Cheating was something that I had always considered a coward's way out. And absolute wrong. A relationship breaker.

If someone cheated, it meant they didn't have enough respect for their partner to break things off with them. They took their partner's love for granted and were selfish enough to pursue their own pleasures. It was simple. Cheating was wrong. Cheating was selfish. Cheating was cowardly. Atleast, that's what I thought until I cheated.

My husband isn't perfect, but he's kind-hearted, considerate, and empathetic. He possesses flaws, like we all do, but his Achilles' heel is his avoidance tactic. Whenever an issue arises, he clams up instead of tackling it head-on. As for me, I once believed I was the epitome of quiet, non-confrontational behavior. However, over time, I underwent a transformation. I began to embrace conflict, I preferred it. I needed it. And it wasn't my husband that brought this change in me. It was him.

It had been a year since our breakup, yet the mere thought of him still sent waves of pain through my body. I despised how vividly I could recall every detail of him—the curve of his smile, the shape of his hands with that slight bump below his thumb, the nail on his left ring finger that never grew back properly. It was torture to be able to remember the shape of the scar on his right knee, the texture of his hair, the length of his lashes.

I knew him better than I knew myself. I empathized with him in ways I never did with myself. Yet, a year ago, he inflicted wounds that left me fearing for my life. My rational mind and those who cared about me urged me to end it. But in the days following our breakup, all I craved was to reunite with him. I understood him like no one else did. I comprehended the reasons behind his outbursts. I believed he loved me, despite the pain.

Yet when I reached out to him, he rejected me. "I despise the person I become when I'm with you. I can't do this anymore. It's over between us." I wanted to cry, to plead for another chance. Without him, I felt lost. I didn't know who I was outside of 'us.' My entire adult life revolved around him, and suddenly, I found myself adrift in solitude.

So when my husband proposed, I accepted. I set boundaries for myself. Once married, I vowed not to betray him physically or emotionally, a shield against the pull of my past.

Yet, resisting that gravitational force took every ounce of my strength, leaving me depleted. But I endured. Slowly, I found myself falling for my husband. I forged new connections with those I had overlooked, delving into writing and trying my hand at cooking. I even returned to my alma mater as an assistant professor.

As my husband and I discussed plans for our future—children, further education, moving abroad —a glimmer of hope emerged. It wasn't the blinding light of my past, but a subtle flame of possibility. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I saw myself as me, not just someone's partner. My husband had helped me rediscover myself, acknowledging my individuality. I owed him for pulling me from the depths of despair, for embracing me, for loving me, for saving my life in every sense.

But I missed him. Despite my efforts to bury him in the recesses of my mind, I missed him terribly. Night after night, he invaded my dreams, his presence a bittersweet torment. Sometimes he was in pain, calling out my name. In those fleeting moments, it felt like he was right beside me, but then reality would snap back, reminding me of his absence.

I had chosen a path that severed our connection. I would never see him, feel his touch, or understand his thoughts again. The comfort we once shared was lost to the ether. No more teasing, no more whispered words of affection as I drifted into sleep. It was a reality I had to accept—a forever without him.

After a particularly tormenting night, I found myself drawn to his social media. There it was—a song about how life without me felt like a hollow existence, each breath a struggle. His caption echoed his pain: "I miss you with every breath, every heartbeat."

I lost it. Something snapped inside me, and I impulsively left home. I wasn't sure what I was seeking—closure perhaps, or just him. I met with him and confessed my longing, my pain. But he remained impassive, showing no emotion, offering no solace. I poured out my heart, telling him how much I missed my best friend, how the pain sometimes felt unbearable, how I often wished that I would somehow just die.

But his blank expression only fueled my frustration. I lashed out, trying to provoke a reaction. I revealed that I was being intimate with my husband, that I was starting to fall for him, hoping to elicit some response. But he remained unmoved, urging me to return to my husband, insisting that he had moved on and that I should too. I returned home, more restless and confused than before.

In that state, my husband decided to give me the silent treatment. He knew I had met up with him, and understandably, he was upset. I wished he would confront me, express his anger, but instead, he withdrew into silence. He seemed to deliberately avoid me, burying himself in work and spending more time away than usual. His silent disapproval weighed heavily on me, intensifying the guilt and confusion I already felt.

Yet, I had made up my mind. I would focus on my marriage. I would channel all my energy into being the best wife my husband could ever want.

The following weekend, he texted me, expressing a desire for closure. He wanted to discuss the day he had hurt me physically, hoping that talking about it would aid in his healing process.

I agreed to meet with him and informed my husband, requesting his presence. Once again, my husband chose to ignore me. I suggested that he pick me up from work so we could meet him together, but he remained silent. As my work day ended, I reminded him to meet me at home when he arrived, but his response continued to be silence.

I finally arrived home and met with him. He sat opposite me initially, his leg shaking nervously, a habit I knew all too well. I remembered how I used to soothe him by rubbing his back or placing my hand on his thigh, but now I didn't have that right anymore.

"Naina, you have to look forward in life," he said, locking eyes with me. Eyes I once thought I would be gazing into forever. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. He flinched, but continued, "I needed time away from you to heal. If I had stayed with you, I would have hurt you again, and the guilt would have been too much for me. It would have destroyed any chance of happiness we had."

Tears welled up in my eyes once again. There was probably truth in his words, and I wished there wasn't. I wanted him to heal, but I wished I could have been there for him during that process. Instead, I had ensured that we could never be together again. Why did I get married? In that moment, it became painfully clear to me that I had made a mistake. He and I were soulmates. All we had needed was time apart to heal, and we would have found our way back to each other. Yet, I had messed it all up.

"Naina, is Zayne good to you?" He asked, genuine concern etched in his voice.

I nodded, "He's very kind. And patient," I murmured.

"Then you need to learn to love him. He is your husband. What we had was great. But it was never meant to be forever," his voice broke, and finally, his face betrayed emotion. His eyes shone with unshed tears.

I shook my head, I couldn't forget Advik. "I can't," I whispered.

The next thing I knew, he had pushed me back onto the couch, his weight on me. "I can't live without you, Nia," he murmured before he kissed my lips, and in that moment, my world finally made sense. I kissed him back, feeling the connection between us, the familiarity of our souls intertwining. He was my soulmate, my best friend, everything I had ever dreamed of.

It was as though the last 10 months of my life hadn't existed, and I belonged to him, and he to me. This was us. Naina and Advik. His lips traced along my jawline, and he kissed my neck and sucked my flesh with an intensity that made my senses reel. I tugged at his hair, a desperate need coursing through me. For the first time in a long time, I felt truly alive. But as I closed my eyes, I saw my husband's pained face.

I felt a jolt of electricity course through me, a mix of guilt and sudden clarity. He and I were never going to happen. I was married, to a man who loved me, who had stood by me through thick and thin. And here I was, throwing it all away for someone who had treated me carelessly, who had hurt me time and again, who had kissed me after advising me to return to my husband.

Pushing him away, I sat up, panting. No, I couldn't have done this. But I had. I had cheated on my husband, who had supported me through everything. After he had saved me from myself.

"You..." My voice trembled, and I couldn't bring myself to meet his gaze. "You have to leave. I'm... I'm married. I can't... I can't talk to you again..."

I knelt on the floor. I covered my face in shame and disgust. "I'm sorry I hurt you," I whispered, my voice muffled by my hands. "I'm so so so sorry."

I heard the door shut and the knob click. When I looked up, I was all alone.