After that night — all the shouting, the words he didn’t mean but still said, the tears that burned like acid — Ekansh had thought maybe, just maybe, once the air was clear of everything he had kept buried, he would finally breathe.

But instead, it felt like something inside him had cracked open and nothing came out. Just emptiness.

Days passed, heavy and quiet. You and he moved around the house like ghosts— polite, distant, careful not to brush shoulders. His mother tried, god knows she tried, cooking extra, humming old songs, pretending she didn’t notice how the house had lost its warmth.

Ekansh didn’t know what hurt more — the silence or the fact that he’d gotten used to it.

So, that night, when you came home late again, uniform still on, eyes hollow with exhaustion, and went straight to bed without a word — he knew.

He sighed, leaning against the wall, his mother’s soft, pitying eyes meeting his from the kitchen doorway. He forced a small smile. “Don’t look at me like that, Ma.”

She said nothing. Just turned off the light and went to her room.

Ekansh stood there for a long time, before finally walking into the bedroom.

You were already asleep — hair spilling over the pillow, face half-buried, breathing slow and even. Peaceful. Like nothing in the world could touch you.

His chest tightened.

He walked closer, sat by the edge of the bed. For a moment, he just looked — at the woman who had changed his life, the one he had fought for, bled for, built a world around.

And now, he wasn’t sure if he belonged in that world anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice trembling. “For not being enough.”

He bent forward, pressed a kiss to your forehead — soft, fleeting, almost reverent.

That night, Ekansh left.

Left the apartment. Left Lucknow. Left you.

He didn’t go back to the village. He didn’t have it in him to face the whispers or the pity. Instead, he found himself in Varanasi — the city that hummed like an old prayer, where no one asked questions.

He rented a small room in a crowded basti near the ghat. Days passed in a blur of work — odd jobs, teaching kids how to read Hindi, sneaking into English classes meant for schoolchildren, learning, failing, trying again.

He kept busy because silence was worse. Because every time it fell, your voice filled it.

Every rupee he earned felt like ash in his hands. Every evening, when the sun melted into the river, he’d sit by the ghat, holding the bracelet you had given him last year — the one with his initials carved at the back.

And he’d wonder — if you were eating well. If you were sleeping at all. If you missed him.

He told himself he’d left for the right reasons — to find himself, to build something of his own, to stop being a shadow orbiting your light. But some nights, he couldn’t help but think he’d simply run away from being invisible.

Diwali came fast that year.

The whole city glittered like it was dressed for a wedding — diyas floating down the river, music spilling from temples, laughter echoing in narrow lanes.

Ekansh stood among it all, alone. He remembered that last Diwali with you — standing shoulder to shoulder at the Ganga Aarti, your fingers brushing his when you reached for the diya.

This time, he stood farther back, blending in with the crowd. When the pandit’s voice rang out, he closed his eyes and began to chant. The rhythm steadied him, the sound of bells and conch shells drowning out the ache in his chest.

When the pandit beckoned for someone to take the aarti thaal, Ekansh stepped forward before he could stop himself.

The brass plate was warm in his hands, the fire flickering like a heartbeat. He moved it gently in circles, whispering his prayer — give me strength. Make me worthy.

And then —

A hand joined his.

Soft. Familiar. Sure.

His breath hitched. His throat burned. He turned—

And there you were. Standing beside him. Like his wife. Beautiful as always.

The thaal trembled in his hands. His lips parted, breath shallow, words caught somewhere between disbelief and longing.

“{{user}}...” he whispered.