Desperate, I secretly slept with a neighborhood construction worker, but after a month, something unexpected happened that shattered me…

Ten years ago… the accident happened on a hot summer afternoon, when the sun burned every street in Jaipur. My phone rang constantly, and when I picked it up, my neighbor’s voice trembled:

“Priya! Raghav has had an accident… He’s being taken to the hospital!”

From that day, my world fell apart. From a healthy man, Raghav became a wheelchair-bound, half-paralyzed man. At first, I promised myself I would never leave him. I loved him, and that love was enough for me to overcome everything… or so I thought.

But ten years… ten years is a long period when lonely nights become a deep pit that swallows a woman.

I thought I was strong, but every night, when I’d see my husband sitting motionless by the window, his eyes empty, I’d feel a terrible emptiness inside. It wasn’t just a physical absence—it was a longing to hug, to touch, to hear sweet words.

My house was on a small lane. Across the street was Amit’s house—a thirty-year-old construction worker, tall, dark, and always with a bright smile. I’d tell myself not to stare for too long, but every time he passed by with a bag of cement, my body would betray my mind.

One afternoon, when a wall in my house had cracked, Amit came to fix it. Amidst the sound of the hammer and the smell of mortar, our eyes met… for longer than necessary. He smiled, I smiled… and from that moment, everything started spiraling out of control.

Chapter 2 – Secret Nights In the days that followed, Amit would often find excuses to visit—sometimes to borrow tools, sometimes to help repair the veranda. One day, Raghav was napping in his room, and I went into the kitchen to pour water for Amit. When he placed the cup on the table, his hand accidentally touched mine… but the “accident” was so strong that I knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

“Priya… are you okay?” Amit asked softly.

“I’m okay…” I replied, but my eyes lowered, not daring to look at him. That touch was like a spark igniting a pile of embers that had been smoldering for ten years. We started meeting when Raghav was asleep or when his friends took him out. At first, it was just talk, then hugs, a kiss… and finally, we crossed the line.

I knew I was wrong. Every time I returned to Raghav, I felt guilty and empty. But in Amit’s arms, I felt like a true woman—wanted, loved, even if only for a short while.

A month passed like this. I thought everything was under control, that Raghav would never know… until that morning.

Chapter 3 – The Notebook and the Choice
I was boiling masala tea when I heard Raghav call out from the bedroom. His voice was different today—not tired as usual, but firm and decisive.

When I went in, I saw him sitting upright in his wheelchair, an old leather notebook in his hand. His eyes… deep and unreadable.

“Priya… I know everything,” he said softly.

My heart sank. I waited for him to yell, to blame… but he didn’t.

Raghav extended the notebook to me:

“For ten years, I haven’t been able to do anything for you. I know you’re lonely. I don’t blame you… although I know about you and Amit.”

I was stunned. Not because I was recognized, but because there was no anger in his voice.

He continued:

“I wrote this notebook… it’s our story, from the day we met at the Pushkar Fair until now. I wrote it with my left hand, every night while you slept, word by word. I sent the manuscript to a publisher in Delhi… and they agreed to publish it. The royalties… are all yours. If you want to go, I won’t keep it. But if you stay… I still love you like the first day.”

I opened the notebook, and every line was crooked, but full of emotion. He remembered every little detail—even the moments I thought he wouldn’t notice. I burst into tears, the pages soaked with tears.

That afternoon, I went to see Amit. When I said:

“Amit… let’s stop.”

He just nodded, looked down, and then turned away. He didn’t say a word. Perhaps he knew… there was never any love between us.

That night, I returned to Raghav. No big promises, just holding his hand tightly. Later, the book was published and sold enough to cover the hospital bills and living expenses. But for me, it was worth it… it saved my soul, pulled me out of my mistakes, and helped me understand true love again.

Life isn’t easy, but sometimes, the most unexpected things… are the light that shows the way in dark days.

Chapter 4 – The Aftermath: The Light After the Storm
Even after Raghav’s book was published, I couldn’t get used to seeing his name in newspapers and literary reviews. People called him “the man who wrote left-handed to save his love.”

We began receiving letters from everywhere—from women caring for their sick husbands, from men who had lost their ability to work but still wanted to love their wives in their own way. They said our story had given them faith that true love still exists.

The book’s royalties were enough for Raghav to start a new physiotherapy course at a center in Delhi. Three times a week, I would take him there, sitting beside him as he patiently practiced each movement. Beads of sweat would roll down his forehead, and sometimes he would close his eyes in pain, but then open them and smile at me:

“I want to try… for you.”

Gradually, Raghav was able to lift his left leg a little, then lean more heavily on his left hand. The doctor said there was still a chance for him to recover, though he might not be completely cured.

But the greatest change occurred not in his body, but in his heart. We started talking more often during the day, even about small things. In the evenings, when I was washing dishes in the kitchen, instead of silently staring out the window, he would now read a passage from a book to me, or ask my opinion about a character.

Once, while I was making tea, Raghav suddenly said:

“Priya, you know… I didn’t write this book just to preserve my memories. I was afraid that if one day I was gone, you wouldn’t even know how much I loved you.”

I turned and looked into his eyes. For the first time in ten years, I saw a warm light there. I went to him, placed the teacup on the table, and hugged him tightly.

I still think about Amit sometimes—not out of regret, but because he came to me when I was at my weakest. But now I understand that that moment of passion was just the last stop, and Raghav was the path I wanted to take.

A year later, on our wedding anniversary, we returned to the Pushkar Fair—where it all began. Raghav was in a wheelchair, but his left hand held mine tightly. He whispered:

“Priya… if we ever meet again in the next life, I would still want to love you from the beginning.”

I smiled, and for the first time in years, I felt completely at peace. That book changed our lives—not just because of the money, but because it made me realize: true love doesn’t exist in fiery moments, but in the slow burn that warms the heart, even when everything around it has cooled down.