Chapter 5: The Choice

7

It was as if I was under a spell—I kissed her without hesitation.

My hands found her waist, her lips urgent and demanding. It was wild, reckless—like the mountains, only darker, deeper.

She hugged me and lay down on the sofa.

We fit together awkwardly but didn’t care. Her earrings tangled in my hair; she laughed, breathless, biting my shoulder.

Just like that first night on the mountaintop, we set our desires ablaze, entangling and tearing at each other, not caring if anyone might open the door at any moment.

The risk only made it sweeter. We moved with the desperation of people who knew this might be their last chance.

At the height of passion, I grabbed her hair and questioned her: “Why did you bring a man to see me? Why get so close to him?”

My voice was raw, jealousy flaring despite my best efforts.

Ananya answered without resistance: “Because I hate you. I hate that you have a wife, I hate that you left me for so many days, I hate that you abandoned me in the town. You’re a bastard, a despicable man.”

Her words cut deep, but her body pulled me closer. Pain and pleasure tangled until I couldn’t tell the difference.

The more she cursed me, the crazier I became. I forgot I was human—I felt only like a beast.

I lost all sense of self, of right and wrong. I wanted her, needed her, in a way I hadn’t needed anything in years.

I don’t know how long it lasted; we were both exhausted, holding each other on the sofa.

Her hair stuck to her forehead, our breaths slowly calming. The world outside was a faint rumble—nothing to do with us.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

Her voice was sleepy, content. I stroked her hair, searching for an answer.

I didn’t want to hide from her. “I’m thinking, maybe this is what life is.”

For the first time in years, I felt something close to honesty—a kind of freedom in admitting my emptiness.

She didn’t reply, just rested her head on my shoulder, holding my arm tighter.

We sat like that for a long time, the silence comfortable. I almost believed we could start over, right here.

Ten years ago, on campus, Meera had once shown her love for me in this same way.

I remembered her hand in mine, the promise in her eyes. Where had that gone?

Times have changed. I don’t know much, but I know that at this moment I want Ananya, I want this passionate collision, I want to let loose the desire I’ve suppressed for so long.

For once, I wanted to stop being the good son, the dutiful husband, the obedient Indian—just be a man, alive and flawed.

“Let’s go—don’t you have friends coming?” I said.

My voice was gentle, reluctant. I didn’t want to let go.

“No, I just said that to annoy you.”

She smirked, her eyes sparkling. I laughed in spite of myself.

“But isn’t there still a man downstairs? At least say goodbye.”

Ananya burst out laughing, then said proudly, “You didn’t notice she’s a woman, did you?”

For a second, I was speechless. The room echoed with our laughter, the tension broken.

“I’m leaving in a few days,” she said.

Her tone was soft, almost apologetic. I waited, knowing what was coming next.

I knew what she meant.

The finality in her voice hurt more than I expected. I nodded, swallowing the ache.

“Don’t overthink it. I don’t want anything from you—just like before, you don’t need to take responsibility.”

She reached out, squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, unable to speak.

Although she said that, I knew I had to make a decision.

I couldn’t keep living in two worlds. Something had to give.

I returned home at dawn and lay down on the bed I shared with Meera.

The flat was silent. The air was heavy, smelling of stale perfume and old memories. I stared at the cracks in the ceiling, wondering how it had come to this.

Ten years in love, and I could no longer protect this marriage, though I was the one who destroyed it.

Guilt pressed down on me, heavier than the blanket. My phone buzzed, and I stared at it, too tired to move.

I took out my phone:

“Let’s divorce. I don’t want anything.”

My fingers trembled as I typed. The words felt cold, final—a door closing forever.

Unexpectedly, Meera called me immediately.

The phone rang, shrill and insistent. My heart leapt into my throat.

I looked at the time—it was already 2 a.m. She usually went to bed at 11; maybe I woke her up.

Her voice was calm, almost robotic. She asked a few questions, her pauses longer than usual. I had no answers.

Facing Meera’s questions, I was speechless. She didn’t say much, just paused, then said she’d be home in five days at the earliest.

No drama, no pleading. Just a statement of fact, like a business meeting rescheduled.

She was always so calm; no matter what happened, she always seemed above it all, indifferent.

I’d had enough.

The silence between us was suffocating. I wished she’d shout, cry, do something to break the spell.

The sound of a pressure cooker whistle from a neighbour’s kitchen drifted in, filling the space where our words should have been.

For the first time, I wondered if freedom was just another kind of loneliness.

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[End of Chapter 5: When you finally choose, sometimes it’s only yourself who’s left.]