Sitting before the mirror on her wedding day, adorned with the red bridal attire, Zoya, Delhi's one of the most renowned Gynecologist couldn't feign the absurd heaviness in her chest, as if something awful was going to happen. And the little hopeful...
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The bar was empty, save for me. The dim lights cast long, lonely shadows, and the clink of ice against glass echoed in the silence. I sat hunched over the counter, a bottle of whiskey my only companion. Each gulp was a desperate attempt to drown the pain, to numb the hurt that clung to me like a second skin.
My mind is a fog, thoughts swirling and colliding like a storm at sea. Memories, regrets, what-ifs, they all danced in the haze, each one a sharp sting in my heart. The world outside ceased to exist, and all that remained was the bitter taste of the alcohol and the relentless pounding in my head.
My fingers tightened around the glass, the cool surface a stark contrast to the burning liquid inside. I was lost, adrift in a sea of sorrow and regret, with no land in sight. The bar, once a place of joy and laughter, was now just a hollow echo of better times.
But I kept drinking, each sip a futile attempt to forget, to escape, to feel anything but the gnawing emptiness inside.
My eyes, heavy with unshed tears, stared blankly at the rows of bottles behind the counter. Each one promised oblivion, a sweet release from the torment of his thoughts. But the more I drank, the louder the thoughts became, a cruel irony that was not lost on me.
The smirk on Rudra's face, the mocking glimmer in his eyes, and the urge to punch him right in the face when he talked about my Zoya was something insatiable.
"Do you even know where she'd been that whole month?"
"She was with me."
"She's tired of the pain, Nischay. The only thing you've ever given him."
The words echo in my mind, a cruel reminder of my failures. They sting, each word a sharp jab to my already wounded heart.
I try to find a flaw in his words, a point where he's wrong, but I can't. The truth of his words hits me harder than any drink ever could. I've caused her pain, more pain than I ever intended. And the worst part? She found solace in the arms of another man, the one fell in love with....before me.
The anger inside me flares up, hot and fierce. But it's not directed at her, or even at him. It's directed at me. I'm angry at myself for letting it come to this, for pushing her away with my actions.
The realization is a bitter pill to swallow. I'm losing her, and it's all my fault. The pain of this truth is sharper than any alcohol could numb. It's a wound that won't heal, a scar that will forever remind me of my mistakes.
I sit here, in this empty bar, my heart heavy with regret. The whiskey in my glass is no longer a source of comfort, but a reminder of my failures. The hurt and anger are my only companions now, the only things I have left.
Suddenly, the small TV in the corner of the bar flickers to life, a news bulletin flashing across the screen. My eyes are drawn to it, my grip on the glass tightening as I read the headline. It's about Zoya, my wife. Gruesome allegations have been put on her, and I can feel the anger coursing through my veins.
"Famous doctor Zoya Kapoor, wife of Nischay Mehrotra is still undeniably standing with her husband. Regardless of the allegations put on him, she relies upon him without feeling ashamed. Is Dr. Kapoor hungry for fame and money? Or is her husband blackmailing her?" The news anchor's words are like a punch to my gut.
