I never imagined I would see her there — wearing a pale hospital gown, sitting silently in the corner of a corridor filled with tired faces and hollow eyes, as if the whole world had abandoned her. And in that moment, I felt like something was crushing my heart.
She — my ex-wife, whom I had divorced just two months ago.
My name is Arjun. I’m 34, a regular office worker. Our marriage lasted five years — seemingly stable. My wife, Maya, was gentle and kind — not extraordinarily beautiful, but she gave me a sense of peace every time I came home.
Like most couples, we had dreams: to buy a house, have children, and build a small family. But three years into our marriage, after Maya suffered two miscarriages, the atmosphere at home began to change. She became quiet; her eyes often stared off into the distance. I started to feel emotionally drained — coming home from work to only sighs and cold expressions.
I won’t deny it — I was at fault too. I started coming home late, avoiding conversations, using work as an excuse to escape the growing emptiness between us. Slowly, small arguments turned frequent, though neither of us ever wanted to hurt the other.
One day in April, after a short but exhausting argument, I softly said:
— “Let’s get a divorce, Maya.”
She looked at me for a long time, then simply asked:
— “You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?”
I nodded.
She didn’t cry, didn’t scream like I had expected. She just silently nodded, packed her things that night, and left. The divorce papers were signed quickly, as if both of us had mentally prepared for it long ago.
After the divorce, I moved into a rented apartment in New Delhi and started living a simple life: working during the day, going out for drinks at night or watching movies alone.
There was no one to cook for me, no familiar sound of slippers in the morning, no voice asking, “Did you eat?”
But I didn’t let myself feel weak. I convinced myself I had made the right decision — at least back then.
Two months passed.
I lived like a shadow.
There were nights I would wake up from nightmares, realizing I had been calling Maya’s name in my sleep.
That day, I went to visit my best friend Rohit at AIIMS (All India Institute of Medical Sciences) in New Delhi — he had just undergone surgery.
As I was passing through the Internal Medicine corridor, I instinctively turned my head, feeling like someone familiar was nearby.
And then I saw her — Maya.
She was sitting there, dressed in a light blue hospital gown. Her hair had been cut unusually short — she had always loved her long hair. Her face looked pale and thin, her eyes hollow and lifeless. An IV drip was attached beside her.
I stood frozen.
My heart was pounding.
A flood of questions ran through my mind:
What happened to her?
Why didn’t anyone tell me?
Why was she sitting there all alone?
Trembling, I walked toward her and said…
