Death of a One-Sided Love

The ceiling fan in my Chandigarh flat rotates with deliberate slowness, a motion I have observed on countless evenings. Outside, the October sun descends, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink that once defined my hour of quiet anticipation, the hour of delay, of fragile hope, of "ek din aur" (one more day).

Today, however, a profound weariness overtakes me. Geet has always known.

Six months ago, after three years of silent affection, shared coffee breaks, lunches, and late-night work discussions, I summoned the resolve to confess. At Café JC, my hands trembled around the cappuccino as I uttered the words rehearsed innumerable times: "Tumse pyaar hai, Geet. I have been in love with you for three years."

Her expression held no surprise, only sorrow and sympathy, the gaze one reserves for an injured creature beyond rescue. "Jimmy, I care deeply for you as one of my closest friends. But I do not share those feelings. I am sorry."

In that moment, I should have withdrawn, accepted the rejection, processed the loss, and proceeded with dignity. Instead, I replied, "It is acceptable. I simply needed you to know." I persisted in our friendship, harboring the desperate illusion that her sentiments might evolve.

Six months have elapsed since then, six months of "ek din aur."

Each evening on this balcony, I renewed the same vow: Tomorrow, I will release her. Tomorrow, I will begin to heal. Tomorrow, I will cease monitoring my phone for her messages or dissecting her words for concealed intent.

Yet dawn arrived, accompanied by the insidious murmur: "Fir lagta ek din aur ruk jau. Kya pata tum bhi karne lago. Sirf ek din aur." Just one more day. What if today marks the shift? What if I stand mere hours from transformation?

Friendships often blossom into romance, do they not? She knows me intimately, trusts me, and finds humor in my jests. Is this not the foundation of enduring love?

Thus, I waited. Nearly a year now of accumulated "one more days."

Geet has remained compassionate, excruciatingly so. She has not severed ties or imposed distance. She still confides in me after difficult days at work, invites me to group gatherings, and shares memes tailored to my tastes. Her behavior mirrors the past, as if my confession altered nothing.

Perhaps she believes normalcy will facilitate my recovery, restoring our prior equilibrium. But equilibrium is impossible. I remain ensnared in this intermediate state, this limbo of prolonged deferral, grasping at an illusory possibility.

Last week, during a team dinner with colleagues, Geet sat beside me, her laughter resonating. For an instant, I envisioned us as a couple, her joy reserved for me, our departure hand in hand.

Then Rahul, our team lead, jested about relationships, prompting Geet to remark casually: "I am finished with dating. I am focusing solely on myself now. No distractions."

No distractions. My affection constitutes a distraction. Three years of unwavering devotion, six months of patient endurance, reduced to an impediment.

That night, I returned home and wept, a release both familiar and transformative in its finality.

Today, her message arrived: "Jimmy, you free? Let's grab coffee?"

My instinct nearly compelled assent, fingers poised to respond affirmatively, as always. But I paused, confronting the question evaded for half a year: What am I awaiting?

Her answer was unequivocal six months prior. In the interim, she has offered no hint of reconsideration, no lingering looks, no recantations, no reflections on my words. Only kindness, friendship, and unspoken pity.

I have misconstrued her benevolence as promise, her companionship as potential, constructing dreams upon the sands of "perhaps tomorrow." Yet tomorrow remains elusive, a deception to evade present sorrow.

Reviewing her message, I drafted responses and discarded them: too dramatic, too ambiguous, too burdensome. Ultimately, I sent: "I cannot make it today. Take care."

It marked the inception of separation, yet insufficient. I recognized my pattern: her next outreach would draw me back, perpetuating the cycle.

Therefore, I enacted what was overdue from the day of her rejection. I blocked her number, not to inflict pain, but to preserve myself. I unfollowed her across social platforms, ceasing the scrutiny of her updates for nonexistent signals. I erased our conversation archives, effacing years of dialogue, a severance that felt like self-amputation.

The grave is prepared. The love ceased vitality long ago. For six months, I lingered at its brink, unwilling to inter the remnants, for even in anguish, a spark of hope endured like a cherished refuge.

But hope has transmuted into venom, imprisoning me, obstructing progress and authentic existence.

"Fir lagta ek din aur ruk jau. Kya pata tum bhi karne lago." What if she reciprocates?

She will not. Six months afforded ample opportunity. I have demonstrated patience, kindness, and presence, yet love cannot be compelled or summoned through vigilance.

My phone vibrates; it is Aman: "Finally blocked her?" He has witnessed this protracted unraveling, urging release. Readiness, however, arrives on its own timeline.

I reply: "Yeah."

"Proud of you, bhai."

Pride eludes me; devastation and grief prevail as I mourn an imagined future. Relief tempers the exhaustion.

For six months, I bore this hope as an unyielding burden, mistaking its weight for value. It was merely oppressive.

The sun has vanished; darkness envelops the sky. The city persists in its cadence, unmoved by my private affliction.

Tomorrow, Geet may contact me indirectly, inquiring after my well-being. I may respond, or not. But I will no longer invoke "ek din aur."

Tomorrow, upon awakening, she will not dominate my thoughts. The process may span months or years, but resolution will arrive.

I have expended 365 days in deferral. Today, I declare sufficiency.

The love is extinguished. I sustained it artificially, denying the evident.

Today, not tomorrow, I terminate the sustenance.

I release her.

Not because my love has faded, but because I have begun to value myself sufficiently to cease.

Mai haar gaya. (I lost / I've been defeated).