Priyal's return hadn't been loud; it was silent, strategic. Like a move made in the middle of a chess match, not to attack, but to confuse. And slowly, the board was resetting.
It began with small things. A chance encounter at the gate. A sudden appearance at the café where Isha and Karan went every Sunday. A subtle glance, a harmless smile. But Isha saw through the rhythm of it all. Priyal wasn't just back. She was playing.
Isha was immature earlier, but with this, she refused to be the kind of woman who screamed in jealousy or chased answers with suspicion. She believed in grace, even when it ached. But she wasn't naïve either. She saw Priyal planting herself like a well-placed pawn in the moments of their lives, and she didn't miss a single move.
One afternoon, while Isha was walking back from her yoga class, she saw Karan's car parked across the road. And beside it, Priyal. Laughing. Too close. Too casual.
Later that evening, Karan came home, holding a bag of groceries and a small bouquet of white tulips, her favorite. Isha took them, smiled, and placed the flowers in a vase. She didn't ask where he'd been. He didn't offer either.
The next morning, she wore the black silk kurti Karan had once said made her look like poetry, and joined him on the front porch as he stepped out. And just across the road, Priyal emerged from her own gate, as if the timing was rehearsed.
"Morning," she said, perfectly pleasant.
"Morning," Karan replied awkwardly.
Isha simply nodded. The silence hung thick in the air, tense. But when Priyal turned away, Isha gently slipped her hand into Karan's. Not to prove anything. Just to remind.
Later, at lunch with her friend Reem, Isha confessed, "She's not doing anything wrong, not really. She's just… present. In every corner. In every space that used to feel like ours. And that's somehow worse than an affair."
Reem leaned forward. "You don't trust him?"
"I trust him," Isha replied. "But I don't trust old emotions. They have a habit of coming back dressed in nostalgia."
That night, she waited up. Karan was late. She wasn't surprised when he entered quietly, loosening his tie.
"You saw her again?" she asked, not accusing, just calm.
He paused. "Yes. She asked for help with something. I thought it was harmless."
Isha looked at him for a long moment. "And was it?"
Karan sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know. I didn't feel anything, but she… she talks like no time has passed. Like I'm still that boy from college."
"You're not," Isha said, turning away. "And I'm not the girl who waits around for someone to choose her."
He reached out, touched her shoulder. "Isha, I'm not choosing her. I never did. Even when I was with her, I was half-lost. But with you… I feel found."
She turned to him slowly, eyes searching. "Then act like it. Because right now, it feels like we're on a chessboard, and she's playing both sides."
Karan pulled her into a hug. "You're not a piece in a game, Isha. You're the endgame."
But even as he held her, she wondered, what if Priyal wasn't trying to win him back… what if she was just trying to make Isha lose herself?
The next day, Isha found a note slipped into her book club novel. In Priyal's handwriting:
"You can wear his ring, sleep in his bed, and hold his hand. But some pieces, darling, were moved long before you even entered the game."
Isha didn't confront her. She simply folded the note, placed it in her journal, and began to write. Not a reply. Not a confession. But a declaration.
She would not be baited.
If Priyal was playing chess, then Isha would rewrite the game entirely. She wouldn't play to win, Karan. She would play to remind herself why she was already whole.
That evening, as Karan returned home, he found Isha dancing barefoot in the living room — the lights dim, music soft, the scent of jasmine filling the air.
He stopped, watched her for a moment. "What's going on?"
She smiled, breathless, glowing. "Nothing. I just remembered who I was before all this mess. And I missed her."
Karan walked to her, cupped her face in his hands. "I miss her too. But I never stopped loving you."
She leaned in, whispered, "Then don't just love me. Choose me. Every time she shows up, every time she laughs at an old joke, every time the past knocks — let it. Just… keep the door closed."
He kissed her. Long, slow, certain.
And in that moment, Isha realized, it wasn't about winning or losing. It was about standing still when someone else tried to shake your world.
Let Priyal play her game.
Isha had already won.
And through it all, Arun, who had seen him through heartbreaks and healing, reminded him over drinks one evening, "Don't let the past confuse the man you've become. You're not the boy who lost Priyal. You're the man who found Isha. Don't forget that."
Karan nodded. Arun was right. He had loved Priyal once, deeply, recklessly. But that was before he knew what true love felt like — the kind that calmed storms instead of causing them.
And now, even as Priyal stood across the road, beautiful, familiar, tempting — he knew one thing for certain.
He didn't want the past back.
He wanted his future with Isha.