In our Gurgaon apartment complex (a suburb of New Delhi), the gas delivery man, the cleaning lady, the delivery boy, everyone still thinks my husband and I are the perfect office couple: leaving in the morning and returning in the evening, taking out the trash on the right day, leaving our shoes neatly by the door, watering the balcony plants on weekends, and ordering masala noodles. No one knows that one thing is absolutely true in that ninth-floor apartment: for fifteen years, our two pillows have never seen each other.

The bedroom has no lock. The door opens like the kitchen door, like the balcony door. But the bed is divided in two as if by an invisible river. His lamp stands upright, in white light. My lamp is yellow, with a cloth canopy. On rainy monsoon nights, I lie on my left side and listen to the sound of rain on the corrugated iron roof. He lies on his right side, his back to the wall, sighing softly like water pouring down.

I’m used to him hanging his shirts neatly, folding his socks in half, and placing his toothbrush in a cup at a 45-degree angle. I also vividly remember the smile that never met his eyes when relatives asked:
— When will you let your parents hold their grandchildren?

He replied:
— The company is busy with a big project.

Our wedding took place in the month of Sawan, the rainy season in North India. It rained lightly on the wedding night. After the party, my mother-in-law took off her hairpin and said:
— Daughters are the ones who keep the fire burning.

But the fire inside me slowly died out, like an oil lamp. That night, she spread new sheets, placed my favorite book at the head of the bed, and said:
— You’re tired, go to sleep.

He pulled the blanket over me and turned back. I bit my lip, listening to the sound of a needle dropping on the tiled floor.

I thought, just the first night. But on the second, tenth, hundredth night, every time I made an advance, he would retreat. Not rude, just as if avoiding a familiar stone.

He was still a good husband: he’d mix bottles early in the morning, he remembered my mother’s death anniversary more than I did, and during the pandemic, he’d circle the houses in Delhi’s Dawa Bazaar. My mother praised him:
— You’re so lucky.

I smiled sarcastically: Whose luck?

In the tenth year, I typed a draft of the divorce petition, naming the file der_late.docx. I deleted and rewrote it repeatedly. In the thirteenth year, I printed it out and gave it to him. He read it, looked up:
— Give me time.

— How much time?

He looked at the coat hanger:
— After this season.

Which season? The rainy season? The mango blossom season? Or the season when people stop waiting?

I tried everything: anger, directness, marriage counseling. The therapist asked:
— Do you have a problem with desires?
He nodded.
— About sexual orientation?
He nodded.
— About trauma?
He remained silent.
At dinner, I wanted to break the plate to hear a voice instead of silence.

Fifteen years. I stopped crying. The tears flowed like dishwashing water, but the oil wouldn’t wash away.

That day, I came home early. It suddenly rained in Delhi. As soon as I opened the door, I heard his voice in the office:

— Hello, Aarav?

Aarav—my best friend from high school. Every Saturday afternoon, he would go out for a beer with Aarav, coming home late, smelling of alcohol, but his eyes were clear. I had never been jealous. Until that day.

— She filed for divorce again, — my husband sighed.

— Divorce? — Aarav asked.

She laughed dryly: — It’s been fifteen years, Aarav.

— Now what?

— I won’t divorce. I promised.

— I hate that promise. Who did you promise? Me or her?

— Both.

I was stunned. She continued:

— That night, I can still hear the brakes screeching.

Silence.

— We’re both responsible for this. I’m responsible for making him sleep well. You’re responsible for giving me courage.

I went into the kitchen shivering.

The night we met, I asked:
— Do you love Aarav?

She replied:
— I love promises. To you. To Aarav.

…

Then I went back to my mother’s house, took my suitcase, the cactus pot, and opened my husband’s desk drawer. In it:

A large life insurance policy, of which I am the beneficiary. The condition: “If there is any change in marital status during the first 24 months, the contract will become invalid.” Signature date: September 23, two years ago.

A hospital receipt from the Hematology Department, chemotherapy.

An old photo: Me and a boy in front of the Delhi University gate. He was smiling brightly, holding a helmet. Rohan – my first love. I thought he had died in the rain the night before.

On the back of the photo, I had written: “Rohan, it rains early this season.”

Next to a piece of paper: “I’m sorry. – V.” (Vikram – my husband’s name).

I found Aarav. He handed me the letter Vikram had sent. Inside: insurance papers, hospital receipts. Aarav said:
— Vikram had lymphoma, he hid this from me so the insurance would be up to date. The date was September 23.

Then she looked straight ahead:
— And… Rohan wasn’t dead. That year, in an accident, Vikram’s car suddenly braked and collided with Rohan’s car. Rohan’s face was badly damaged. I didn’t want you to see me like this, so I disappeared. I promised Vikram: I’ll marry you, take care of you, but I won’t touch you.

I was stunned. Aarav took off his glasses, revealing a thin scar on his cheek. He whispered:
— I’m Rohan. I’ve changed my name to Aarav. For the past 15 years, I’ve been with you, just under a different name.

…

When I asked Vikram, he nodded:
— I kept my promise to Rohan. I never touched you. I waited for the insurance to update so you’d be safe.

He handed me the organ donation registration form, the donor’s name: Vikram Sharma.

On September 23rd, Vikram was in a weak condition in the hospital. He handed me the signed divorce papers:

— If you want, just sign.

I put down the pen:

— You sign first. I… will think about it later.

A month later, when the insurance was confirmed, we were officially divorced. Vikram moved to an apartment near the hospital. I moved back to my mother’s house and bought a new bed with just one pillow.

Aarav—Rohan—called several times. I heard him once.

— He didn’t ask for anything in return. Just to introduce himself: “I’m Rohan. The coward who ran away.”

I replied:
— My name is Aarav now. You’ll have to learn to call me that again. And yourself too.

We met on the banks of the Yamuna. Peering at me from the window of a tea stall, he told me about his wandering days. I listened attentively, as if listening to another woman. I told him the truth:
— I don’t know if I still love you. I’m grateful, angry, and sympathetic. But I want to learn to sleep in the middle of the bed.

Rohan nodded:
— This time I’ll wait. Right here. No more running away.

When I returned, Vikram left a transfer slip marked “15 years’ rent – ​​Vikram” and a handwritten note:

“I’ve done my part: turn off the brakes, open your breath.

You do yours: burn all the divorce papers, buy a bouquet of flowers, and put a pillow in the middle of the bed.

If someday you need someone to hang the curtains, I’ll come as a neighbor.

Vikram – the person who doesn’t touch you isn’t because they don’t love you, but because they’re afraid to love you the wrong way.”

I turned on the yellow light and placed the round pillow in the middle of the bed. After fifteen years, for the first time, I chose myself.