Divorced in Secret, Betrayed in Public
Chapter 7: London Fog
Ritu always cared about birthdays and festivals. Maybe it’s her romantic side—she not only prepared gifts for me, but expected me to do the same. Somehow, someone like me who never cared about birthdays as a child, became particular about them as an adult.
She brought me little trinkets from every city she visited—a silver anklet from Jaipur, a handmade diary from Pondicherry. My London flat was already filling up with reminders of home.
That day was a bit chilly. I went to the airport to pick up Ritu. As soon as she saw me, she gave me a big hug.
Her arms squeezed me tight, and for a moment, I forgot all my worries. That’s the thing about old friends—they make you feel like you belong.
“You’ve lost weight. Your chin’s so sharp. But you look great. Seems you haven’t been too hard on yourself.”
She grinned, pinching my cheek. I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling.
I smiled and took her home. When she was showering, I stepped outside. Under the dim streetlight, Arjun stood there in a black coat, collar turned up to his chin. His shoes left muddy prints on the cobblestone, and for a second, he looked like he belonged in the lanes of Bandra, not this foreign city. His gaze was deep, and when he looked at me, it was as if he wanted to wrap me up completely.
The London air was damp, and his presence felt out of place—like a monsoon cloud in winter. For a second, I wondered if I was imagining him.
“You followed Ritu? She’ll be angry if she finds out.”
My voice was steady, but my heart raced. Old habits die hard, and he had always known where to find me.
Arjun said nothing, just looked at me. After a long silence, he pressed his palms together in a brief, silent greeting, then turned and left.
He disappeared into the night, his silhouette swallowed by the fog. I stood there for a long time, adjusting my dupatta against the chill, listening to the distant sound of a train, the ache in my chest sharper than the cold. The weight of everything unsaid settled around me. Some stories don’t end, they just travel with you—like the taste of home in a foreign city.
