Updated Feb 14, 2026 • ~10 min read
[MARIUS POV – Eleven Months After Wedding]
Two months without Aspen.
Sixty-three days. 1,512 hours. 90,720 minutes.
Not that I was counting.
(I was absolutely counting.)
Rhys found me in new apartment—cheap studio, even smaller than the place Aspen and I had shared—staring at architectural drawings I couldn’t focus on.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
I couldn’t remember. Yesterday? Day before? Time had become—fluid. Meaningless. Just—space between now and when she’d left.
“Marius, you can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep—existing. You need to live. Move on. She ended it. She chose to leave. You have to—you have to let her go.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because this—” He gestured at apartment. Architectural magazines unopened. Dishes unwashed. Me unwashed probably. “This isn’t letting go. This is—drowning. Slowly.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re—destroyed. And I get it. I do. But she made her choice. She decided you were better off without her. She walked away. And you—you have to respect that. Have to move forward. Have to—”
“Have to what?” I asked. “Pretend I didn’t love her? Pretend two months erases everything? Pretends she wasn’t—wasn’t everything? How do I do that? How do I just—move on?”
“One day at a time. One hour. One minute if you have to. But you keep moving. Keep—existing. Keep trying. Because staying here, in this—this grief pit, isn’t honoring what you had. It’s just—suffering.”
He was right. Of course he was right.
But right didn’t make it easier.
After Rhys left, I tried to work. Stared at community center designs. Beautiful project. Important project. Work I should be excited about.
But I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t create. Couldn’t—
Couldn’t see buildings without seeing her. In photos. In memories. In—
In everything.
She’d said I was dimming. Fading. Becoming smaller.
She was wrong.
I was only dim without her. Only small. Only—
Only half myself.
Work meeting on Tuesday. Presenting designs to community board. Should’ve been exciting. Should’ve been—validation. Proof I could do this. Build career outside family wealth.
But standing there, showing drawings, explaining vision—all I could think was: Aspen should be here. Should see this. Should—
Should be proud of me.
“Mr. Khatri, these are wonderful,” board chair said. “Exactly what we hoped for. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you.”
“You seem distracted though. Is everything alright?”
No. Nothing was alright. Everything was—wrong. Broken. Gone.
“Just tired,” I lied. “Long week.”
They approved project. Hired me. Success. Real success. Proof I could do this without family. Without wealth. Without—
Without her.
The success felt hollow.
Bailey texted that night: How are you doing?
Fine
That’s a lie
Yes
She’s miserable too if that helps
It didn’t help. It made it worse. Because if we were both miserable, both suffering, both—
Both destroyed by separation—
Why were we apart?
She thinks she was caging me, I typed. Does she tell you that? Is that—is that what she actually believes?
She believes she was destroying you. Making you smaller. Being burden instead of partner. She thinks letting you go was mercy.
It was cruelty. To both of us.
I know. But she’s convinced she did right thing. Convinced you’re better off without her. Won’t listen to reason.
I didn’t respond. What was there to say?
Father called next day. First time since disownment.
“Marius.”
“Father.”
“I heard about your community center project. Impressive. You’re—doing well. Building something real.”
“Why are you calling?”
“Because I was wrong. About you. About Aspen. About—everything. Your mother left me. Did you know that? Moved out. Filing for divorce. After thirty-five years. She left.”
I didn’t know what to say. Priya had actually done it. Had chosen herself. Had—
Had left.
“She said you inspired her,” Father continued. “You and Aspen. Choosing yourselves. Choosing love. She—she went to Mumbai. Found Aditya. Her first love. They’re—together now. Happy. After all these years. She’s happy.”
“That’s good. She deserves happiness.”
“So do you. So does Aspen. I was wrong to try to separate you. Wrong to—to prioritize duty over love. Over happiness. Over—actual life. I’m sorry. For everything I did. Everything I made you believe about yourself. About love. About—what matters.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I don’t want you to make my mistake. Don’t want you to lose her. To lose love. To lose—everything that matters because of pride or fear or—or belief that suffering is virtue. It’s not. It’s just suffering. And life’s too short to suffer when you could be happy.”
After he hung up, I sat in silence.
Father apologizing. Mother leaving. Priya finding Aditya after thirty-five years.
Everyone choosing love. Choosing themselves. Choosing—
Choosing happiness.
Everyone except Aspen and me.
We’d chosen—what? Suffering? Separation? Belief that love was cage instead of freedom?
I wanted to call her. Wanted to—fight. For us. For—
For what we’d had. What we could have. If she’d just—
Just believe she was worth staying for. Worth fighting for. Worth—
Worth everything.
But she’d left. She’d chosen. I had to respect that.
Even if it killed me.
[ASPEN POV – Same Timeline]
Two months without Marius.
I’d moved in with Bailey and Rhys. Temporarily. Until I found my own place. Except I hadn’t looked. Hadn’t done anything except—
Except work. Visit Mom. Exist. Barely.
“You made the right choice,” I told myself. Daily. Hourly. Constantly.
It didn’t feel right. Felt like—mistake. Terrible mistake. But it had to be right because—
Because he was better off without me. Had to be. Would be. Eventually.
When he stopped hurting. Stopped mourning. Stopped—
Stopped loving me.
Then he’d be free. Happy. Living the life he deserved.
Without cage. Without burden. Without—
Without me.
Work was mechanical. Marketing campaigns. Social media strategy. Meetings. Performance. All of it—meaningless. Just—time filled until I could go home. Collapse. Cry.
Again. Always again.
“You need to eat,” Bailey said. Putting food in front of me I wouldn’t eat.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re never hungry. You’re—wasting away. Physically. Emotionally. You can’t keep doing this.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re—destroyed. And for what? For some noble idea that leaving him was mercy? When you’re both miserable? When you’re both—dying apart? That’s not mercy. That’s just—waste. Of love. Of happiness. Of—everything.”
“He’s better off without me.”
“He’s destroyed without you. Rhys says he’s barely functioning. Barely eating. Just—working and existing and—suffering. You did that. Your ‘mercy’ did that.”
The words hit hard. As intended.
“He’ll move on. Eventually. He’ll—”
“He won’t. Neither will you. Because you’re not apart because you don’t love each other. You’re apart because you’re terrified. Because you don’t believe you deserve happiness. Because—because leaving is easier than staying. Than fighting. Than believing someone would actually choose you. Actually stay. Actually love you despite everything.”
“I’m not terrified. I’m—realistic. We weren’t working. We were—”
“You were figuring it out. Like every couple does. But instead of working through it, you ran. You destroyed everything because one fight scared you. Because—because you’d rather be alone than risk being left. You left him first. That’s—that’s not love. That’s fear.”
Was it? Was that what I’d done?
Left him before he could leave me? Destroyed us before—before time could? Before reality could?
No. No, I’d done the right thing. I’d—
“He got a big project,” Bailey continued. “Community center. His design. His work. Real career building. Independent of family. Independent of—everything. He’s doing it. Becoming architect. Without you. Like you said he should. So—mission accomplished, right? He’s free. Building life. Exactly what you wanted for him.”
It should feel good. Should feel—validating. Proof I’d been right. Proof he was better off. Proof—
It felt like knife. Twisting. Because he was doing it. Without me. Building life. Moving forward. And I—
I was stuck. Frozen. Drowning. Without him.
Visiting Mom on Wednesday. Weekly visit. She was stable. Trial working. Slowing progression. But memory—memory was mostly gone.
“Hello dear,” she said. Vague smile. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Aspen. Your daughter.”
“Oh. That’s nice. Having daughter. I think I have daughter. Maybe. Can’t remember.”
We sat in facility garden. Beautiful space. Funded by GoFundMe money. Strangers’ generosity. Love from people who’d never meet her.
“There was boy,” Mom said suddenly. “Who used to visit. With you. Beautiful boy. Kind eyes. He held your hand. Looked at you like—like you were everything. Is he still around? The boy who loved you?”
The question broke me.
“No,” I whispered. “He’s not around anymore.”
“That’s sad. He was nice. Made you smile. I don’t remember much. But I remember—you were happy. When he was here. Are you still happy?”
“No, Mom. I’m not.”
“Why not?”
How did I explain? The fear. The self-sabotage. The—the destroying happiness before it could be taken. The—
“I was scared,” I said. “Scared I’d lose him. So I—I pushed him away. Let him go. Before—before he could leave me.”
Mom patted my hand. “That’s silly, dear. If he loved you—and he did, I remember that at least—if he loved you, he wouldn’t leave. Not unless you made him.”
“I made him.”
“Then you’re very foolish. Love like that—the kind that looks at you like you’re everything—that’s rare. Precious. You don’t throw it away because you’re scared. You fight for it. You—you hold on. Even when—when memory fades. When everything fades. That kind of love is worth fighting for.”
She was right. Of course she was right.
Even lost in Alzheimer’s fog, even without memory—she knew. Understood. What I’d thrown away. What I’d—
What I’d destroyed.
That night, alone in Bailey’s guest room, I finally admitted it:
I’d made mistake. Terrible mistake.
I hadn’t saved Marius by leaving. Hadn’t set him free. Hadn’t—
Hadn’t done mercy. Had done cruelty. To both of us.
Because I was afraid. Because I didn’t believe I deserved happiness. Because—because leaving was easier than staying. Than fighting. Than believing someone would actually choose me.
Bailey was right.
Mom was right.
I was—
I was wrong.
But it was too late. Two months had passed. Two months of silence. Two months of—
Two months of him moving on. Building life. Without me.
He wouldn’t take me back. Wouldn’t—forgive. Wouldn’t—
Wouldn’t want me anymore.
I’d destroyed us. Permanently. Completely.
And I had to live with that.
Had to survive knowing I’d thrown away everything. For nothing. For—
For fear disguised as love.
That was—
That was my punishment.
Living with loss I’d chosen. With heartbreak I’d inflicted. With—
With being alone.
Forever.
By choice.
My choice.
Terrible choice.
Wrong choice.
But made. Done. Final.
Too late to undo.
Too late to—
To choose differently.
To choose love.
To choose—
To choose staying.
I’d left.
And now I had to live with leaving.
Forever.
That was—
That was what I deserved.
For being too afraid to be loved.
For destroying everything.
For—
For being fool.
Just like Mom said.
Very foolish fool.
Who’d thrown away everything.
For nothing.
And now had to survive the nothing.
Alone.
Always alone.
Forever alone.
By choice.
Terrible choice.
Final choice.
Done.
Reader Reactions