Arjun pushed open the door of his bedroom, exhaustion weighing down every step. The hospital had drained him once again—two surgeries back-to-back, endless rounds, a case that could not wait. It was past two in the morning. He thought of Anahita's face at breakfast, her sharp words still lingering like a dull echo. My father's approval? I've lived long enough under his shadow. I once trusted his choice for me, and clearly, it wasn't the best.
He had promised himself he would talk to her tonight, explain, soothe, defend himself—something. But the weight of duty had consumed his hours, as it always did.
The room was dark when he entered, and for a moment he thought she must be asleep. Yet, as he moved closer, a strange emptiness greeted him. The bed was untouched, the sheets smooth, not a sign of her presence. A knot formed in his chest. He checked the bathroom, the hall, the kitchen—each corner colder than the last. Finally, a faint sliver of light from the guest room caught his eye. He walked over, pushed the door gently, and there she was—curled up, fast asleep.
But why here? This wasn't her place. This wasn't their place. For months now, she had been sleeping beside him, even on the nights when silence hung heavy between them. Why then had she moved? Why this quiet shift, without a word, without even his knowledge?
He wanted to shake her awake, demand answers, tell her this wasn't how things were done. But looking at her now, her face softened by sleep, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, his anger melted into confusion. He closed the door slowly, telling himself he would ask her tomorrow.
When he returned to their room, something else unsettled him even more. The cupboard—her side—stood bare. No sarees folded neatly, no faint fragrance of her perfume clinging to the fabric. Nothing. As though she had never lived here at all.
Arjun's breath caught. His hands trembled as he touched the empty shelves, disbelief washing over him. She had moved—without asking, without telling, without even a single word of explanation.
"Wasn't I part of this relationship too?" he whispered into the emptiness. His own voice startled him, raw and cracked. Does she think she can just walk away from our space as if I don't matter?
A storm brewed inside him. Part of him burned with hurt—how could she make a decision like this, so final, so deliberate, and exclude him from it? Another part of him raged—was this her way of punishing him, of showing him he wasn't enough, of reminding him he had failed her?
His chest heaved with the weight of unspoken words, of ego and pride and love all tangled into a knot. He could almost hear her voice from the morning—calm but piercing—"I feel invisible, Arjun. I can't live like this."
Now she had made herself visible, not by being present, but by leaving his side.
Arjun sank onto the bed, staring at the vacant space that once smelled of her, felt of her warmth. For the first time in months, he felt a loneliness so sharp it cut through his exhaustion. And yet, beneath the loneliness, another thought rose, stubborn and unrelenting—She should have asked me. She owed me that much.
But wasn't he guilty too? Guilty of never asking her how she felt when he walked in late every night, when he missed dinners, when his world revolved around patients and not her?
The silence of the room swallowed him. Tomorrow, he would ask. Tomorrow, the words would clash. Tomorrow, one ego would bend—or both would shatter.
That morning was different.
Anahita was rushing about her room, carefully packing her folder, certificates, and a neat pen into her bag. It was her interview day — the first real step toward reclaiming her own identity. She adjusted her dupatta in the mirror, took a deep breath, and walked out into the dining room.
She expected the usual sight — Arjun long gone, already at the hospital, his breakfast plate cleared by the cook. But to her surprise, he was still there, sitting with the newspaper folded neatly in his hands, as if waiting.
"Arjun… you didn't go to the hospital today?" she asked casually, only to be polite.
Arjun slowly lowered the newspaper, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that caught her off guard. "I had to," he said, his voice steady, "but I had something far more important to discuss first."
Anahita frowned slightly, adjusting her bag on the chair. "Oh? What matter could be so important that you're skipping work?"
Arjun gave a dry laugh, as though he couldn't believe she had even asked. He pushed his chair back, stood up, and looked at her as though searching her face for some answer. "You're seriously asking me that? Anahita, was it really that easy for you… moving out of our room?"
The words landed like a stone. Anahita froze, her hand tightening on her bag strap. "What?" she whispered.
Arjun's jaw clenched. "Don't act like you don't know. Why did you sleep in the guest room last night?"
She was taken aback. She hadn't expected him to notice — or care. Especially not today, of all days. She tried to keep her tone even. "Arjun… does it matter? We're barely together as it is. Changing rooms doesn't make much difference. We anyway live separate lives, you and I. Moreover… I wanted my own space."
His face darkened. He stepped closer, his voice rising. "Are you for real right now? We are married, Anahita. Married. You are my wife. And you think it's okay to just move out without a word? Without even talking to me? Since when does a wife need 'space' from her husband like this?"
Anahita gave a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Really, Arjun? You're asking me that? Ask yourself — were you ever truly a part of this relationship? You think sharing a room automatically makes us husband and wife? No. Marriage is more than a bed, more than four walls. It's about being seen, being heard. Tell me, when was the last time you actually saw me? Not the daughter of Rajiv Kapoor, but me?"
Arjun's voice cracked, frustration lacing his words. "You think I don't care? You think I haven't tried? I work my life away to make this marriage, this home, stable. And now, when I see you walking out of our room as if I don't even exist… it feels like betrayal, Anahita. Do you understand that?"
She swallowed hard, glancing at the clock. Her interview was in less than an hour, yet here she was — fighting over something she thought was obvious. She met his gaze, firm but weary. "Arjun, I don't have time for this right now. I really don't. I can't be late for my interview."
Arjun's lips parted, his anger giving way to something softer — hurt, maybe. But the words remained unspoken.
Anahita picked up her bag, her voice low, almost a whisper. "If this marriage mattered to you the way you say it does… you would've fought for me long before I walked into that guest room."
She turned and left, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the house, leaving Arjun staring at the door.