My Mr. Artist

Chapter 9

Kiyah

...............And now you're cleaned up with a hair cut, nice tie and shoes
If things were different and I had a choice, which would I choose?  
I got the first kiss and she'll get the last
She's got the future and I got the past
I got the class ring, she got the diamond and wedding band
I got the boy and she got the man 

I got the first kiss and she'll get the last
We each got something, the other will never have
I got the long hair, hot head
She got the cool and steady hand
I got the boy and she got the man
I got the boy and she got the man

It was like this song was meant for me. When you know you are just a forgettable past in his life, while the future you once dreamed of with him will belong to someone else.

I have always loved Jana Kramer's songs, but this one really hit hard, like always. I still remember playing it on repeat and crying myself to sleep when we broke up—or should I say, when he dumped me. When I first heard this song, released during my twenties, I didn't understand its emotion because of my inexperience in love, but I still loved the lyrics. I truly felt the depth of pain and heartbreak when I started listening to it again after Ansh broke up with me—over the phone, after almost four months of no contact, and informing me that he would be getting married to another girl the following month. I had always consoled myself, telling myself it was just an excuse he gave me to end our relationship because there was no news of his marriage—or any news at all—so there must be some other complication. My man could never leave me for another girl, I told myself, but I guess it was just a naive delusion. I still get goosebumps recalling that awful day of my life.

I had been selected to work as an interior architect for a prominent firm I had interviewed with a few days ago. Today, after filing some paperwork and signing the contract, I sat on my bed staring at my phone screen. This was one of the most important events of my life. Everyone close to me had congratulated me on my achievement. My family was flying down next week to celebrate. But here I was, feeling nothing. I couldn't think of anything else except that I hadn't been able to contact Ansh for almost four months, even though he was supposed to return to India three months ago.

Ansh had been working abroad, which required his presence, and was supposed to return within two months. But after one month of his departure, his phone became unreachable, and his social media accounts went silent. When I asked his assistant, he seemed hesitant but informed me that Ansh had been in "do not disturb" mode, focusing on one of his paintings. I believed him because Ansh had a habit of detaching himself from everything to focus on his art. But it was never longer than a month, and even then, he would always find time for me.

I tried calling him again, though I knew his phone would be off as usual. I was worried; I didn't know his whereabouts, especially in a foreign country. As I went to press the red button to end the call, it connected, and without giving him a chance to speak, I started:

"ANSH, YOU BASTARD! what in the world are you even doing? you scared me to death! you could at least leave a single message! do you know how worried i was not knowing anything about you? you are really mean, ansh. you can't just ghost me like i am no one! you are bad... really bad!" My voice cracked at the end as emotions overwhelmed me.

There was silence on the other end.

"Ansh?"

"Hello? Hello? Ansh?" I called again, but no response came.

After a few seconds, when I thought it might be a wrong call, he finally whispered, "Kiyah."

His voice trembled. All I could hear afterward was irregular breathing and small, almost unnoticeable whimpers. I knew instantly that something was wrong—something serious.

"Ansh, baby, what happened? Are you okay? Please speak! You're scaring me!" I panicked, pacing across the room.

"I want to break up, Kiyah," he said, as casually as if he were saying, "I want pizza for breakfast." I froze mid-step, standing in the middle of my room, trying to process what I had just heard.

"Ansh, please don't joke around. We're in a quiet, awkward situation right now, with no contact for nearly four months. So tell me, when are you coming back?" I laughed nervously, hoping against hope that this was some twisted joke.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I'm really sorry, Kiyah," he whispered, and at that moment, I realized it was real.

"Why?" My voice came out so low, I wasn't sure he could hear it as I collapsed onto my knees with a thud.

"I... I... I... um... I am getting married."

It felt like cold water had been poured all over me. My boyfriend—Ansh—was getting married to someone else. He was leaving me for another girl. My mind kept repeating the phrase over and over.

"Kiyah?" he called, his voice hoarse, laced with concern.

"Ansh... please... please come back... I... I don't like this... please..." I didn't even realize I was crying until my sobbing broke through my words.

"I can't, Kiyah. I can't come back. Please don't cry. I'm sorry..."

"can you say anything other than sorry, you jerk?!" I didn't think you were a coward who would fly to another country, ignore my calls and messages for four months, and then break up with me over the phone!" I screamed, releasing four months of pent-up frustration.

"And what? Marriage, huh? Did you cheat on me or get her pregnant that you have to marry her?" I scoffed.

"WHAT? No! Do you really think I would cheat on you?" His voice sounded hurt.

"I used to think you'd never dump me... but you are doing it now," I mocked, wanting to hurt him as much as he had hurt me.

Another pause followed. I tried to collect myself—tears flowing endlessly, rage battling heartbreak.

"My family is facing some problem, and I have to stay here. Marriage is part of it," he said calmly, before the storm in my heart.

"So you do have a family, huh?" In three years of our relationship, he had never spoken about his family. Whenever I indirectly asked, he just smiled, as if saying, I don't want to talk about it.

"And what about me? What about us? What about the time we spent together? What about your promises to me? Was I so irrelevant that I could be thrown away whenever you wanted?"

"Kiyah..." he started.

"So you chose your family over me, right?" I cut him off. "And you're going to marry a stranger just for your family?"

"Kiy..."

"JUST SAY YES OR NO, DAMMIT!" I interrupted again, not willing to listen to any more pointless explanations. I knew he had made his decision the moment he started ignoring me.

"Yes," he replied. That was all I needed to end our relationship. If he chose his family, whom he barely contacted, then I chose my self-respect over my love.

"Okay then... have a good life ahead, Ansh." My mind and body felt numb as I stared at the photo collage on the wall—our photos, frozen memories.

"KIYAH, LISTEN..." His voice sounded anxious, as if he were about to lose something, but I was too consumed in my pain to hear him.

"And please don't contact me. I don't want to see you ever again." I blocked his number and cried hysterically—for the first time in my life over a boy who had become my first love and my first heartbreak.

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