed it before him. He read, looked up:
— Give me some time.
— Time until when?
He stared at the coat rack:
— After this season.
Which season? Monsoon? Mango bloom? Or the season when patience finally ends?
I tried everything: rage, blunt honesty, counseling. The therapist questioned:
— Do you struggle with desire?
He nodded.
— With orientation?
He nodded again.
— With trauma?
This time silence.
At dinner, I longed to smash plates, just to hear sound break through emptiness.
Fifteen years. I stopped sobbing. Tears came like dishwater running, but the oil never rinsed away.
One day, I returned early. Rain burst suddenly in Delhi. As I opened the door, I heard his voice inside the study:
— Hello, Aarav?
Aarav—my dearest friend from high school. Every Saturday, he and Aarav drank beer, he came home late, breath smelling of liquor, yet his eyes stayed clear. I never felt jealous. Until that day.
— She filed for divorce again, — my husband sighed.
— Divorce? — Aarav sounded shocked.
He laughed bitterly: — Fifteen years, Aarav.
— What now?
— I will not divorce. I gave my word.
— I despise that vow. To whom did you promise? To me or to him?
— To both.
I froze. He continued softly:
— That night, I still hear the brakes screech.
Then silence.
— We are both to blame. My duty is to let him rest at night. Yours is to give me strength.
I trembled in the kitchen.
That evening, face to face, I asked:
— Do you love Aarav?
He answered:
— I love promises. From you. From Aarav.
…
I left for my mother’s house, carrying a suitcase, a cactus, and opened his desk drawer. Inside I found:
A hefty life insurance policy naming me as beneficiary. Clause: “If marital status changes within twenty-four months, contract becomes void.” Date signed: September 23, two years earlier.
A receipt from the hematology ward for chemotherapy.
An old photograph: me with a boy at Delhi University gate, helmet in his hand, smiling wide. Rohan—my first love. I believed he had di:ed in a rainy-night cr:ash.
On the back I had written: “Rohan, showers always come early this season.”
Beside it, a slip of paper: “I’m sorry. – V.” (Vikram, my husband).
I sought Aarav. He gave me a letter from Vikram. Inside: the insurance files, hospital bills. Aarav explained:
— Vikram had lymphoma. He hid it so the policy would take effect. Signed September 23.
Then he met my gaze:
— And… Rohan did not di:e. That night Vikram’s car braked and struck Rohan’s bike. His face was disfigured. He couldn’t bear you seeing him. He vanished. He promised Vikram: he would let you marry, protect you, but never touch you.
I was shaken. Aarav removed his glasses, exposing a faint scar. He whispered:
— I am Rohan. I took the name Aarav. For fifteen years I remained near you, only under another identity.
…
When I confronted Vikram, he nodded:
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