Chapter 10: The Weight of the Past

Veeresh sat in his living room long after the photograph had fallen onto the couch beside him. The cold walls seemed to echo the silence he had carried for years. The warmth he felt thinking of Poornima was unfamiliar, dangerous even.

He tried to push it away.

After all, he had lived a life built on control and discipline. One mistake, one misstep with feelings, could unravel years of careful construction.

And what did he have to lose?

Ridhima. His wife. His love. His failed marriage.

Veeresh’s lips pressed into a thin line. Their marriage had started like a dream. Love marriage, bold, passionate, full of plans. They had understood each other—both ambitious, both driven. London had been the perfect playground for two young hearts ready to conquer the world.

But somewhere along the way… love had faded.

Not suddenly. Not violently. Quietly. Slowly.

Words left unsaid. Expectations unmet. Dreams clashing with reality. Nights that became silent. Days that were efficient but empty.

Veeresh remembered her sharp glance over spreadsheets instead of holding his hand. He remembered meals in silence, trips where laughter was replaced by polite conversation, moments of jealousy disguised as practicality.

And eventually… the spark died.

They separated amicably, in a civilized way, but the pain lingered.

Now, his children were his tie to that past. Kayan and Kavya.

He loved them deeply—more than words—but they were never truly his. Or rather, they were only partially his. Their mother was in London, and every school break, every festival, every weekend, the children wanted to go back to her.

A week with him. At most.

Veeresh understood. He knew their love for their mother was natural, deserved, and right. But every time they left, he felt hollow. Their laughter, their chatter, their warmth—they were gone too soon, leaving the house silent again.

His successful life in London and India’s offices, the growing reputation, the business achievements—all of it felt meaningless when he returned to a cold, quiet apartment.

And now… Poornima.

The memories, the photograph, her children’s curiosity, her effortless smile—everything stirred a longing he didn’t allow himself to feel anymore.

He had tried to bury it. He had tried to convince himself:

She’s married.

She has her children, her life.

You are damaged. You are not free.

Your heart cannot risk the pain again.

Yet, the heart has a stubborn way of ignoring reason.

Veeresh’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of the couch. He could still see her teasing him in school, feel the warmth of her hand, the spark in her eyes. He remembered every prank, every playful insult, every time she had challenged him—and smiled.

He wanted to bury these feelings. He needed to bury them.

Because love, he had learned, could hurt.

And he wasn’t ready to feel that kind of hurt again.

Not after Ridhima. Not after losing the small slices of his children’s presence.

And yet, deep in his chest, he knew: some connections refuse to die.

Tonight, in the silence of his cold apartment, Veeresh Raishinghania realized something both thrilling and terrifying: burying a memory that had grown into a feeling wasn’t going to be enough.

No amount of control, no amount of business success, no amount of cold showers could erase what he still felt for Poornima.

And the hardest truth—he didn’t want to.