Anisha sat in her car outside their apartment, gripping the steering wheel. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, her breath coming in sharp bursts. The echoes of Vikram’s words still rang in her ears—sharp, cutting, unfair.
“How can you be so insensitive? You never understand me!” he had shouted.
She had snapped back, her voice just as loud. “And what about you? Do you even care how I feel?”
The argument had escalated. Hurtful words had been exchanged, and doors had been slammed. Now, sitting alone, Anisha felt hollow. She could march back in, throw more words like knives, let anger have the final say. Or—she could pause.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Clean up your mind first before meeting up again. Her mother’s words came floating back to her.
She adjusted the seat and rested her head against it. She allowed herself to feel. The anger. The sadness. The exhaustion. She let them rise and fall like waves. Then, she breathed deeply and imagined warmth spreading through her chest, replacing the knots of resentment with something softer.
Why did he react that way? She sifted through their conversation, past the harsh words, looking for the wound beneath. He was struggling at work. Feeling unappreciated. And what did I do? I made him feel worse.
The realization stung, but it also cleared the storm inside her. She wasn’t the enemy, and neither was he. They were two people in pain, colliding instead of supporting each other.
She stepped out of the car and walked back upstairs. Inside, the apartment was silent. She found Vikram sitting on the edge of their bed, his head in his hands.
She sat beside him, their shoulders barely touching. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
Vikram turned to her, surprise flickering in his tired eyes. “For what?”
“For not seeing how hard things have been for you. I got so caught up in my own feelings that I didn’t listen to yours.”
His face crumpled slightly. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I just…I feel like I’m failing at everything.”
Anisha placed her hand over his. “You’re not failing. And I don’t want us to fight. I want to understand.”
Vikram let out a shaky breath, squeezing her fingers. The tension in the room melted, replaced by something gentler. Not a miracle. But a step towards healing.
Sometimes, love wasn’t about proving a point. It was about cleaning up the mind, making space for understanding, and choosing each other—again and again.