I don't love you...anymore.

The temple was alive with the murmur of prayers. Evening aarti had begun, the air thick with the scent of camphor and burning ghee. Bells rang in a rhythmic pulse, a steady call to devotion, but my mind was elsewhere—trapped in the blue glow of my phone screen.

It was Gaura aarti time when she messaged. Just another conversation, just another evening of trying to hold on to something slipping away. My fingers moved over the screen, typing words I had already spoken too many times.

"You don’t have to love me back. Just don’t leave me."

"Why do you keep doing this?" she replied.

"Because I love you."

She had heard this before. I had said it too many times, each time believing it would be the one that finally reached her, that broke past her indifference. But love, I had learned, could not be proven like a fact. It could only be given, over and over, hoping the other person would choose to hold it.

"I never asked you to."

That was her answer. It had always been her answer.

I stared at her words, feeling something inside me crumble. The lamps before the deity flickered as the priests waved them in slow circles, golden flames reflecting in their eyes. People around me swayed with the kirtan, lost in devotion, but I sat still. My fingers trembled as I typed.

"I told you, loving you is my problem, not yours. You are not the reason I hurt. You are the only thing that makes it better."

Seconds passed. The temple filled with chants of Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare.

"Let it go."

The words arrived like a final blow.

Let it go.

What was I supposed to do with that? How do you let go of something that has fused into your very being? How do you unlove someone when love has become the air you breathe?

By the time Narsimha aarti began, the conch shell’s deep hum filling the temple halls, I asked her—What if I stop loving you? Would that satisfy your problem?

A long pause. I imagined her sitting on the other end of the phone, debating whether to give me hope or put an end to it for good.

"Yes."

A simple answer. A clean break. No hesitation.

I felt my breath hitch.

So that was it. That was all it took. My love had been a war, fought with every ounce of devotion I had left, and she had just given me the surrender terms.

I could beg one last time. I could remind her of all the ways I had stood by her, all the ways I had chosen her, all the ways I had made her laughter my temple.

But begging had never worked before.

I looked up at the deity of Krishna, the ever-smiling, ever-playful Lord who had once danced between love and duty.

And in that moment, I made my choice.

I took an oath. A real one. Not the kind whispered in desperation, but the kind carved into the soul.

I swore on Krishna’s name.

"I don’t love you anymore."

The words left my lips, dissolving into the air thick with incense. I sent the message.

The pujari’s voice rose, singing praises of the protector of devotees, but I wasn’t listening. My fingers were cold, my body rigid.

She didn’t reply right away. Maybe she was waiting for me to take it back. Maybe she was waiting to feel something. But I had already placed my vow before Krishna.

I don’t love her anymore.

The devotees swayed with the rhythm of the aarti, hands raised, lost in devotion. I sat still.

Her reply came at last.

"Okay."

The bells rang louder, drowning everything else.