I remember the exact moment I realized I could never forgive him—not because he left, but because he expected to be welcomed back.

It was raining in Bandra, the kind of slow, persistent monsoon drizzle that blurs the city into watercolor. We met at that old Goan cafe we used to love, the one with the peeling blue walls and strong filter coffee. He looked older, softer around the edges, his hair thinning just slightly at the temples. Vrinda had left him, he said. He hadn’t loved her, not really. He’d made a mistake. He wanted to come home.

I stirred my coffee, watching the spoon tremble in my hand. For four years, I’d carried my own secret like a stone in my chest. And now, sitting across from the man I once built a life with, I knew it was time to drop it.

'Before you ask me to take you back,' I said, my voice steady, 'there’s something you should know. Eight years ago, when we were still celebrating our love, I had an affair.'

His face froze. The spoon clinked against the saucer.

'I never told anyone. Not even Rashmi. But I won’t let you return pretending we’re both innocent.'

The rain tapped harder against the window. He didn’t speak.

And I waited—not for forgiveness, but for the truth to finally breathe.