When I think about how it started, it never felt wrong. Not even for a second. That’s the part that still messes with me. I was 21, finishing my undergrad in Literature at a college in Bangalore that thought way too highly of itself. And she was… well, she was everything.
Aarti ma’am was a visiting professor, barely 33. She was doing her PhD somewhere in Delhi but came down for a semester to teach Postmodern Fiction. Everyone noticed her, of course that calm confidence, the no-nonsense way she’d walk into class in a cotton saree with messy tied-up hair and a silver ring on her thumb. She wasn’t trying to be “cool” like some teachers. She just was.
I wasn’t the only one who hung on to every word she said. But I think I was the only one who stayed back after class every time. Asked questions I already knew the answers to. Found excuses to walk with her to the parking lot. She always smiled. That kind of half-amused, half-knowing smile.
“You’re very persistent,” she once said.
“I’m just curious,” I replied.
“Same thing,” she said, unlocking her Activa. “One’s just more romantic.”
It wasn’t long before things blurred. It was just texts at first. Book recommendations. Voice notes about film adaptations. Then one night she sent me a photo of her dinner with the caption: “Your type of poetry. Overcooked, intense, and unnecessary.”
I laughed. I replied with something equally dumb. And then it all tipped.
We met outside class. Coffee became dinner. Dinner became the night. The first time we kissed, I think I was more afraid of how normal it felt than the fact that I was kissing my professor.
That semester felt like a dream I never wanted to wake up from. I was writing again. Properly. My thesis was practically glowing. She said she’d never seen someone so young write like that. She said I made her believe again.
And I believed too. Believed we were headed somewhere. I imagined moving to Delhi after graduation, applying for my Master’s there. I imagined renting a small place, waking up to her humming something in the kitchen. I imagined… everything.
But Aarti?
She imagined something else.
I still remember that afternoon, two weeks after our semester ended. We were in her flat, sprawled on her floor, reading Neruda. She was tracing her finger along the edge of my shirt.
And then, just like that, she said, “I’m going back to Delhi next week.”
I blinked. “Okay. I’ll come too.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t the usual smile. This one hurt. “No, you won’t.”
“Why not?”
She sighed. “Because you’re not supposed to.”
I didn’t get it. I asked if she didn’t love me. She said she did. Maybe too much.
“But this was a chapter,” she said. “A beautiful one. But chapters end.”
I hated how calm she was. How gentle. Like she had already made peace with a decision I didn’t even know was on the table.
I told her I could make it work. That I could fight for this. That I wanted to. But she just kept shaking her head.
“You think this is the ending,” I said. “But I feel like I was just getting started.”
She didn’t say anything. Just kissed my forehead and said, “That’s how I know you’ll be fine.”
And that was it. No drama. No big falling out. Just silence that grew louder with each passing week. No contact since.
I graduated. I did end up in Delhi, but she wasn’t there. Or maybe she was, but not for me. Sometimes I see someone in a bookstore who looks like her and I almost forget to breathe.
I’m okay now, mostly. But every time someone says “happily ever after,” I just think no one tells you what happens after that. What if they were happy, but you were still waiting for forever?
I guess some stories end quietly. Even the most beautiful ones.
It’s been a few years now.
I still write, though less like I’m trying to impress someone and more like I’m just trying to understand myself. That, I think, is what she gave me without meaning to — a mirror and a matchstick.
I moved on, slowly. Not in that dramatic, movie-like way. Just... one morning at a time. I fell for someone else eventually. A graphic designer who doesn’t read much but listens like it’s an art form. She doesn’t ask about the past, and I don’t volunteer too much. But sometimes, when I quote Neruda under my breath, she smiles like she knows there’s more to the story.
We’re good. Not perfect, not poetic — just good. The kind of good that brews coffee before you wake up and remembers how you take your eggs. And I’ve learned that maybe that’s its own kind of forever.
Do I still think about Aarti? Of course. Some people stay with you like the smell of old books — faint, familiar, a little heartbreaking. But I don’t wait anymore. I remember. And then I keep walking.
React
