The groom suddenly disappeared before the wedding day, the fateful letter of only 5 lines revealed a heartbreaking truth.
My name is Aarushi, and his name is Arjun. We met at a year-end party in Mumbai, amidst the bustling sounds of Bollywood music and dim lights. Arjun – a bank employee, quiet, quiet, his eyes always filled with depth. And I – a girl working in the media, talkative, fast-paced, laughing loudly. But strangely, when I am with him, I feel my heart as peaceful as the sunset on the Ganges River.

Two years of love, no roses, no dramatic vows like in movies, just simple evenings at a small tea shop on the corner of Bandra street. We talked about the most ordinary things in life: rent, his mother’s favorite curry, the dream of having a small house and a few children running around to the sound of morning prayers.

It was not a loud love, but so deep that I believed it was the “stop” of my life.

The wedding photos were taken in early spring, when the gulmohar trees were blooming red all over the street. The wedding invitations were printed, the reception was booked at the Taj Gateway Hotel, the wedding dress and red sari were hanging in the closet. My mother smiled and said:

“My daughter has finally found a good man.”

I counted the days, imagining the moment Arjun held my hand in front of the Ganesha altar, amidst the bustling sound of dhol drums.

But just ten days before the wedding, that afternoon, Arjun asked me to meet him at the usual cafe in Colaba. The Mumbai sky that day was gray, the drizzle was like a sign of something ominous. He sat in front of me, his hand tightly gripping a glass of water, his voice hoarse:

“Let’s… stop, Aarushi.”

Just four words. No reason. No tears. He stood up, leaving me in the middle of the cafe, where the smell of coffee mixed with the taste of rain and silent collapse.

After that day, Arjun disappeared. His phone number was off, his social media was blank. He seemed to have evaporated from this world. I was left with only the red sari and a thousand unanswered questions.

The next day, my mother received an envelope from the post office. Inside was a handwritten letter, just five lines long. “Aarushi,
I am sorry for choosing this path.
You deserve a man who can give you a complete family, healthy children.
I tried, I hoped, but I couldn’t.
Forget me, and live happily.
– Arjun.”

I read, my heart felt like someone was squeezing it. Why “can’t”? Why did he talk about children before getting married?

My mother quietly went to find the answer. She met the old doctor — the one who used to work at the hospital where Arjun went to see a doctor. He just sighed:

“Three months ago, Arjun went to the infertility clinic. The result: no sperm. His mother called me, asking me to keep it a secret so that the wedding could go smoothly. But Arjun did not agree. He just kept quiet and left. I remember, that day his eyes were red…”

I sat motionless. It turned out that he did not leave me because he no longer loved me, but because he could not let me be his mother. He chose to leave, to hide from me to keep some of his self-respect as a man.

I wanted to hate, wanted to erase all memories, but when I imagined his eyes that day, I only felt pity. Pity for the person who chose to sacrifice, but did not trust me enough to share half of the pain with me.

I sent him one last message, even though I knew it would never be read:

“If only you trusted me a little more.”

Then I wrapped up the red sari and donated it to a charity in Delhi, where poor girls dream of wearing a wedding dress even just once. I flew to Bangalore, started a new job, started anew — no Arjun, no past.

Morning jogging around Ulsoor Lake, afternoon going to work, evening coming back reading, listening to the rain on the roof tiles. No more tears, only one clear belief: No one can save me but myself.

A friend asked me:

“If Arjun had told the truth that day, would you have married him?”

I smiled:

“I don’t know. But I know for sure, marriage cannot be built on lies. The truth, even though it hurts, is worth facing.”

Now, every time I pass the old cafe in Colaba, I still look at the table where he used to sit. Not to reminisce, but to remind myself — there are breakups, even though cruel, that are the only way for both of us to be free.

I don’t need a perfect man.

Just someone honest enough to stay.
And until I met that person, I still lived fully —
with my own breath, my work, and my pride

Three years after my wedding broke down, I – Mira Sharma – stopped wondering why fate chose me to teach such a costly lesson. I live in Mumbai, in a small apartment overlooking the Arabian Sea. I wake up early in the morning to do yoga, then jog along Marine Drive – where the salty wind blows and couples still hold hands and laugh. Sometimes my heart aches, but then it calms down. Time does not erase pain, it only teaches us to live with it.

My media work keeps me busy. I have learned to smile at parties, shake hands with strangers, write promotional stories for others – but never about myself. Until one rainy afternoon, when the city is blurred by water, I receive a brown envelope, sent from Varanasi.

In the left corner is the sender’s name: Arun Mehta.

My heart stops. For three years, that name has never appeared again – not in life, not in dreams.

The letter was only seven lines, but I had to read it over and over again:

“Mira,
I don’t want to be forgiven, I just want to say goodbye for the last time.

I am in Varanasi, in a small monastery on the banks of the Ganges.

If you truly love me, come, not to reconnect – but to understand.

On the 15th of this month, I will leave.
– Arun.”

I looked at his trembling handwriting. The same slanted handwriting, slightly crooked at the end of each t. Three years wasn’t enough for his hand to be steady, but it was enough for my heart to calm down and read each word without trembling.

I sat in front of the window, watching the Mumbai rain pour down. In the sound of the rain, I heard Arun’s voice again on the day we parted – hoarse, trembling, broken. “Let’s… stop, Mira.” That sentence that day changed my whole life.

I didn’t intend to leave. But all night, I couldn’t sleep. The words kept ringing in my head: “Not to reconnect – but to understand.” Finally, the next morning, I booked a train ticket to Varanasi.

Varanasi welcomed me with the scent of incense, the sound of temple bells, and the smoke from thousands of diyas floating on the Ganges. This ancient city seemed to stand outside of time – where birth and death became one. I made my way to the Shanti Ashram monastery, not far from Dashashwamedh Ghat. An old monk showed me to the small building behind, where Arun was volunteering to teach orphans.

When I arrived, he was sitting among the children, telling the story of “The Elephant and the Rope.” He was much thinner, his hair was cut short, and he was wearing a white coarse cloth shirt. But his smile… was still the same smile from that year – gentle, and sad.

He saw me. His eyes paused, then he nodded slightly. No one said anything. We just sat down on the steps, watching the Ganges flow silently in the sunset.

“Mira,” he said softly, “I’ve tried to forget for the past three years, but I couldn’t. I didn’t come back to ask for anything, I just wanted to tell you the final truth.”

He said: after leaving me, he lived a wandering life, avoiding everyone, tormented by having hurt me. A year later, he discovered he had a congenital heart disease, and might have to undergo major surgery. His mother hid it, afraid that if I knew, it would hurt even more. He chose to go to Varanasi – where people believe that, in the middle of the Ganges, souls find peace. He stayed, taught children, did charity work, and waited for the final heart attack to come as an atonement.

I was silent. No tears fell, only my heart felt immense.

“Do you think… only healthy people have the right to love?” – I asked.
Arun bowed his head: “I think only brave people dare to stay. But I don’t.”

I smiled, a smile as light as smoke. “I used to resent you, but now… I just feel grateful. Because you left, I learned to stand alone.”

We sat until the sun had set. Before I left, Arun gave me a small wooden box. Inside was the wedding photo that had never been sent to print, and a note:

“If there is a next life, I wish I was strong enough to hold your hand, even for just one day.”

I carried the box with me on the train back to Mumbai. As we crossed the Ganges, I opened the window, the wind blew, and I let the photo out. It flew up, spun in the air, and fell into the water, fading into the moonlight.

Three months later, I received the news: Arun had died in his sleep, his heart stopping in the early morning. The monastery held a simple memorial service, and the children he taught released hundreds of lanterns into the middle of the river.

That evening, I sat by the window, watching Mumbai glow, and wrote him a letter he would never read:

“Arun,
You were afraid you couldn’t give me a family.
But you didn’t know, you taught me how to be a family – to myself.
I’m not waiting for anyone to come back anymore. But I believe, somewhere in the Ganges, you’re smiling. And maybe, for the first time, you’re truly at peace.”

I folded the letter and put it in the notebook on my desk. Outside, the Mumbai monsoon had begun again.
Amidst the distant thunder and the smell of damp earth, I heard something soft – like the gentle goodbye people say when they’ve forgiven.

– End of Part 2 –