His Burden, His Blessing

Come Back To Me

What had I expected from someone like him?

Why had I expected this time to be different from the countless other times he'd let me down without even a trace of remorse? Why did I keep hoping in this forsaken marriage?

So many questions ran through my mind, and none had answers. I hailed the first auto I saw, ignoring his voice calling my name, begging me to stop and listen, to let him explain. But how was he going to explain that? What was there to say when it was clear as daylight that he'd been gawking at her while we were supposed to be on our date?

I told the driver to take me to the nearest hotel. The streets blurred past, lights smearing like watercolors against the window, and yet I couldn't feel a thing. The anger, the betrayal; it all pooled into one flat, empty ache.

I was numb.

There was no point searching for answers that didn't exist. I just needed to decide what came next.

It had been two days since that night. My phone hadn't stopped ringing once. Calls from my parents, my best friend, and, of course, my oh-so-great pathi dev, my husband.

He had been thoughtful enough to inform my parents that I'd left the house after a "small fight."

Oh, if only they knew.

Of course, he'd conveniently left out the reason behind the fight. He'd painted it as a harmless lover's quarrel. My parents kept calling, pleading with me to sort things out, telling me not to stay alone in a hotel. Their worry was justified, but at this point, I didn't want concern. I wanted understanding.

Someone who could see me.

Someone like Siddharth.

But I couldn't bring myself to call him. I didn't want to bother him with my endless heartbreaks, not when he had patients to save. My marriage wasn't worth pulling him away from real lives that needed him.

So I convinced my parents that I was fine, that I just needed space. The morning after the so-called date, I called Abinaya and asked her to collect my things from the house when Zeyansh wasn't home. I took sick leave, ran a warm bubble bath, ordered way too much food, and wrapped myself in silence. For two days, I shut the world out and pretended peace was possible.

But peace never lasts.

By the third morning, I had to face reality and work. Because who else was going to take care of me?

Definitely not Zeyansh.

At my desk, I tried to focus on the numbers on my screen, the words in my emails, the rhythm of work. But my thoughts, as always, slipped back to him, the one man who had taken me on a rollercoaster of emotions in just two years of marriage.

And now that I wasn't around, I was sure he was enjoying life with her.

Probably even fucking her.

The thought came like a slap; sharp, humiliating, gutting. My stomach churned. I pushed away from my chair and stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink.

Tears I'd refused to shed for two days finally spilled. My reflection stared back, mascara streaked, kajal smudged, lips trembling. The woman in the mirror looked nothing like me.

He should have said no when his parents told him about the proposal. I'd already been rejected by six grooms; he could've been the seventh. Maybe I'd have found someone who truly loved me. Or maybe I'd have stayed with my parents, worked hard, and cared for them. Anything would've been better than this, than being married to a man who broke my heart in silence and then acted as if he didn't notice the pieces.

Why did he have to walk into my life only to ruin it? Why did he have to make me fall in love with him, only to look at another woman like that?

Was I not enough? Not pretty enough? Not graceful enough?

I tried so hard, every day, to look good for him, to be good enough for him.

So why?

Why me?

I stared at the black trails running down my cheeks. They looked like the map of everything I'd lost; dignity, trust, love.

This marriage was toxic.

Before, I'd been too blind to see it. Later, too scared to admit it. But now, I had to act, for my own heart, for my own dignity.

I washed my face, combed my hair, and walked out with no makeup, no armor. Just me. And for the first time in days, that felt like enough.

"Ishaani!" Rithu, the receptionist, rushed toward my cubicle, her voice trembling. "Your husband is downstairs creating a scene. He says he won't leave until he talks to you. The security tried asking him to go quietly, but he's not listening. The manager told me to inform you before things... get ugly."

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. Then instinct took over. I ran.

When I reached the entrance, a small crowd had already gathered. I pushed my way through them and froze.

There he was.

Zeyansh.

But not the man I knew. Not the calm, polished, composed doctor everyone admired. This man's shirt was half untucked, his eyes bloodshot, his words slurred.

"LET ME GO! I HAVE TO TALK TO MY WIFE!" he shouted, struggling against the guards. His voice, once deep and smooth, now sounded raw and desperate.

Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Someone murmured, "Isn't that Dr. Mehra?"

Shame burned through me.

"Enough!" I yelled, stepping forward. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He stilled, blinking at me, face flushed from alcohol and exhaustion.

I turned to the crowd. "I'm sorry for the disturbance, everyone. Please, go back to work. I'll handle it from here."

The guards hesitated before releasing him. I grabbed his wrist and dragged him a few steps away from the entrance.

"What is wrong with you?" I hissed. "Do you even realize the kind of scene you're making? You're embarrassing yourself and me!"

He swayed slightly, his eyes glassy. "Come back home," he said softly. His voice broke on the last word.

I froze.

His eyes, those same eyes that had once made me fall for him now looked shattered, pleading. For a moment, I almost forgot everything.

Almost.

Then I remembered the restaurant. Her. The way his gaze had lingered on Tanisha like I wasn't even there.

"Zeyansh, this is all your doing!" My voice cracked. "You brought this on yourself! It was supposed to be our first date, and you ruined it!"

He flinched, as if the words themselves hurt.

"I know," he said quietly. "And I couldn't feel guiltier. I'm sorry, not just for that night, but for everything. For how I've treated you, for how blind I've been."

His tone was desolate, stripped of pride. And for a second, my heart broke all over again, because he wasn't here to say he loved me. He was here because his guilt had become unbearable.

I wanted him to love me, not pity me.

But the way he looked at me; desperate, hollow, broken, made it impossible to hate him.

"Please," he whispered. "I know I've already had more chances than I deserve. But I'm begging you, Ishaani. Just one more."

My throat ached. I wanted to stay angry, but my body betrayed me. My heart still beat for him against every warning, every wound.

I looked at him, really looked at the man who'd hurt me, the man who still, somehow, felt like home.

And before I could stop myself, I stepped forward.

And did what my heart asked of me.

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