Aarohi was a believer in love—the kind that walked hand-in-hand in the rain, slid surprise notes in between book pages, and endured even on miserable days. She met Rishabh during her second year at college, and he was poetry wrapped in human form. He laughed at her harder than anybody else ever did, remembered tiny things, and vowed with eyes that seemed too honest to be false.
They were together for two years. Long phone calls, dreams shared, and the kind of connection that felt like she was safe. She believed she found her forever.
Until one night, she noticed it—his phone on the counter while he showered, vibrating with an incoming message. A name unknown to her. "Can't wait to see you again. Last night was amazing ????."
Her world crashed.
She did not wish to see, but she did. And with every message, every photo, every "baby" and "I miss you," her world disintegrated.
As he came out, towel-wrapped and humming, she looked at him with eyes no longer beholding the man she loved—only the stranger who destroyed her.
He tried to justify. Spoke it "meant nothing," that "it just happened," and "she didn't matter." But to Aarohi, she did matter. All his words, all his lies, all his stolen moments from their story to share with someone else—they all counted.
She left without a fight. Without a scream. Only a small, sad smile and a whisper:
"You didn't cheat on me. You cheated on the version of you I thought I knew."
That evening, she composed a message she never sent:
"You didn't shatter me. You only made me remember to love myself more than I ever loved you."
And with that, she released—not the pain right away, but the illusion.
And sometimes healing starts that way.