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⭐I ask a question at the end of every chapter. If you want try to answer it.

Praveer

It’s been one week since that incident with the poetry card.
One week  since I started pulling away from her.

We still do the morning routine. She studies. I sit nearby sometimes. But I’ve stopped talking much. I avoid eating with her—even though I make sure she eats. I leave her food on the table, walk away like it doesn’t matter.

But it does.
God, it does.

Because the truth is—
The more I see her… the more I care.

And I can’t afford that. Not now. Not in this kind of arrangement.

I’m a thirty-something man. An adult.

I should know better. But I’ve started catching myself watching the way she curls her fingers when she’s thinking hard.

I’ve memorized the way her eyes light up when she understands something new. I’ve started… noticing her. Not as a student. Not as someone I’m supposed to take care of.
But as her.

And that scares the hell out of me.

Maybe it’s the emptiness. Maybe I’m just filling up the hollow spaces I’ve carried for too long. But whatever it is—whatever this is—it’s dangerous. Because if I let myself feel too much… if I let this care turn into something more… it’ll ruin me.

This is a contract. An understanding. Temporary.
She’s young. She has her own life waiting for her.
And me?

I’ve already lived through goodbyes that left burn marks.

So no, I can’t let it happen.
Not again.

For her sake—for my sake—I’ll keep the distance.
I’ll keep making sure she’s okay.
But I won’t get any closer than that.

Even if it’s already too late.

Until last Saturday, I used to drop her off at the bookstore where she works part-time.

It's not far—just a bit ahead of the main road. I’d pull over at the same spot in the evening to pick her up too. But after that... I stopped dropping her.

I still pick her up though. It gets late, after all.

Today’s Saturday again. One of her work days. She goes three times a week, 11 AM to 5 PM.

There’s a knock—two soft taps—on my door.

“I’m going...” Divya’s voice trails in.

I don’t look up. “Okay,” I say, keeping my focus on the laptop screen. I’m sorting questions for the internal exams. The clock ticks, quiet and dull in the background.

Then, a slow creak of the door. Her eyes peek through—round like boba pearls, a little unsure but full of light. “I’ll text you after I reach, okay? So… you’re not coming again today? That busy?”

“Hmm,” I hum, without turning. Not yes, not no.

She stays for a second longer than needed.

She lingers in the doorway, fingers tightening on the knob—like she’s waiting for me to change my mind

“Okay... bye. Pick me up at 6, okay?”

I nod silently, still scrolling with my left hand, eyes fixed on the screen. I fix my specs with my left hand's finger.

The door clicks shut behind her.

And suddenly, the room feels a little emptier again.

It’s almost 2 now. Lunchtime.
But somehow… I don’t feel like eating.

Should I skip lunch?
Yeah. Let’s just skip it.

I check my phone.
A message from her.
Just seeing her name makes my chest feel heavy.
I hate this.
I feel like shit.

I toss the phone aside and lie down on the bed, face buried in the pillow.
The silence in the room feels louder than ever.

I close my eyes. I’m not sleeping—I’m just tired of thinking.
But of course… I think anyway.

A few minutes pass. I grab my phone again.
Open Google. Type slowly.

🔎 If wife is in relationship with another man what husband should do. Even if he doesn't love her.

I stare at the screen.

What am I even doing?

I tap the damn search button.

The first thing that pops up:

“#1 - Don't think of your spouse's lover as your competition…”

What.
What the actual fuck.

“Please don’t think of the other person as competition.”
Fuck this shit.
Rahul?
That Rahul is my competition?

What the fuck can he do for her?
Can he kill for her?

Can he burn someone alive just because they hurt her?

Can he throw away his so-called perfect fucking life just to protect her from the mess she didn’t ask for?

Can he drag himself through the damn dirt to bring her back from the pieces—bit by broken bit?

No.
No, he fucking can’t.

He doesn’t know how she shuts down when she’s scared.
How her fingers shake when she’s lying.
How she pretends to be strong but breaks when no one’s watching.
He doesn’t know how to pull her back when her mind’s spiraling.

That bastard wouldn’t last a second in the hell I’ve seen.

And still… he gets to be the one she jokes with? Smiles at? Maybe—maybe thinks about?
Fucking unbelievable.

They say don’t see him as competition?
He’s not competition.
He’s a fucking joke.

I want to scream.
I want to fucking punch something.

it’s paper, ink, and a fucking deal. Nothing more.
And yet here I am—starving, spiraling, skipping lunch because I can’t stop thinking about her with someone else.

Someone who might make her laugh.

Someone who might make her heart calm.

And the worst part?
I don’t even know if I deserve to be angry.
Because in this contract, I’m just the placeholder.

But —this feeling inside me isn’t fake.
And no search result can tell me what the hell to do with it.

But…
I need to calm the fuck down.

I flip over on the bed, eyes glued to the ceiling fan, its blades circling like the thoughts in my head—fast, useless, and noisy.

I can’t keep going like this.
Something needs to be clear.

If she does like that guy—Rahul, or whoever the hell—if she loves him... then what the fuck are we doing in this marriage?

Why should we stay tied for two fucking years like this? For money? For a contract?

Once she gets the damn inheritance, once I find my sister… it’s better we part ways. Clean. Sharp. Done.

But for that, I need to know what she feels.
Because this—this silent spiral in my gut—is killing me.

If she’s seeing someone else, even emotionally... that’s cheating. No, no—fuck that. That’s betrayal.
And I swear on everything I’ve lost—

I’ll get what I want from Mr. Chatterjee. I’ll play their fucked-up game.
I’ll dig into the dirt if I have to. I’ll stain my hands, lose my name, burn my peace—but I will find my sister.

Still... before any of that—

I need to know what Divya feels.

Because no matter how hard I push her away, I’m still being pulled in. And if what I feel is real—if this thing clawing at my chest is actually love—then I need to face it.

I don’t want to be a fool in love. But I also don’t want to be a monster.

At least… I need to know what the hell she’s holding in that heart of hers.
Only then can I decide whether to walk away—

Or let this fire burn me alive.

I look at my phone.

It’s 4:15 pm.

Two more fucking hours to go, but I can’t take it anymore. I’m done lying in this room, done pacing, done pretending I’m okay with this space between us like it doesn’t weigh a hundred goddamn kilos on my chest.

She asked me to pick her up at 6.

Said it casually—like we didn’t go one week without eating together, like I haven’t been shutting myself off, like everything is fine.

But it’s not fine.

I can’t sit here acting like I don’t care when I do. I care way too much.

So fuck 6 PM. I’m going now.

Maybe I’ll stand outside that bookstore like a lunatic. Maybe I’ll sit in the car overthinking the last three weeks of my life. Or maybe—

Maybe I’ll just watch her from afar.

Let that Rahul or whoever-the-hell-he-is try to compare himself to me. That bastard doesn’t know what it’s like to kill for someone. To bury your peace just to keep another soul breathing.

He’s not built like that. Probably lives in some soft little bubble, thinking a few flowers and sweet words can keep her safe.

I’ll skin the bastard alive if I ever see her cry because of him.

Enough.!!!  I’m done pretending.
I grab my keys. Let’s end this damn guessing game.

If she loves him..then I’ll walk.
If she doesn’t... then God help anyone who stands in my way.

I’m about to walk out the door when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

What a damn mess.

Unshaved stubble. Hair a wreck. Eyes red from lack of sleep and overthinking. I look like I’ve been dragged through hell and dropped into heartbreak.

Pathetic. I look pathetic...

This—this isn’t how I want her to see me.

Not like some worn-down, overthinking fool. Not like a man who looks like he’s losing a battle with his own mind.

I sigh, step back, and yank off the shirt I’m wearing.

Let’s wear something decent—at least try to look like I have a grip on myself.

I pull out a light navy blue full-sleeve t-shirt from the shelf. Clean. Soft. Fitted just right. I throw it on, run a hand through my hair, and try to make sense of the face in the mirror again.

Better. Still tired, still angry, still confused. But at least now I don’t look like I’ve lost completely.

Let’s go.

I step into the car and slam the door shut harder than necessary. The engine roars to life, and without a second of hesitation, I speed off. No music. Just the sound of tires chewing the road under me, matching the burn in my chest.

Fifteen minutes. That’s all it takes. I know these streets better than I know myself, and right now, I don’t give a damn about traffic or rules.

And then—I’m there.

Chaturvedi Bookstore.

My car skids a little as it stops, right in front of the tall glass window that frames the reading section. My eyes zero in through it, drawn like magnets to the inside.

And there they are.

At the far end, near the last bookshelf, almost tucked into a corner like they want to disappear from the world—Rahul and her.

My chest tightens. My jaw clenches.

Now I get it.

Now I fucking get it.

That’s why she said 6 p.m. today instead of the usual 5. Gave herself a clean little extra hour. To sit there. To talk. To laugh. To be with him.

Of course...

The picture burns into my mind—him leaning just a little too close, her tucking her hair behind her ear, that smile she saves for rare moments. A smile I haven’t seen in days.

I stand there, outside the glass, motionless. But inside?

Boiling.

I slightly push open the glass window—just enough. Just enough to let in the breeze… and the words.

They’re seated with their backs to the window. Shelves shield them on the sides. Cozy. Hidden. Like a damn movie scene.

But they don’t know I’m here.
And that’s their mistake.

Then I hear it.

"Deseo que seas mía, amor de mi vida. Por favor, acepta mi amor..."

The words slip from Rahul’s lips in a soft murmur.

Spanish.

He speaks it with effort, but the message is clear.
"I wish you to be mine, love of my life. Please accept my love."

My hands curl into fists.

My breath catches. And for a split second, I don’t know if it’s rage or heartbreak trying to claw its way out of my chest.

That bastard. That absolute prick.

He had the audacity to say those words—the same language I’ve buried in my bones..

My jaw tightens until I feel it ache. My nails dig into my palm. The words echo, louder and louder in my head.

"Please accept my love."

No. No. No.

You don’t get to say that to her.

Not here. Not while she’s still mine.
Even if it’s by paper.
Even if it’s complicated.

You don’t get to touch her world.
You don’t get to steal what’s not yours.

Not while I’m still breathing.

I have to go.
No more watching. No more wondering. No more standing like a damned fool behind glass.

I storm inside. The bell above the door jingles like it has no idea the storm walking in.

“Praveer, you again?” Chaturvedi sir raises a brow from behind the counter.

I don’t have time for formalities. I pull off my specs, push them into my pocket, and grit my teeth hard enough to make my jaw click.

“Yes. I want a book.”
My voice is sharp, clipped—barely holding the anger back.

“Can I go to the library?”

He looks at me, slightly taken aback by the force behind my words.

“Yes, yes… please,” he says, stepping aside.

I don’t wait for anything else.
My legs move fast. Purposeful. Rage walking on nerves.

Because if Rahul still has words left,
I’m going to make sure he swallows every last one of them.

I storm into the library section, boots echoing off the polished floor like thunder.

All heads turn.

Divya gasps, frozen.

Rahul's smile fades instantly.

In two strides, I’m there.

My hand grabs his collar, yanking him off the floor—his feet dangle mid-air, and his back slams into the shelf behind with a dull thud. Books rattle. So does he.

My right hand is around his neck.. putting pressure on it a little bit.

My voice is low, guttural—like fire restrained behind clenched teeth.

"¿Tú crees que puedes venir aquí y proponerle como si fuera tuya?"

(You think you can come here and propose to her like she’s yours?)

I tighten my grip.

He tries to open his mouth and his eyes are getting wide.

"¡Ni siquiera eres digno de mirarla, pedazo de mierda!
¿Amor? Tú no sabes amar, pinche imbécil."

(You’re not even worthy of looking at her, you piece of shit!
Love? You don’t know how to love, you fucking idiot.)

I pull him in closer.

"Ella es mía. Mi mujer. Y tú no eres más que un cabrón patético.
Un maricón de mierda que se esconde detrás de palabras vacías.
Vuelve a acercarte, y te juro que te reviento la cara, hijo de puta."

(She’s mine. My woman. And you’re nothing but a pathetic bastard.
A fucking pussy who hides behind empty words.
Come near her again, and I swear I’ll smash your face in, you son of a bitch.)

Then I feel it—a tight grip on my right forearm. I turn, still seething, and there she is. Divya.

Her eyebrows are pulled together, her expression twisted in disbelief. She looks at me like she doesn’t even recognize who I am.

“Leave him,” she says, her voice sharp—too sharp. My entire body freezes.

She’s never raised her voice at me before. Never looked at me like I’m the one who needs to be stopped.

“I said leave him!” she yells, louder now. That tone—piercing, almost scared—it hits harder than any punch ever could.

My grip loosens.

Rahul collapses to the floor, breathless and gasping like he’s just seen hell. I didn’t even grab his throat with that much pressure ,Just his collar. And still, he’s wheezing like some fragile snowflake who’s never been touched by life.

But my eyes don’t follow him. They stay locked on her.

She crouches beside him, checking him over, worry all over her face. “Are you okay?” she asks him, voice low and trembling.

My jaw clenches. That question should never have been for him.

She’s touching his arm, brushing the air from his face like he’s something precious. And suddenly I don’t know who I’m more furious at—him, her, or myself.

I click my tongue, the sound sharp and bitter in the heavy air. Pathetic. He can barely breathe from just a shove. That’s what she’s worried about?

Then she looks back at me—eyes wide, voice cracking—and I feel her words hit like a whip, “What was this for, Sir? Huh? What the hell was this?”

I don’t have an answer.

"What even are you blabbering? What language was that?" she snaps, glaring at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. "I didn’t even understand a thing!"

I’m still standing there, fists clenched, blood roaring in my ears, but her voice slices through the noise. Sharp. Angry. Confused.

Rahul, that sorry excuse of a man, struggles to his feet, using the bookshelf to steady himself like he’s just survived a war. His voice is hoarse. "It was Spanish… I’ve been learning for three months. I could tell it was Spanish but—man—the words came so fast, it just… zipped past me. Like highway speed."

Divya’s hands shoot into the air in pure frustration. “Spanish?! Again?!”

Her voice echoes through the room.

My chest rises and falls with short breaths. I should be the one yelling. I should be the one confused. But right now, all I can do is watch her—flames in her eyes, disbelief on her face—while Rahul stands there like he’s the damn victim.

"Answer me," Divya says again, her voice firm—no longer that soft murmur I’m used to. Her eyes—those big, dark, boba eyes—don’t hold warmth today. They burn. Fierce. Unshaken. Demanding the truth.

And damn it, I came here for answers too... but now, standing in front of her, I don’t know if mine even matter.

"What were you two doing?" I finally manage, the words barely making it out of my mouth. My tone’s cold, low… almost trembling with something I can’t name.

"We... we were just talking," Rahul mutters, that shaky voice of his betraying the lie. Hesitation clings to every syllable.

I step forward. “Deseo que seas mía... amor de mi vida…” I repeat his earlier words, the ones I overheard through the damn glass. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding. “You throw around those words without even knowing what they mean?”

His eyes widen—because I speak them perfectly. Not some broken Google translation. Real. Fluent. Laced with rage.

Both of them stare at me now, silent.

Then comes a slow creak—the door.

We all turn. Chaturvedi Sir stands at the entrance of the library section, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Guys... is everything alright? I heard some shouting. The store’s closing soon.”

I glance around. It’s just the three of us here, in this corner filled with too many books and way too many emotions. Some customers linger at the front, unaware of the storm in the back room.

I clench my fists.

“Dada, you go. I’ll close the store. Don’t worry… we’re just talking about something important,” Rahul says to his grandfather, trying to sound casual. But there’s a twitch in his jaw—he’s nervous. He should be.

Chaturvedi sir eyes us for a moment longer, then nods slowly. “Alright… close all the windows, and lock the store properly. Weather’s turning bad—rain might come.” He exits with that old wooden door creaking behind him.

The silence he leaves behind? Heavy.

Rahul starts again, voice stumbling. “Listen, listen… I said it but—”

Divya cuts him off. “How did you even hear that?” Her gaze swings toward me, sharp.

I exhale, stepping a little closer, not breaking eye contact. “From the window,” I say simply, cold and unapologetic. “Did I make some huge mistake by hearing what he  clearly said?”

She doesn’t reply immediately.

Her lips part—maybe to argue, maybe to explain—but nothing comes out.

And I don’t look away. I want the weight of my presence to sit right between them. I want her to feel it.

This wasn’t about eavesdropping.

This was about truth slipping out when no one thought I was watching.

“But I didn’t say those words to her!” Rahul blurts out, his voice cracking.

I snap, stepping forward, my patience gone. “Are you insane? Was there anyone else other than you two in that corner?”

He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Divya cuts in, waving her hand slightly, trying to defuse it.

“He meant… he didn’t say it to me. I don’t even understand Spanish—he was just practicing, that’s all,” she says, eyes flicking between us, voice unsure but trying to be firm.

“Practicing?” I scoff, the bitterness rising. “Then what about the card, huh? The one I found in that poetry book? Was that practice too?”

She stiffens. “You said you didn’t know what was written…” Her brows furrow, lips parting slightly in disbelief as the realization sets in.

“You lied.”

I glance away, jaw clenched.

Silence, thick.

Then Rahul speaks up, voice lower now, almost ashamed. “I didn’t mean to put that card in her book. That same poetry book—Shritama took it too. That note, it was meant for her, not Divya. Divya picked up the wrong one by accident.”

I turn to him, eyes narrowed.

He’s not stammering now. He’s telling the truth—or trying to.

“What… are you telling me the truth?” I ask, my voice low, sharp edges barely dulled by confusion.

“Yes, he is,” Divya says, her eyes steady but tired, like she’s trying to make me understand—not just hear her.

“Shritama is one of our most regular customers. He… he likes her. I even told you about the card.  I picked it up by mistake.” She pauses, taking a breath. “She studies Spanish literature.”

My jaw tightens.

“I thought I’d try to learn some words. To impress her,” Rahul adds. He looks awkward now, fidgeting, his confidence clearly gone. “And I was just practicing those words with Divya, that’s it.”

Divya lifts her hand, holding something I hadn’t noticed before—a small red book. SPANISH FOR BEGINNERS, written in gold letters across the front.

“I didn’t see it before,” I mutter, eyes locked on the book as she holds it out toward me.

My stomach twists.

For a second, I just… stand there.

The fight, the anger, the storm inside me—it all starts crumbling into silence. Like a balloon stabbed at the peak of its rise.

I don’t even reach for the book.

I just stare at it.

Because suddenly the problem wasn’t the book. Or Rahul.

It was me.

“I didn’t mean for it to get to her. That card wasn’t meant for Divya… I swear. I just wanted to impress Shritama.”

“So… you were just practicing those words to impress your crush…” I murmur, rubbing the back of my neck, eyes darting around the room like I’m looking for a way out of this mess I’ve made.

“YES!” they both shout in unison.

I flinch.
“Ah…”

Shit. That’s… embarrassing.

“Okay—wait—but Praveer Da… why do you care that much?” Rahul asks, his voice confused, eyes bouncing between me and her. “What kind of relationship do you two even have? You looked like you were gonna kill me…”

He turns to Divya. “Divya?”

I don’t know what to say.
I... really ..don’t know what to say.

And then she looks at me. Not angry. Not confused. Just… soft. Her eyes are soft now.

“You know Spanish,” she says gently. “And for that card… you were avoiding me?”

Her voice is a whisper.
But it slices clean through the air.

I can’t hold her gaze. I look down. My chest tightens. I want to say something—anything. But I can’t find the words. My throat feels dry. The shame wraps around my ribs like rope.

I messed up. I messed up because I felt too much.

And I didn’t know how to handle it.

“Divya…” Rahul says again, his voice tinged with concern. “Can you please tell me what’s happening?”

She looks at him.

Then she looks at me.

And what she says next knocks the breath out of my lungs.

“He is my husband,” she murmurs, barely louder than a breath.

I blink.

My heart skips.

She said it.

Out loud.

In front of someone.

No hiding. No hesitating.

And I…
I have never felt so seen and so ashamed at the same time.

I step out of the library section, heart still hammering, a storm of emotions swirling inside me—relief that she wasn’t involved with Rahul in any way… and a dull, spreading ache at the thought of what she must think of me now. What did I look like in her eyes just now? A jealous madman? A fool?

The air feels different outside the library space. Quieter. Heavier.

I push open the front gate of the nearly empty bookstore. The bell above the door jingles softly, too soft for the weight I feel inside.

I glance down at my phone—5:20 PM.

Almost time to leave.

Almost time to pretend things are normal again.

I lift my foot to step out… and stop.

A gust of wind lashes across my face.
It’s raining. Hard.

Sheets of water beat against the sidewalk, turning the street into a blurry mess of silver and shadows. Cars pass slowly, their tires hissing against the wet road.

I don’t move. I just stand there, right at the edge of the door, one foot halfway over the threshold like I’m caught between two worlds.

The world before I stormed in.

And the world after I said everything I didn’t plan to say.

"Where are you going without an umbrella?"
Her voice is soft—but it cuts through the storm like a thread of light.

Before I can respond, I feel it.
Her hand—warm, gentle—wraps around my wrist.

I flinch. The bare skin of our hands touching, heat blooming even in the cold rain-soaked air.
She doesn’t let go.
Instead, she gives the lightest tug, just enough to pull me back from wherever my mind was spinning.

Her other hand, steady and sure, opens a black umbrella with a soft click.
She steps out into the rain without hesitation.
The umbrella is above her head now, but I'm still standing in the doorway, half-shadow, half-silence.

She turns back slightly, eyes searching mine.

"Are you not coming?"

But she’s still holding my wrist.

Still pulling.

Not dragging—but inviting.

And my hand...
It follows.
No thought. Just heartbeat.
And breath.

I step forward, crooking my back under the low umbrella.
She lifts her arm, tiptoes a little, making sure the umbrella rises enough to cover us both.

The space under it is small—too small.
I can feel her shoulder brushing mine.
I can hear her breath over the rain.
And my own heartbeat sounds like thunder in my ears.

Behind us, through the bookstore’s glass front, Rahul stands at the main door.
A silent silhouette in the storm.
The world around is blurred—washed out in grey and gold, in shadow and light.

Divya looks over her shoulder.

"Rahul, I hope all the misunderstanding is clear… and let this stay the secret of our relationship, okay?"

Her voice is calm, almost gentle.
Rahul nods, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

Then she turns back to me.

And for the first time in what feels like forever—
She smiles.

Not wide and not forced.

Just a small, curling smile.
A glint in her eyes as the lightning flashes somewhere far above.
A shine that reflects both the streetlight and something else.

Something real.

Something only for me.

  ─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────────

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