Chapter 8: Ghosts of the Past

It had only been a week since they returned from the hospital.

Their home was quiet — too quiet.

Veeresh had started working from his penthouse office. Poornima had resumed her duties at Bharat Electronics. There were polite conversations, shared meals… but no warmth. No softness.

Then, they came.

One morning, as Poornima walked out of her office building, a black car pulled up. Three familiar faces stepped out — her ex-husband's parents.

She froze.

The pain came rushing back. Grief. Accusation. Shame.

His mother held her hand.

> “Poornima… we were wrong. We blamed you when you had just lost a husband… a partner… our son. We came here… to apologise.”

Poornima’s eyes filled with tears.

She stood silent.

The moment was heavy, emotional — and unnoticed by the world.

Except one.

Across the street, from behind the tinted windows of his SUV, Veeresh saw everything.

---

Later That Night

Veeresh sat on the balcony, staring into the city lights.

His thoughts were loud.

> She didn’t tell me… Why is she hiding it? Why now? Are they here to take her back?

And then the poisonous question bloomed:

> Will she leave me too?

From that night, Veeresh changed.

He stopped sitting beside her during dinner.

He began watching her phone when it buzzed.

He left early, came back late — but not without noticing everything.

He had begun stalking her silently.

---

At Work

Poornima stepped out to pick a coffee from the corner stall.

She paused — feeling someone watch her.

Turning around, she spotted Veeresh… across the street.

He acted as if he didn’t see her.

It happened again.

And again.

At the cafeteria. Outside her apartment. At her therapy clinic.

Everywhere she turned — his eyes followed.

---

At Home

The words began to sting.

> “You like white shirts now? Or is it because someone else liked them?”

> “You always look… distracted lately. Want to talk about it? No? Thought so.”

> “Ex in town… memories must be flooding, huh?”

His tone wasn’t loud. It was casual. Mocking. Cold.

But it cut deep.

Poornima tried to ignore it at first. But slowly, her walls began to crack.

She stopped speaking. She kept her distance.

And one night, while placing dinner on the table, he commented:

> “Did you cry like this for your first husband too? Or was I special?”

Her hand trembled.

The plate clattered.

She couldn’t hold it anymore.

She rushed to the bedroom, shut the door, and cried like a child — muffled sobs, chest heavy, heart bruised.

On the other side of the door, Veeresh stood frozen — his fists clenched.

His own eyes wet.

But his ego, his pain — they wouldn’t let him walk in.