Eight Months of Sundays

The ceiling fan makes the same sound it did two years ago, that slight wobble on the third rotation, like a hesitation before continuing. Ishan lies on his back, staring at the water stain that's been growing since monsoon season, though he can't remember which one anymore.

His phone buzzes. Aditi's name flashes: The jacaranda tree outside our café is blooming. Purple everywhere.

The message hangs in the blue glow. Three months since she left Mumbai, left the company, left him with nothing but sporadic messages that arrive like ghosts, acknowledged but never answered.

He remembers the day she'd called purple the colour of possibility. They'd been sitting at their usual table, watching the tree through the café window, and she'd been stirring sugar into her black coffee with that focused intensity she brought to everything.

"You don't have to drink it bitterly," he'd said, watching her make faces at the taste.

"Sometimes what you like isn't what's good for you," she'd replied, but she was looking out the window, not at him.

That should have been his first clue. Aditi was always looking elsewhere when she said the most important things.

The office feels different without her three rows ahead, without the possibility of catching her eye during meetings or finding excuses to walk past her desk. Rajesh, the fresh graduate who replaced her, keeps his space clinically clean and never stays past six.

"She messaged again," Vikram observes, sliding into the chair beside Ishan's desk.

Ishan nods, not trusting his voice. Vikram has been his friend since college, the kind who can read exhaustion in the slump of your shoulders and knows when not to push.

"What did she say this time?"

"Just... remembering."

"She's not making this easy."

"Easy was never part of the equation with Aditi. That was the problem. And also not the problem."

They'd fallen in love the way Mumbai falls into monsoon, gradually, then all at once, then with an intensity that changed everything. Eight months of Sundays at the café in Bandra, the same table by the window where the jacaranda tree grew. Office meetings that became excuses to catch each other's eyes. Lunch breaks that stretched into long walks through Fort's narrow lanes.

Ishan had loved the way she moved through the city, like she was dancing with it instead of fighting it. She knew which train compartment would be least crowded, which street vendor made the best bhel puri, and which bookstore stayed open the latest for browsers who couldn't afford to buy.

The unravelling happened during monsoon season, when the city's emotions seemed to mirror the weather: intense, unpredictable, capable of flooding everything you thought was solid ground.

"What's wrong?" he'd finally asked, cornering her in the office break room after weeks of cancelled plans and shortened conversations.

Rain drummed against the windows. Aditi was making tea with surgical precision, not meeting his eyes.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Aditi." He'd reached for her hand, but she'd pulled away, not unkindly, but definitively.

"Don't. Please don't make this harder."

"Make what harder?"

She'd turned to face him then, and he'd seen something in her eyes that looked like grief. "This. Us. Whatever we're pretending we can be."

"We're not pretending. We're in love."

"Yes. And that's exactly the problem."

The full conversation happened three weeks later at their café, the jacaranda blooms just beginning to show their purple edges. Aditi had arrived looking like she'd been crying, though her makeup was perfect.

"I'm leaving the company," she'd said without preamble.

"What? Why?"

"Because staying is impossible. Because every time I see you, I remember why I can't have you."

"Who says you can't have me? Aditi, whatever it is, we can work through..."

"I'm married, Ishan."

The words hit him like a physical blow. The café's noise, clinking cups, conversation, and the espresso machine's hiss faded to static.

"What?"

"Married. Three years. Arranged. My husband works in Delhi and comes to Mumbai twice a month." Her voice was steady, like she was reading from a script. "I've been living separately for work, but really because I couldn't make myself love him the way I should."

"Three years? You've been married three years and never..."

"Never told the man I was falling in love with that I belonged to someone else? Never mentioned that every kiss was built on a lie?" Her composure cracked. "I can't be that selfish, Ishan. I can't choose my happiness over everyone else's."

"What about my happiness?"

"What we have is beautiful and impossible." She'd reached across the table then, taking his hand for what would be the last time. "I love you. That's why I have to go."

The letter arrived two days after her last day at work, left on his desk in cream colored paper that smelled faintly of jasmine.

Ishan, if you're thinking about me, and I hope you are, at least sometimes, please think about the good parts. Those eight months of Sundays. The way you made me laugh during meetings. The afternoon you taught me to like black coffee by adding cinnamon. The evening we got caught in the rain near Colaba and spent two hours in that bookshop, reading poetry while we waited for the storm to pass.

But how do you make someone forget the price of loving? How do you explain that sometimes the cost of happiness is too high, not because it isn't worth it, but because the people who would pay don't deserve to?

Take care of yourself. Fall in love again, with someone who can love you back without destroying everything else. -A

The messages started six weeks later. Sporadic, never demanding responses, more like messages in bottles thrown into the ocean of his life.

Made cinnamon coffee this morning. Still tastes like you taught me happiness has layers.

Saw a man reading Neruda on the train. Remembered that afternoon in the bookshop.

And now: The jacaranda tree outside our café is blooming. Purple everywhere.

For three months, Ishan had read without responding. But something about this one felt different. More urgent.

His fingers found words: Purple is also the colour of mourning in some cultures.

The response came quickly: No. But it makes sense. Beautiful and sad at the same time.

Like us, he typed, hesitated, then sent.

Like us, she agreed.

They texted carefully for two weeks, dancing around everything they couldn't say. Then she called.

"I'm sorry," her voice was tired through the static. "I know we said we wouldn't, but my husband visited last weekend. Rohit. His name is Rohit, and he's wonderful, Ishan. He brought books he thought I'd like, made dinner, and talked about his dreams for our future. And I felt nothing. Grateful, yes. But not the way I felt when you used to tell me about your day."

"Aditi..."

"I'm a terrible person. A terrible wife. Every time he touches me, every time he smiles like I'm something precious, I feel like I'm lying with my whole body."

The words hung heavy between them. "What do you want me to say?"

"That you're moving on. That you're dating someone uncomplicated."

"I'm not."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't just get over someone like you. Because I'm still learning how to live with loving someone I can't have."

Silence stretched until he thought she'd hung up.

"I can't seem to forget the price of loving you," she said finally. "And I can't decide if it was worth paying."

"What if we're asking the wrong questions? Not 'what's the price' but 'how do we live with what we know about ourselves?'"

"I don't know how."

"I'm learning. Learning that love doesn't always look like possession. Sometimes it looks like being grateful for eight months of Sundays instead of bitter about all the Sundays you'll never have."

She was crying now. "This has to be the last time, Ishan. I can't keep doing this to any of us."

"I know."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Aditi."

Summer faded to monsoon. Vikram convinced Ishan to join a hiking group: "fresh air, new people, a chance to remember the world is bigger than your broken heart." That's where he met Kavya, a freelance journalist who argued with their guide about Maratha history and had opinions about everything.

"You know a lot," Ishan said during a rest stop.

"Occupational hazard of being a journalist. You pick up random expertise and deploy it inappropriately," she grinned. "What do you do?"

"Software. Not nearly as interesting."

"Everything's interesting if you look at it right."

They talked for the rest of the trek, and Ishan realised he'd gone three hours without thinking about Aditi. It felt like progress. It also felt like betrayal.

Kavya became part of his weekends, then his weekdays. Coffee dates that stretched to dinner, conversations that continued from week to week. She never pushed for explanations about the careful distance he maintained.

"You're holding something back," she said one evening at the Fort book market. "And that's okay. When you're ready to tell me whatever you're protecting me from, I'll listen."

"What if it's complicated?"

"I'm a journalist. I like complicated. Simple stories are usually lies."

It was December when he finally told her. About Aditi and the café and the jacaranda tree. About the marriage he hadn't known about and the choice she'd made.

"Do you still love her?" Kavya asked when he finished.

"Yes. But not the same way. It's more like carrying a scar. Part of me now, but it doesn't hurt like it used to."

"Could you love someone else?"

Ishan looked at her, really looked at the intelligence in her eyes and the patience in her posture. "I think I already am."

"Good. Because I've been waiting for you to catch up."

Spring arrived early, bringing weather that made Mumbai almost pleasant. Ishan and Kavya had settled into something that felt sustainable, built on honest conversation and gradual trust.

They were having breakfast at a new café in Bandra when his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number: Hello, Ishan. This is Rohit, Aditi's husband. I was hoping we could meet. There are things I'd like to discuss about Aditi.

"Aditi's husband," Ishan said quietly.

Kavya looked up from her newspaper. "What does he want?"

When Ishan showed her the message, she said, "Are you going to meet him?"

"Should I?"

"Take me with you."

They met at a restaurant in Powai. Rohit was smaller than Ishan had expected, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He stood when they arrived, extending his hand.

"Thank you for coming. Aditi mentioned you might bring someone. She said you deserved to be happy."

Over lunch, Rohit got to the point. "Aditi told me about you. About your relationship. I'm not here for apologies, I'm here because I'm trying to understand my wife."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"She does everything a good wife should do. But it's like she's performing goodness instead of feeling it. I think she fell in love with you because you represented choice, the possibility of building a life based on what she wanted instead of what was expected."

The table fell silent.

"What do you want from me?" Ishan asked.

"I want to know if you think she could ever choose me. Really choose me, not just accept me."

Kavya spoke: "That's not a question he can answer. That's something you have to ask Aditi."

"I want someone to talk to her about what would actually make her happy. Whether that's learning to love me, or leaving me, or some third option I haven't considered."

Weeks later, Ishan called Aditi on a Thursday evening. She answered on the second ring.

"Your husband contacted me," he said.

"I know. How did it go?"

"He's a good man."

"Yes. That's what makes this so hard."

"If you could design your life from scratch, knowing what you know now, what would it look like?"

Long pause. "I don't know if I'm allowed to think about that."

"Everyone's allowed. The question is whether you're brave enough."

"I've been seeing a therapist. Rohit suggested it." Her voice was small. "I've learned that I've spent so much time trying to be who I should be that I forgot who I actually am. And that love without choice isn't really love, it's performance."

"Have you told Rohit?"

"We're talking more honestly than we ever have. About what we both want. About whether caring about each other might mean something different than we originally thought."

"That sounds healthy."

"Terrifying, but healthy. Ishan? Loving you taught me I'm capable of choosing, of wanting something for myself instead of just accepting what's given. I'm going to figure out how to apply that to the life I actually have."

"What does Rohit think?"

"He says he'd rather have a wife who chooses him after considering other options than one who stays because she's afraid to leave. He's braver than I am."

"You're both brave. You're both trying to love authentically."

"Take care of yourself, Ishan. Make choices that honour who you actually are."

"I'm trying. You too."

Six months later, a message arrived from Aditi: We figured it out. Not perfect, but real. Rohit and I are renewing our vows next month, choosing each other this time, with full knowledge of what that means. Thank you for helping us understand the difference between settling and choosing.

Ishan showed the message to Kavya, who smiled. "Are you happy for them?"

"Really happy. They found their way to choosing each other."

"And what about us? Ready to make some choices of your own?"

Ishan looked at this woman who had waited patiently while he learned to love again, who had held space for his complicated history without trying to erase it.

"What kind of choices?"

"The kind that involves building a future together. Choosing each other every day because we want to, not because we're afraid of anything else."

"Yes," Ishan said, and the word felt like coming home. "I choose that. I choose you."

Outside, Mumbai continued its eternal dance, people arriving, departing, falling in love, falling apart, finding ways to build lives out of hope and stubborn possibility. And in a small apartment overlooking it all, two people sat together planning a future built on choice rather than circumstance, on love rather than fear.

Somewhere in the city, the jacaranda trees were blooming again. Purple everywhere. Still the colour of possibility, but now also the colour of choosing wisely, of loving authentically, of finding ways to honour both heart and conscience.

The weight of memory had become something lighter, not forgotten, but transformed into the foundation for something new.

Conjuring Night

It was supposed to be a simple night. Her apartment, the hum of the AC, a quilt large enough to disappear under. The city outside already asleep.

We had started in the usual way, just the silence between kisses, the slow rhythm of bodies rediscovering each other. When it was over, neither of us bothered to reach for clothes. Just bare skin pressed together under the quilt, breath still uneven, the air turned cold enough for goosebumps.

“Movie?” she said, stretching an arm toward the laptop on the table.

I nodded lazily, still not recovered enough to care. She grinned at me in that way she does when she already has a plan. And when the screen lit up, I saw it. The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It.

My first reaction wasn’t even words, just a noise. Half-groan, half-prayer.

“Yaar, seriously?”

Her grin widened. “What? You wanted romance? We already did that.”

I should have protested. I should have begged for a comedy, maybe even pretended I was sleepy. But she had already hit play, sliding back under the quilt, pulling me with her until my back was against the headboard and her head was on my chest.

She was warm. Comfortable. Mischievous.

I was already dying inside.

The movie opened, all gloomy halls and flickering lights. Within minutes, I was tense, every muscle waiting for something to jump out of the screen. She, meanwhile, was relaxed, occasionally hiding her face in my arm, not because she was scared, but because she enjoyed pretending to be.

The first real scare came suddenly, a door slamming open, and I jumped hard enough to knock the quilt sideways. She burst out laughing.

“You actually jumped,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

“I didn’t,” I said quickly, even though my heart was thundering.

I tried to play it cool, but it got worse. Every time the background music softened, I panicked, knowing what was coming. I covered my ears once. Another time, I shut my eyes completely, pressing my face into her hair as though hiding there would save me.

She tilted her head back, amused. “Are you sniffing my hair right now?”

“Shh,” I whispered, clutching her hand like it was a lifeline. “If I can’t see it, it can’t see me.”

She giggled so much her shoulders shook. “You’re hopeless.”

At one point, I even pulled the quilt up over my face, like a kid hiding from monsters. She tugged it down, laughing. “You’ll suffocate before the demon even comes.”

Another time, when a shadow moved across the screen, I startled so badly that I actually pinched her by mistake. She yelped, smacked my chest, and then laughed even harder when she saw my face.

The more scared I got, the braver she became. She leaned forward during the scariest scenes, eyes wide, lips parted in excitement. Meanwhile, I clung to her from behind, peeking through the tiny space between her hair strands. My grip tightened every time the camera crept down a dark corridor.

“You’re watching through me,” she whispered, delighted.

“That’s the whole point of sitting like this,” I muttered.

She rewarded me with a kiss on the back of my hand, the same hand that was nearly cutting off her circulation with how tightly I was holding it. And the worst part? I could feel her enjoying my fear more than the movie itself.

The night stretched like that: me trembling, her teasing, our laughter spilling in between the shrieks from the laptop speakers.

By the time the credits rolled, I was drained. Sweat clung to my forehead despite the AC running full blast. She turned to me, eyes shining with mischief.

“Confess. You didn’t watch half of it.”

I sighed. “I survived. That’s enough.”

She smiled, leaned in, and kissed me slow. And suddenly, the scariest thing wasn’t the movie, it was how much I wanted every night to feel exactly like this: terrifying and comforting, ridiculous and tender, all at once.