— I kept the vow to Rohan. I never touched you. I only waited until the insurance secured your future.
He handed me his organ donation form. Donor’s name: Vikram Sharma.
By September 23, Vikram lay frail in the hospital. He gave me signed divorce papers:
— Sign them if you wish.
I set down the pen:
— You sign first. I’ll… decide later.
A month afterward, when the policy was validated, we divorced officially. Vikram shifted to a flat near the hospital. I went back to my mother’s, purchased a new bed with only one pillow.
Aarav—Rohan—called several times. Once I picked up.
— He never asked anything, only to tell you: “I’m Rohan. The coward who ran away.”
I answered:
— My name is Aarav now. You must learn to call me that. And call yourself too.
We met by the Yamuna river. Peering at me through a tea-stall window, he described his years of exile. I listened carefully, as if hearing another woman’s tale. I admitted:
— I don’t know if love remains. I feel gratitude, fury, pity. But I wish to learn to lie in the middle of a bed.
Rohan shook his head:
— This time I’ll wait. Right here. I won’t flee again.
…
When I returned, Vikram had left a bank slip marked “15 years rent – Vikram” and a note:
“I did my share: released the brake, let out the breath.
You do yours: burn the divorce files, buy flowers, place a pillow in the center of the bed. If someday you need someone to hang curtains, I’ll arrive as a neighbor.
Vikram – The man who didn’t touch you not from lack of love, but from fear of loving you wrongly.”
I turned on the yellow lamp, set the round cushion in the middle of the mattress. After fifteen years, for the very first time, I chose myself.
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