Do kashtiyon ki sawaari

 I’m tired.

Not the normal kind of tired — the kind where your body feels heavy and your mind just wants to shut down like a computer.

Yeh aadmi mere zehen se jaata hi nahi hai yaar.

No matter what I do, where I go, who I talk to — he’s there.

In flashes. In memories. In my body.

And the worst part is — I still love him.

I know how insane that sounds.

I know I shouldn’t be here.

He’s with someone else. He’s moved on.

And still… nothing inside me has caught up.

There was a moment at the airport when I thought I saw him.

For a second, my heart stopped.

I couldn’t breathe. And then it wasn’t him. But my body didn’t care. It had already gone back.

I cried on the flight. Sunglasses on, just so no one would see.

Because I kept remembering two completely different versions of him at the same time.

One —the one who humiliated me.

Who said things that made me feel exposed, small, replaceable.

Who made me feel like I had interfered, like I had ruined things.

The one who said Arzoo knows better. 

The one who didn’t want my opinion.

The one who didn’t want me around.

The one who was disgusted holding my hand.

The same fucking hands.

And then the other version.

“Oye mera panda.”

“Aaja mere paas.”

“Acchi lag rahi hai.”

The one who held my hand like it mattered. The one who kissed it. The one who felt like home.

A few days ago, I moisturised my hands on a flight. They felt soft. And my brain for no reason took me straight back to Bangalore.

That night on the couch he looked at my hands and said they were the most beautiful he had ever seen.

He held them. He kissed them.

And now…

those same hands felt like something he didn’t even want to touch.

I miss him. I miss taking care of him. That was my love language.

I loved making his plate, keeping his cutlery ready, handing him water, remembering how he likes his coffee, remembering his Subway order, asking him questions,listening to him talk about things he was excited about and so much more. 

I didn’t have to remember those things, but I did because it was him.

I knew everything about him, everything he cared to share and stuff I noticed but he took that from me too. Said arzoo knew him better, that he didn’t have a 6/6 vision that she knew bout but I didn’t, and in that moment knowing his thing, everything felt stupid.

His habits.

His stress patterns.

How he peels his skin when he’s anxious.

How he lights up when someone notices the small things.

Felt I didn’t know him. They way he sung her praise and how she was an angel and what not. 

I used to stop him from hurting his hands.

I used to moisturise them.

And now I sit here wondering if someone else does that for him.

And hating myself for even thinking that.

And the strangest, most painful part?

He never really knew me.

He never asked.

Our conversations were about him.

I asked. He shared. I listened.

And at some point, I stopped sharing.

Because it felt stupid. Because it didn’t feel like he wanted to know.

And still… I loved him.

I loved making him laugh. 

Watching him roll his eyes. 

Kissing his nose. 

Feeling him kiss my forehead.

Feeling his palm on my stomach.

I loved the way he spoke about new things he learned — like a child discovering something for the first time.

I used to tell him I wished I could fuse into him.

Silly. But real.

I miss him so much that it physically hurts. It hurts that he left me in a way where I can’t even imagine someone else in those same spaces.

I’ve tried. I really have. But every time I meet someone, my heart just doesn’t agree. And maybe that’s because everything I’m doing right now is still coming from him. 

There’s something else I need to say.

I have been the other woman. When he was married — I was there. And when Arzoo came — I became the third person.

And I don’t want that anymore.

I don’t.

I might have made mistakes.

But I’ve paid for them.

For years.

And just because I love him does not mean I don’t deserve to be someone’s priority.

I knew things I should never have known. I knew what songs he and Arzoo listened to together. I still can’t hear Kya Mujhe Pyaar Hai without it hurting. I remember her birthday.

It’s insane.

But his life became important to me –completely.

And then December, that night, when we got intimate, he asked me why.

And I said: “Because it’s you, jaana.”

And I meant it.

He was it for me.

I would have chosen him fully.

I didn’t want moments.

I didn’t want something hidden.

I wanted a life.

And maybe that’s where I went wrong.

Not in loving him.

But in expecting a full life from something that was never whole.

And the truth is…

This isn’t even about me “not going back.”

Because he hasn’t asked me to.

He hasn’t tried.

He has made it very clear that he doesn’t want me around.

That he doesn’t want my opinions.

That someone else knows better.

So no — this isn’t strength in the way people think.

This is just reality.

But even then…

Even now…

Even after everything…

I still want to hold him.

Take care of him.

Feed him.

Moisturise his hands.

Listen to him talk.

Wrap myself around him and just sleep.

And that is the part that breaks me the most.

Because I can love him like this…and still know

I cannot go back.

Because I don’t have the capacity to survive him choosing someone else again. I don’t have the strength to rebuild myself one more time. And there is no one else who will pick me up if I fall apart like that.

So this is where I am.

Still loving him.

Still grieving him.

Still remembering everything in painful detail.

But also knowing:

I deserve to be chosen.

I deserve to be known.

I deserve to not feel like an option.

And maybe that’s the hardest kind of love.

The one where you don’t stop loving… You just stop going back.