We’ve been married for five years, and my wife has no complaints, but I still have a boyfriend…

My wife, Anjali, and I have been married for five years. She’s a really good wife: she cooks well, is devoted to her in-laws, and takes care of my respect when she’s out. All my friends say I’m a lucky guy with a good life.

However, I don’t know why I have a boyfriend. My girlfriend – Ritika – isn’t much better than my wife: not as polite, not as talented, and much more demanding. But strangely, without Ritika, I feel empty, as if something is missing.

In recent months, Ritika has forced me to choose between two things: either leave my wife and be with her, or end the relationship. At that moment, I thought: “My wife can come back anytime, just say a word and she’ll forgive me. But if my lover leaves me, he’s gone forever.” Thinking this, I decided to divorce.

On the day of the trial in the Delhi High Court, Anjali didn’t say much, just gave a slight smile. That smile hurt my heart, but I pretended to be indifferent. Walking out of the courtroom, I felt liberated, waiting for the moment to run and hug Ritika.

But before I could rejoice, the phone rang. It was Ritika. His voice trembled, as if he’d just cried:

“Brother… don’t look for me now. I’m sorry… but actually, your wife and I—Anjali—have been in contact for quite some time. I called you today just to tell you: everything was a conspiracy. I was just a pawn in your wife’s hands. And you ruined your marriage…”

I stood in the middle of the courtroom, stunned. The phone fell from my hand, my heart pounding. My whole world seemed to collapse before my eyes.

It turned out that, all this time, the person I hated the most was the one who was the most manipulative.

Anjali didn’t cling, didn’t cry, didn’t plead. She quietly orchestrated everything so that I would fall into my own trap.

And I – who thought “my wife could come back any minute” – lost her forever, just when I was most confident.

One lost everything, one started anew.

After the Delhi hearing, I thought I had won. Freedom, “new love” – things I blindly thought would fill my life. But just a few days later, I realized the price I had to pay was far more bitter than I imagined.

Ritika vanished from my life as if she never existed. She blocked my number, blocked my social media, and there was no trace of her. I called, texted, even went to her old workplace, but all to no avail. Slowly, I realized: Ritika was never honest – she was just a pawn in a game masterminded by Anjali.

Meanwhile, Anjali – the one I had abandoned – walked out of the wedding with her head held high.

She returned to her job as a lecturer at Delhi University, where she had left for a while to care for her family. Her friends and colleagues welcomed her. She quickly built a reputation for herself, becoming an independent, beautiful, and strong woman.

Everyone around her was praising her:
“Anjali looks more radiant than ever.”

“She seems to have broken free from her shackles.”

As for me, whenever I accidentally saw a photo of her on social media – laughing with her students, or on a pilgrimage to Varanasi – my heart ached. I realized: the one I thought I could return to at any time was, in fact, forever out of my reach.

My family also turned their backs on me. My parents – who loved Anjali like a daughter – blamed me endlessly. My mother said it clearly:
“If you lose Anjali, you lose everything. You’ve destroyed the happiness we were so proud of.”

Even my friends gradually distanced themselves from me. At meetings, they would all point at me:
“Look, you left your good wife to chase after her lover, now your lover has left you. This is your punishment.”

Long nights alone in my empty apartment in Gurgaon, I lived like a shadow. I didn’t feel like eating, and I lost sleep. The more I thought about it, the more I regretted it. I missed Anjali’s simple meals, her hearty laughter when she called my parents, and her warm hand on my shoulder whenever I was tired.

I had always considered it something I could “recall at any time.” But now, it was all just a memory.

One evening, I saw Anjali leaving a café in Connaught Place. She was wearing a blue sari, stunningly beautiful, her eyes sparkling. Next to her stood a man about her age, also incredibly handsome, laughing and chatting happily.

I stood at a distance, my heart thumping with every heartbeat. For the first time, I understood what it truly meant to lose.

Anjali had moved on, and I was left behind.

I – who once considered myself intelligent and thoughtful – am now just a lonely person, lost in my chosen freedom.

And she, the woman I hated, is the real winner: not by taking revenge with noise, but by living a happy, confident life without needing me.