Every lie a woman tells the world begins with two words:I'm fine.
Rekha wasn't.
Not fine.Not functional.Not who she used to be.
She was unraveling. Beautifully. Brutally.And the threads weren't just falling away — she was pulling them herself.
Because being a wife had taught her restraint.
But being unmade?
That taught her freedom.
Ashok began noticing.
The small things first.
Lipstick too dark. Blouses too tight. The faint scent of sandal and sweat when she walked past.
"You've changed," he muttered one night, eyes on the TV.
"I hope so," she replied.
He didn't laugh.
Ishan was losing sleep. And control.
The hunger had turned obsessive.
He wanted her constantly. Not just the body — the smell of her hair, the way she poured chai, the sound of her keys in the lock.
He hated it.
He loved it.
He told her over the phone one night: "You've ruined other women for me."
She didn't gloat.
She said, "Good. I never wanted to be compared."
Then came the crack.
Thursday afternoon. 4:10 p.m.
Ashok returned home early.
Rekha had just stepped out of the shower, wearing a silk robe, damp hair wrapped in a towel.
He walked in, frowning. "Where were you?"
"Home."
"Hair's wet."
"So?"
He stared.
Then, suddenly, walked to the bedside table, opened the drawer.
And found it.
A black lace panty.
Too new.Too bold.Too not her.
"Is this yours?"
She met his eyes.
"Yes."
He paused. Something in him caved right there.
"You've been... seeing someone?"
She didn't answer.
Didn't lie.
Didn't say I'm fine.
She turned. Walked to the mirror. Removed the towel.
Hair fell like a curtain of rebellion.
"If you're asking me now, it means you already know."
Ashok left that night.
No drama. No violence.
Just silence and a slammed door.
Rekha didn't cry.
She called Ishan.
"I think it's over."
"Over?"
"My marriage."
Silence on his end.
Then: "What do you want?"
She paused.
Not who.
Not when.
Not how.
But what.
And for the first time, she said it out loud:
"I want to never be small again."
That night, she met him in a hotel again.
But this time — she didn't wear anything.
Not even shoes.
Just her trench coat.
She walked past the reception, heels clicking, collar up, skin beneath it bare and brave.
He opened the room door.
She dropped the coat without a word.
He fell to his knees.
Not out of lust.
Out of awe.
"You're dangerous," he whispered against her stomach.
"Then fuck me like you're not afraid of dying."
They made love like it was war.
Against furniture. Against time. Against everything that had ever tried to tame them.
She scratched his chest until it bled.
He choked her until her orgasm split her in half.
She begged him to leave marks on her thighs.
He slapped her ass so hard it echoed off the walls.
They didn't stop.
Not after the first time.Not after the third.
When she came the fifth time, he whispered, "You're not mine. But I'll never let you go."
Morning.
Rain fell against the window.
He held her from behind, kissing the bruises he'd left, murmuring things he hadn't meant to say aloud.
She turned.
Looked him dead in the eye.
"Tell me something true. And tell it raw."
He hesitated.
Then confessed:
"I was married."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
"Three years ago. It ended badly. She left. I never healed."
She stared.
"You didn't tell me."
"I thought I could erase it. But you made me remember I'm still bleeding."
She rolled off him. Sat up.
"So I'm your bandage?"
"No. You're the blade."
They didn't speak for hours.
She left before sunset.
Didn't message that night.
Next morning, he sent her a voice note.
Breath ragged.
"I can't lose you now. I'd rather be broken than bored."
She sent a photo in response.
Of her bare chest.Covered in bite marks.Captioned: Then keep bleeding.
Two days passed.
Ashok didn't return.
Her mother called. Rekha lied.
She began throwing things out — old saris, worn bras, every piece of furniture that didn't bring her pleasure.
She burned the wedding bedsheet.
Stood barefoot watching the smoke curl.She didn't flinch.
Seema came by.
"I heard."
Rekha nodded.
"I'm not sorry."
Seema looked around. "This house is too quiet now."
"Good," Rekha said. "I'm done with noise that doesn't feed me."
Seema leaned in.
"Then feed me."
Rekha blinked.
"I'm not joking."
She reached forward. Touched Rekha's lips.
And for the first time, their mouths met.
Not gentle.
Not sweet.
Just two women kissing with the ache of everything they'd been denied.
When they pulled apart, Seema whispered, "You've woken something I didn't know I buried."
Rekha smiled.
"Then let it breathe."
That night, Ishan came over.
Found them both on the couch.
Seema fully dressed. Rekha in a robe.
He paused.
She stood.
Walked to him. Pulled his belt open without speaking.
Turned to Seema. "Stay."
Seema nodded.
And watched.
Rekha dropped to her knees and blew Ishan with the fury of a woman exorcising shame.
He groaned. Hands in her hair. Legs shaking.
When he came, she didn't spit.
She swallowed.Looked up.Smirked.
Seema clapped.
Ishan collapsed.
She wasn't a wife anymore.
She was a deity of defiance.
And mouths never lied.