It was a rainy day, typical for Delhi. I got home early and unlocked the door quietly, soaked from the sudden downpour. I didn’t mean to listen in, but his voice echoed from the study.
“Hello? Aarav?”
Aarav — his best friend, and my classmate from school. He often came over on Saturdays. They drank beer and talked late into the night. I never once felt jealous.
Until that moment.
I stood still, listening.
“She’s filed for divorce again,” my husband said.
“Divorce?” Aarav’s voice cracked.
“Fifteen years, Aarav. I’ve kept the promise. But I won’t divorce. I gave my word.”
“To whom?”
“To you. And to him.”
There was a long silence.
Then I heard him say, “That night… I still hear the brakes.”
I pressed a hand against the wall to keep from falling.
Secrets Spilled — And a Name From the Past
That night, I confronted him.
“Do you love Aarav?”
He looked at me, eyes tired but sincere.
“I love promises. The ones I made to you. The ones I made to him.”
I left the next day. Took only a suitcase, a potted cactus, and a heavy heart. At his desk, I found three things:
- A life insurance policy with me as the sole beneficiary. If our marriage ended within 24 months, the payout would be void. The policy had been signed two years earlier — on September 23.
- A receipt from the hematology ward. He had been undergoing chemotherapy.
- A photo of me and someone from my past — Rohan, my first love. He had died in a motorcycle accident, or so I had believed. On the back, I’d written:
“Showers always come early this season.”
Beside it, a note: “I’m sorry. – V.”
Vikram — my husband.
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