After finishing all her household chores, she finally retreated to the quiet corner of her world—her bed. The fan whirred softly above, but her mind was louder than the silence around her. Today felt... different. A strange restlessness tugged at her heart, like an old wound gently starting to bleed again.
She didn’t know what prompted it—maybe a faint memory triggered by a song playing in the market, or maybe just the weight of a name buried too long. His name.
Without thinking, her fingers reached for the phone. She opened Instagram, the only window left into his life. Her heart skipped as she typed his name—once so familiar, now a question.
No results.
Frowning, she tried every possible username she could remember, even the silly ones he used to joke about. Still, nothing. It didn’t make sense. She remembered his words vividly, from their last real conversation: “My number, my social media — they’ll never change. If you ever need me, I’ll be right there.”
He wouldn’t just vanish. Not him.
Her unease grew. She scoured every platform, but it was as if he had been wiped off the earth. A quiet panic began to rise. Could it be... he finally shut all his doors on me?
Unable to rest, she paced for a while, but her mind refused to calm. So she did what she had avoided for years—dialed a mutual friend.
The call started with pleasantries, with laughter that sounded too light, too forced. Then, with trembling courage, she asked, “Hey... have you spoken to him recently?”
A pause.
A silence heavy enough to smother.
“Oh... you don’t know?” her friend finally said.
Her heart thudded. “Know what?”
“He’s gone.”
Her world stilled.
“What?” she whispered, her voice barely holding together.
“He… he took his own life. They found him hanging in his room.”
Silence crashed on both sides of the line. Words lost their meaning.
“No... no, that can’t be...” she stammered, her throat dry. “How? When? Why wasn’t I told?”
The voice at the other end grew colder. “You distanced yourself from everyone. You shut us all out. How were we supposed to tell you?”
And just like that, the call ended.
Her phone slipped from her hand, landing softly on the mattress—but her soul had already collapsed within.
He was gone.
The one who had loved her with the kind of love she had only read about in poetry. The one who waited with hope etched in every heartbeat. The one who promised to always be there, if only she had reached out.
She wanted to cry. Scream. Fall apart. But her in-laws were in the next room, discussing the upcoming puja, and her tears had no permission to fall here.
She curled into herself, the weight of memory crushing her chest.
She remembered the day she walked away from him. How society's voice had drowned her own. She couldn't fight then—for him, for them. And when she finally found the courage, guilt had built a wall too high. A divorced woman doesn’t deserve a man like him, she had convinced herself.
He had waited. She had hesitated.
And now, he was gone.
She had once faced a choice: to live with him, or live with guilt.
She chose the guilt.
And now, that guilt was all she had left—no forgiveness, no second chances, just the hollow ache of what could have been.
What do you do with guilt when the person you owe it to… no longer exists?
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