We broke up under an Ashoka tree by the hospital’s quarters, clutching Cuppa Noodles in one hand and dear sanity in the other. He wanted to move to the richest city in the world, buy a house and a fancy car, and invest in SIPs. I wanted to write for beautiful websites, pack my bag, trek all the trails, and do volunteer work for The Hope Project.
I don’t think either of us realized the purport of what was happening then. We held hands and slurped at the noodles and congratulated ourselves on parting so amicably despite loving as hard as we had. We hugged a long, warm hug one last time and walked away in truly filmy style, but not before deleting numbers and unfollowing and blocking each other on social media. It’d be easier this way, we thought.
Really. Best breakup ever.
Until I got home. And smelled his aftershave on my sheets. And saw his toothbrush on my stand. And his obsessive arrangement of my knives in the kitchen. And the old ganji on the nightstand where it landed after I whipped it off of him a few days ago. And his coffee mug with the pink rim I poked fun of him about.
What we have is comfortable, safe, solid, happy.
Is writing for beautiful websites, trekking all the trails, and the volunteer work worth giving all this up for?
