The city of Mumbai looked the same that morning — chaotic, loud, impatient. Trains screeched in their metal rush. Horns blasted through the air. Hawkers shouted over one another, selling dreams wrapped in cheap fabric and hot vada pavs. Life moved on.
But Ethan didn't.
He stood at the edge of the platform, suitcase beside him, shoulders hunched as if trying to protect himself from a wind that wasn't even blowing. His train to Bengaluru would depart in twenty minutes. And yet, he hadn't moved.
Mumbai had been his sanctuary once — a place where ambition had drowned out heartache. But now, it mocked him. Every street corner, every overpriced coffee shop, every bookstore near Marine Drive — all of it whispered her name.
Naina.
His ex-wife.
Or more precisely, the woman who had taught him that some people don't leave with a door slam — they leave piece by piece, one missed glance, one cold word, one betrayal at a time.
He still remembered their last conversation.
It wasn't even a fight. That would have been easier. Fights meant passion. Fights meant effort.
No, their last exchange had been quiet — too quiet. Like the final breath before a heart monitor flatlines.
(Flash back)
Ethan steps inside, soaked from the rain. He freezes when he sees a suitcase by the door. Naina is on the couch, scrolling through her phone casually. Her eyes don't rise to meet his.
Ethan: (confused) You're… going somewhere?
Naina: (calmly) I'm leaving, Ethan. Tonight.
Ethan: (stunned) What? Why? You couldn't even talk to me?
Naina: We've talked. You just never listened. And honestly, I'm done explaining myself.
Ethan: You're walking away? Just like that?
Naina: Yes. Just like that. I'm tired of living a life that feels like a job. Marriage shouldn't feel like this much work.
Ethan: So that's it? After everything?
Naina: Don't make it dramatic. We had good times. It was fun, but people grow. I've outgrown this… you.
Ethan: (hurt) I was still holding on. I was still trying.
Naina: That's your choice. I already made mine. Months ago.
Ethan: (quietly) Is there someone else?
Naina: (shrugs) Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter?
Ethan: It matters to me!
Naina: Ethan, I need more than what you offer. Stability is nice, but it's boring. You used to dream big — now you just exist.
Ethan: (staggered) I gave you everything I had.
Naina: And I want more. Is that a crime?
She stands, grabs her suitcase.
Naina: Don't make this harder than it is. You'll be fine. You always are.
Ethan: (softly) I wasn't expecting a villain… but I guess every story has one.
She doesn't even flinch. The door closes. Ethan stands frozen — abandoned, again.
Three days later, he found the note.
And the email from her lawyer.
No shouting. No bags packed dramatically. Just an erasure — cold, clinical, complete.
He hadn't even cried.
Not then.
The tears had come later, in waves, always alone. In the shower. On midnight walks. In elevators between meetings.
He told himself it was better this way. That maybe love was never supposed to be loud. Maybe love was what you did when no one was watching — like making her coffee just the way she liked, or remembering the name of her childhood dog, or fighting back sleep to listen when her nightmares woke her.
But clearly, that wasn't enough.
Now, standing at the station, he clutched his ticket like it was a verdict.
Bengaluru.
His hometown. The place he'd left to chase dreams, and now returned to with empty hands and a weight in his chest that refused to be named.
The train whistle blew. A final call.
He stepped in.
And just like that, Ethan left behind the city of dreams — with nothing but broken ones in his suitcase.
---
The train was half full. Ethan chose a window seat and plugged in his earphones, not for the music, but for the silence. He didn't want to talk. Didn't want small smiles from strangers or polite nods from aunties across the aisle.
He just wanted to disappear.
As the train pulled out of the city, the skyline blurred into smog and slums, eventually giving way to green stretches of forgotten India. Palm trees. Dusty roads. Fields that hadn't changed since he was a boy.
But Ethan had changed.
God, had he changed.
There was a time he believed in love the way children believed in superpowers — all-consuming, world-changing, capable of saving even the worst parts of himself.
But now?
Now, he didn't even believe in good mornings.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But the memories came anyway.
Of Naina laughing at some dumb joke he'd made. Of her head on his chest while they watched reruns of Friends. Of the way her nose crinkled when she concentrated.
It all felt like it belonged to another life.
One he wasn't invited back to.
The problem wasn't just that she left.
It was that she made him doubt the very things he thought he was good at — being loyal, being patient, being enough.
He started questioning everything.
Had he loved her too quietly?
Was he too stable? Too boring?
Why did women say they wanted honesty and safety, only to run toward chaos?
These thoughts weren't fair, and he knew it.
But heartbreak rarely plays fair.
At one point during the journey, the train halted near a nameless station. No announcement. Just a sudden stillness.
Outside, a boy with a limp tried to sell peanuts to the passengers. A woman carried a baby wrapped in a shawl too thin for the weather. A stray dog curled beneath a bench, trying to stay invisible.
Ethan watched them.
The world didn't stop just because his did.
It was humbling. And maddening.
He opened his laptop, an instinct from his workaholic past, but stared blankly at the screen. Spreadsheets and presentations. Deals and deadlines. He used to be good at all this.
But now, even success felt hollow.
Naina had said once, during a fight, "You love your job more than me."
He had laughed. "I'm building our future."
She had scoffed. "A future without a present is just a dream you're having alone."
Back then, he thought she was being dramatic.
Now... maybe she had a point.
But does that justify betrayal?
Does that make ghosting and cheating forgivable?
No.
Ethan clenched his fists.
He was tired of making excuses for other people's cruelty.Somewhere past midnight, the train grew quieter. Lights dimmed. Passengers slept curled in awkward positions.
But Ethan stayed awake, eyes fixed on the window, watching shadows flit past trees and electric poles like memories he couldn't escape.
He thought of calling his mother.
But what would he say?
"Hi, Ma. Your perfect son is coming home after failing at the one thing he swore he'd never give up on."
He knew they wouldn't say it. His parents weren't cruel.
But he also knew they'd be disappointed — not in his divorce, but in his hurt.
They had always raised him to be strong. Resilient.
But grief didn't care about upbringing.
It came for everyone eventually.
Ethan closed his eyes and made himself a promise.
He wouldn't fall again.
He wouldn't trust someone enough to give them the power to break him.
He'd go home. Smile. Rebuild.
But love?
No.
He was done with love.
He'd give his time. Maybe companionship, if fate forced his hand.
But not his heart.
Never again.
The morning light was soft when the train reached Bengaluru.
There was something sacred about arriving in a city while it still yawned — sleepy tea stalls opening shutters, auto drivers wiping seats, the scent of filter coffee drifting in waves.
Ethan stepped onto the platform, blinking against the sun, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if expecting the city to ask, "What happened to you?"
But no one did.
The city moved on.
Like it always had.
Like she had.
He walked out of the station, called a cab, and stared out the window as familiar roads unfolded. Trees that hadn't been cut down yet. Shops that still hadn't changed fonts. The old theater that used to show English films with badly synced subtitles.
Home.
The word felt foreign.
He arrived at his parents' house — a modest two-story home with aging paint but warmth in every corner.
His father opened the door. Didn't say much. Just nodded and moved aside.
His mother hugged him longer than usual.
That night, he slept in his childhood room, the same glow-in-the-dark stickers still faintly visible on the ceiling.
He stared at them for hours.
Wondering how someone who believed so much in love — in fixing things — had become this version of himself.
Cold.
Guarded.
Unreachable.
---