Ankahi

I realise now how often I recall conversations that ended years ago. I replay pauses, deleted texts, unsent words — trying to understand what really died and when.Trying to figure out who hurt whom first. 

Who owed what.

Who failed harder.

I keep doing autopsies on things that are already dead, hoping they’ll explain why I still ache. Truth is, what hurts isn’t just him, it’s the life I imagined where I didn’t have to be so alert all the time.

Sometimes it’s not the relationship that hurts, but the silence that follows, the absence of acknowledgement, the way something meaningful is erased as if it never existed.

People like to say “I would kill for you” as if violence is devotion. But devotion is quieter.

It is forgiveness. 

It is choosing peace when ego begs for war.

It is staying gentle even when walking away would be easier. 

On the drive back today, I pictured a future conversation —me talking casually about my husband…About how he takes care of things without being asked, how he plans, how he doesn’t let me feel alone, how he says, “Relax, I’ll handle it.”

And I cried.

Not because I miss anyone, but because I realised how long I’ve gone without rest. Main thak gayi hoon strong reh ke. Sab sambhaalte hue. Har cheez justify karte hue.

I met people who were once connected to him, and I didn’t do it to provoke or reclaim anything.

Your actions told me to stop, so I did.

Not because I didn’t care — but because I finally listened to what wasn’t being said. I met them as myself, warm, respectful, and giving.If that made someone uncomfortable, maybe it’s because I no longer belong to the story they froze me in.

I love deeply, or maybe I think I do. Because if I didn’t, a deleted message wouldn’t have taken two entire day away from me. I don’t remember how they went because my mind decided to play every single conversation of the last five years and after it all ended came the accusations that I’m selfish, that I didn’t change, and so much more.

I love him. Still do.

But love that bruises the soul is not something I want to keep bleeding for.

Maybe it’s grief

Grief for the version of me that believed softness would be protected. Grief for the innocence that thought being chosen quietly was enough. Grief over seeing another beautiful soul with the same innocence of fur night suits, Bollywood movies, and so much cuteness. Bhagwaan un dono ko yun hi hamesha khush rakhe. 

Mujhe ab ladai nahi chahiye.

Mujhe shor nahi chahiye.

Mujhe bas ek aisi zindagi chahiye Jahan mujhe khud ko sambhalte sambhalte tootna na pade.

I still believe in love but not the kind that bruises and calls it passion. I want the kind that lets me exhale. Aur agar uske liye mujhe thoda akela rehna pade toh shayad woh akelapan is confusion se zyada shaant hoga.

I still believe in softness, in being taken care of without having to ask, in a future where I don’t have to run, plan, explain, or prove.

Where someone says, “Relax. I’ve got this.”

And means it.

That thought makes me cry.

Not because it’s impossible but because I finally know that’s the kind of love I won’t settle below.