The Man Who Never Believed in Love

My name is Jeevan.

I'm twenty-seven years old, an engineer by profession, a biker by passion, a technology enthusiast by obsession, and a professional disappointment to every aunty looking for a groom.

I come from a traditional South Indian family where three things are unavoidable: filter coffee, relatives asking personal questions, and parents discussing marriage the moment their son gets a decent job.

I had everything I wanted.

A good career. A beautiful bike. A laptop powerful enough to run my entire life. Amazing friends. Financial independence. And, most importantly, freedom.

My weekends were simple: long rides, badminton, cricket, music, late-night coding, and absolutely no unnecessary emotional drama.

There was only one problem.

My family wanted me married.

And I wanted absolutely nothing to do with marriage.

I didn't believe in love stories. I believed in deadlines, logic, machines, and the beautiful sound of a motorcycle engine.

Girls, relationships, romance, commitments?

Not my department.

People often asked whether some girl had broken my heart.

No.

I had never even given anyone the opportunity.

I wasn't some mysterious hero with a tragic romantic past. I was just a stubborn fellow who had convinced himself that relationships were complicated and that life was better alone.

Then came my mother.

"Jeevan, you're twenty-seven."

"Excellent observation, Amma."

"All your cousins are getting married."

"Please convey my condolences."

"JEEVAN!"

And that's how our daily marriage discussions usually ended.

One Sunday, while I was peacefully watching a cricket match, Amma entered my room holding her phone.

"Look at this girl."

"Why?"

"She's beautiful, educated, from a good family, and working in a reputed company."

"Then I'm sure she'll find a good husband."

"YOU are the husband!"

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

The cricket commentator shouted, "OUT!"

For the first time, I felt personally attacked by a television.

"Amma, I don't want to get married."

"You've been saying that for three years."

"Consistency is a good quality."

She sat beside me.

And this time, she didn't shout.

"I know you love your freedom. But we won't always be here with you. We just want someone who will stand beside you in life."

That sentence affected me more than all her previous arguments.

I loved my mother more than anyone in the world.

And when she started getting emotional, my logical brain surrendered.

"Fine, Amma. Do whatever you want."

Her face immediately brightened.

"Really?"

"Yes. But don't expect me to act like some romantic movie hero."

She smiled.

"First get married. We'll discuss the hero part later."

I should have known.

Mothers never lose negotiations. They simply wait for the right moment.

Within weeks, my house transformed into a matrimonial headquarters.

Phone calls. Horoscope matching. Family discussions. Relatives offering opinions nobody had requested.

My mother finally found someone she considered perfect.

An educated, independent, kind-hearted girl from a traditional family.

My parents met her and her family.

They liked her.

Her parents liked mine.

Everyone was happy.

Except the one person who was apparently getting married.

Me.

I hadn't even seen her photograph.

"At least meet her once," Amma insisted.

"Why? You've already selected her."

"Jeevan, marriage is not online shopping!"

"Exactly. That's why I'm not interested in placing the order."

She gave me a deadly look.

A few days later, an unknown number appeared on my WhatsApp.

I didn't respond.

The next evening, I reached a café fifteen minutes early.

Not because I was excited.

Because being late was against my principles.

I ordered black coffee and opened my laptop.

A few minutes later, someone stood beside my table.

"Excuse me. Are you Jeevan?"

I looked up.

A girl stood there wearing a simple pastel kurti, a small bindi, and a warm smile.

"Yes."

"Hi. I'm your future problem."

I blinked.

She laughed.

"Sorry. Bad joke. I was nervous."

Despite myself, the corner of my mouth moved slightly.

We shook hands.

It was a perfectly ordinary handshake.

Yet I was awkward enough to remember it.

She sat down.

"So… tell me about yourself."

"Engineer."

She waited.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

"That's it?"

"Pretty much."

She laughed again.

"Okay. This is going to be a difficult interview."

For the next forty minutes, she did most of the talking.

She told me about her work, family, childhood, ambitions, love for traditional festivals, favourite foods, and her habit of getting emotional over little things.

I mostly nodded.

But one thing surprised me.

She didn't pretend to be someone else.

She was comfortable being herself.

And she didn't seem intimidated by my silence.

As we prepared to leave, she suddenly became serious.

"Jeevan, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Are you genuinely happy about this marriage?"

I paused.

She looked straight into my eyes.

"If you're being forced, you can tell me. I don't want either of us entering something we don't want."

For a brief moment, I almost confessed everything.

But I imagined my mother's happiness disappearing.

So I said the word that would eventually haunt me.

"Yes."

She smiled.

"Okay. Then I'll see you at the wedding."

I watched her walk away.

I didn't know her favourite colour.

I didn't know what made her cry.

I didn't know what she expected from marriage.

And most importantly, I didn't know that the girl I had just lied to would one day become the most important person in my life.

Our wedding was traditional, beautiful, and exhausting.

The wedding hall was filled with jasmine flowers, relatives, priests, photographers, and the continuous sound of nadaswaram.

Everyone seemed happier than the groom.

When the priest handed me the mangalsutra, the entire hall watched.

I tied it around her neck.

Flowers rained over us.

She closed her eyes.

A small smile appeared on her face.

For her, it was the beginning of a beautiful dream.

For me, it was an obligation I had finally completed.

After the wedding, she cried while leaving her parents.

My mother hugged her tightly.

"You're not leaving one family. You're gaining another."

That evening, she entered our house as the new daughter-in-law.

Pujas, rituals, blessings, photographs.

By the time everything ended, I was exhausted.

Then I entered my bedroom.

Rose petals.

Decorative lights.

Flowers everywhere.

The bed looked like someone had attacked it with an entire flower market.

I stared at the decorations.

"Oh, absolutely not."

I changed my clothes, picked up my bike keys, and left.

No explanation.

No message.

Nothing.

I rode through the quiet Bengaluru roads, stopped for tea, listened to music, and enjoyed the cold night breeze.

Meanwhile, back home, she entered our room holding a glass of milk.

She looked around.

Empty.

She waited.

Thirty minutes.

One hour.

Finally, she asked Amma where I was.

Amma called me.

"JEEVAN! WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Out."

"YOUR WIFE IS WAITING!"

"Tell her to sleep."

"COME HOME RIGHT NOW!"

I disconnected and rode for another hour.

When I finally returned, Amma looked ready to disown me.

I ignored the lecture and entered my bedroom.

She was asleep on the couch.

Beside her was a steel box.

I turned on my music.

The sound woke her.

She quickly stood up.

"You're back."

"Hmm."

She nervously picked up the box.

"I made something for you."

"What?"

"My favourite sweet. Amma told me you like homemade sweets, so I thought…"

She opened the box.

I didn't even look properly.

"Listen."

She became silent.

"I need to make something very clear."

Her fingers tightened around the box.

"I didn't marry you because I wanted to. I did it because of my parents. I don't believe in love or marriage. I don't like emotional attachments, and I don't want a relationship."

Her smile slowly disappeared.

"I understand, but—"

"No. You don't."

I continued.

"Don't try to impress me. Don't expect romantic conversations. Don't interfere in my life. And please don't expect me to behave like a husband."

Her eyes began filling with tears.

She blinked them away.

"Okay."

I wasn't finished.

"And honestly, I hate girls. I prefer being alone."

For a few seconds, she said nothing.

Then she quietly closed the box.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

She placed it on the table.

"Good night, Jeevan."

She moved away.

I switched off the lights.

And slept.

What I didn't know was that she sat awake for hours, staring at the mangalsutra around her neck.

She had entered marriage hoping for love, companionship, and a family of her own.

Instead, she had married a stranger who wanted her to remain a stranger forever.

That night, she lost a dream.

And I lost something I hadn't yet learned to value.

The next few months passed without much change in my life.

Office. Bike rides. Music. Friends. Coding. Sleeping.

My wife lived in the same house, yet our worlds barely touched.

She never complained.

She never questioned me.

She didn't force conversations.

Outside the bedroom, however, she was completely different.

She laughed with Amma, cooked with her, accompanied her to temples, and slowly became the daughter my parents never had.

My mother loved her.

Sometimes, I would return home and find them laughing in the kitchen.

I never asked what was funny.

I simply walked past.

One weekend, my parents travelled to a relative's function.

I had work, so I stayed home.

My wife was also working.

That evening, I returned and headed directly to my laptop.

Headphones on. Music playing. World disconnected.

Hours later, a scream shook the house.

"JEEVAN!"

I removed my headphones.

My mother stood near our bedroom door.

Her face was pale.

My wife was lying unconscious on the floor.

My father rushed to call a doctor.

I stood frozen.

The doctor examined her.

"She's suffering from a viral fever. She's extremely weak and dehydrated. It looks like she hasn't eaten properly for days."

He gave her medication and instructed us to monitor her closely.

My mother turned toward me.

"How long has she been sick?"

"I don't know."

"Has she eaten?"

"I don't know, Amma."

"Didn't you notice she was unwell?"

"I was working."

"She's your wife, Jeevan!"

"I know, but you also know I don't involve myself in her personal matters."

My mother's expression changed.

"She was unconscious in your room!"

"I had my headphones on!"

"What if we hadn't come home?"

I was irritated and defensive.

"Amma, why are you blaming me? I didn't ask for this responsibility."

"Responsibility? She's a human being!"

"Fine! But why should I care whether she's alive or—"

SLAP!

The sound echoed across the room.

I stared at my mother.

She had never raised her hand against me.

Not even when I was a child.

Her eyes were filled with tears.

"Shut up."

Her voice trembled.

"I didn't raise you to become this kind of man."

"Amma…"

"Forget that she's your wife. Forget marriage. Forget all your arguments. A person was lying unconscious, and you were too selfish to notice!"

I couldn't speak.

"Education doesn't make you a good human being, Jeevan. Money doesn't. Intelligence doesn't. If you cannot show basic kindness, what is the use of everything you've achieved?"

She turned away.

"For the first time in my life, I'm ashamed of my son."

Those words hurt more than the slap.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I kept remembering her lying on the floor.

The way my mother cried.

And the box of sweets from our wedding night.

Two days later, I approached Amma.

She refused to look at me.

I sat beside her.

"Amma…"

Silence.

"Slap me again if you want. But please talk to me."

She looked at me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

She sighed.

"I'm not asking you to love her overnight. I'm not even asking you to pretend to be a perfect husband."

She held my hand.

"Just treat her like a human being. With dignity. With respect."

I nodded.

"Okay, Amma."

For the first time, I understood something.

A few months later, I was transferred to another city.

My wife managed to get a transfer to the same location.

Naturally, my mother was worried.

Not about me.

About her.

Before we left, Amma called me aside.

"Jeevan, listen carefully."

"Yes, Amma."

"You will speak to her every day."

"Okay."

"At least ten minutes."

"Ten minutes?"

"Yes."

"Every day?"

"EVERY DAY."

I sighed.

"You will also help with household work, make sure she's eating properly, and take care of her if she's unwell."

"Anything else? Should I submit weekly reports?"

"Don't test my patience."

"Okay, okay."

I promised.

Being an engineer, I immediately developed a system.

Efficient. Organised. Emotionally unavailable. Perfect.

On our first evening in the new apartment, I found her unpacking clothes.

"Come to the hall."

She looked surprised.

"Why?"

"We need to talk."

She followed me.

I sat on one sofa. She sat opposite me.

I started the timer.

"Amma made me promise to talk to you for ten minutes daily."

She stared at me. Then laughed.

"You're joking."

I showed her the timer.

She laughed harder.

"Jeevan! You actually set a timer?"

"A promise is a promise."

She shook her head.

"You're unbelievable."

Six minutes remained.

"Anything else?" I asked.

She suddenly became thoughtful.

"Actually… yes."

I waited.

"I know you don't want a relationship. And I understand you don't feel comfortable around me."

"Hmm."

"So I have an idea."

"What?"

"Forget that I'm your wife."

I frowned. "What?"

"Imagine you're still a bachelor sharing an apartment with another guy."

I stared at her.

She continued seriously.

"We'll have separate rooms. Separate personal spaces. No romantic expectations. No unnecessary questions. We can split expenses, share chores, and live as flatmates."

I considered it.

That sounded surprisingly reasonable.

"Fine."

She smiled.

"One more thing."

"What now?"

"Can I call you Bro?"

I blinked.

"Bro?"

"Yes! Since we're flatmates, let's make it official."

I shrugged.

"Whatever."

She held out her hand.

"Deal, Bro?"

I shook it.

"Deal."

My timer rang. Ten minutes completed.

I stood up.

"Good night."

"Good night, Bro!"

I walked into my room.

And smiled without realising it.

My wife had officially become my roommate.

And apparently, my brother.

Our new arrangement worked surprisingly well.

She respected my space. I respected hers.

We divided chores. I handled groceries, bills, internet, and technical problems. She handled the cooking schedule and household organisation.

Not because she was obligated to cook, but because she enjoyed it.

I washed dishes whenever I could.

We both worked. We both earned.

And for the first time, neither of us felt constantly uncomfortable at home.

Every evening, my reminder rang.

She found it hilarious.

"Bro, your girlfriend is calling."

"What girlfriend?"

"Your reminder!"

"Very funny."

Our conversations began awkwardly.

"How was work?"
"Good."
"Had lunch?"
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"No."

Five minutes of silence.

Eventually, we started discussing practical things.

Electricity bills. Grocery expenses. Rent. Office problems.

One evening, while reviewing our monthly expenses, I noticed a calculation error.

"Wait. We're missing ₹2,400."

She checked the spreadsheet.

"No, you added the maintenance twice."

I checked. She was right.

"Hmm."

She smiled.

"Engineer defeated by basic mathematics."

"Temporary technical issue."

"Of course, Bro."

My timer rang. Ten minutes.

But we continued discussing finances.

Half an hour passed.

Then she started explaining mutual funds, investments, and financial planning.

To my surprise, she knew far more than I did.

I kept asking questions. She kept answering.

When I finally checked the clock, it was almost midnight.

Three hours.

We had spoken for three hours.

Without awkwardness. Without pressure. Without remembering that we were husband and wife.

The next morning, I deleted the ten-minute timer.

She noticed that evening.

"Bro, where's your alarm?"

"Don't need it anymore."

"Why?"

"Apparently you don't stop talking anyway."

She threw a cushion at me.

I laughed. Actually laughed.

And something slowly changed.

Our conversations became longer.

We debated technology, politics, sports, office gossip, childhood memories, and the strangest topics imaginable.

She discovered that I was competitive, sarcastic, and terrible at accepting defeat.

I discovered that she was intelligent, stubborn, funny, and surprisingly good at chess.

One evening, she beat me three times consecutively.

"Checkmate, Bro."

"Rematch."

"Again?"

"That last one was practice."

"Of course."

For the first time in years, I genuinely looked forward to coming home.

Not because I had a wife waiting.

But because I had a friend.

One evening, I returned home exhausted.

She was sitting on the sofa holding two small friendship bands.

"Happy Friendship Day, Bro!"

I looked at her.

"Seriously?"

"Very seriously."

She tied one around my wrist.

"Congratulations. You are officially my best friend."

"That's unfortunate for you."

She laughed. "Definitely."

That night, she was too tired to cook.

"Bro, can we order dinner?"

"Sure."

"I'll pay. My treat."

"No need. I'll order."

"Today is Friendship Day. Don't argue."

"Fine. But I'm choosing the restaurant."

"Okay."

We ordered biryani and sat together watching a movie.

Usually, I ate dinner alone in my room.

That night felt different. Comfortable. Warm. Normal.

Halfway through the movie, she started laughing at something ridiculous.

I looked at her.

"What's so funny?"

"Your expression! You look personally offended by the villain."

"Because his plan makes absolutely no sense."

"Bro, it's a movie."

"Then the villain should write better code."

She laughed so hard she almost spilled her drink.

And I realised something strange.

Her laughter had become one of my favourite sounds.

From that day, dinners together became routine.

Then weekend movies. Then evening walks. Then chess matches. Then grocery shopping. Then random midnight conversations.

Sometimes, she fell asleep on the sofa while talking. I would quietly lower the television volume and leave a blanket nearby.

Sometimes, she prepared coffee for me when I worked late.

Neither of us made a big deal out of it.

It was simply friendship.

At least, that's what I told myself.

One evening, she approached me with a suspiciously sweet smile.

"Brooooo…"

I looked up from my laptop.

"No."

"I haven't even asked!"

"That tone means trouble."

She sat beside me.

"My parents want us to visit a temple for a three-day pilgrimage."

I closed my laptop.

"No."

"Please?"

"You know I'm an atheist."

"I know."

"And I hate religious trips."

"I know."

"Then why ask?"

She looked disappointed.

"Because they specifically asked us to come together. I don't want to disappoint them."

I sighed.

She thought for a moment.

"Okay. Let's make a deal."

I looked at her.

"What deal?"

"You spend three days doing something I love. Then I'll spend three days doing things you love, even if I hate them."

I considered it.

"Anything?"

"Within reason, Mr. Engineer."

"Done."

She smiled brightly.

"DEAL!"

The trip began with a six-hour journey.

She was excited.

I was carrying headphones, snacks, and the expression of a man serving a court sentence.

But something happened during those three days.

I saw her differently.

She patiently helped an elderly woman climb the temple steps.

She shared food with a family who had forgotten theirs.

She smiled at strangers. She spoke respectfully to everyone.

And when I got irritated by the long queues, she quietly offered me water.

"Relax, Bro. We're not going to miss a flight."

I looked at her.

"How are you so patient?"

"Someone has to balance your attitude."

At one temple, the steps were slippery.

She held my hand while climbing.

A simple gesture. Nothing extraordinary.

Yet I became strangely aware of how naturally her fingers rested against mine.

She didn't notice. I did.

For the first time, I didn't want the trip to end.

On the final evening, we sat outside watching the sunset.

"Bro?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for coming."

"It's okay."

"I know this wasn't easy for you."

I looked at her.

"You were happy. That's enough."

She turned toward me.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she smiled.

And something unfamiliar stirred inside me.

I immediately looked away.

Dangerous territory, Jeevan. Very dangerous.

Now it was her turn.

I designed a three-day adventure specifically around things she disliked.

Day one: Mexican food and a long bike ride.
Day two: A loud live music concert ending after midnight.
Day three: An entire cricket match at the stadium, including warm-ups, innings break, and post-match presentations.

She stared at the itinerary.

"Bro, are you trying to torture me?"

"A deal is a deal."

"You're evil."

"Thank you."

On the first day, she struggled with the Mexican food.

"Why is everything either too spicy or too sour?"

"Welcome to international cuisine."

"I miss dosa."

I laughed.

During the long bike ride, she initially complained.

"Slow down!"

"I'm within the speed limit."

"The wind is destroying my hair!"

"That's what helmets are for."

But later, as we rode through quiet roads beneath the evening sky, she tapped my shoulder.

"Bro?"

"What?"

"This is actually nice."

I smiled inside my helmet.

The second day surprised me even more.

At the concert, she initially covered her ears.

"SO LOUD!"

"WHAT?"

"I SAID IT'S LOUD!"

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

She hit my arm.

An hour later, she was singing along, clapping, and laughing.

I barely watched the stage. I kept watching her.

The third day, at the cricket stadium, she asked a hundred questions.

"Why did everyone cheer? That was only one run."

"Because it was a difficult single."

"Why is that guy angry?"

"Because he dropped the catch."

"Why are YOU angry?"

"Because HE DROPPED THE CATCH!"

She burst out laughing.

By the end, she was cheering louder than I was.

On our way home, she leaned back in the passenger seat of the cab and said something I never forgot.

"Bro, I didn't enjoy these things because I suddenly started loving cricket or loud music."

"Then why?"

"Because I was doing them with you."

I turned toward the window.

For once, I had no sarcastic reply.

I had entered her world out of obligation.

She entered mine out of affection.

And somewhere along the way, both worlds started becoming one.

Months passed.

Something inside me was changing.

I started noticing little things.

How she tied her hair before cooking.

How she spoke to her parents every evening.

How she got emotional during movies but pretended she wasn't crying.

How she remembered everyone's birthdays.

How she always asked whether I had eaten.

And how the house felt strangely empty whenever she was away.

Once, she visited her parents for two days.

I thought I would enjoy the silence.

No one stealing the television remote. No one challenging me to chess. No one calling me Bro every fifteen minutes.

Perfect bachelor life.

Except…

The house felt too quiet.

I ordered dinner and automatically called out—

"Bro, do you want—"

Silence.

I stared at the empty hallway.

Then at the two plates I had unconsciously taken from the kitchen.

I put one back.

That night, I opened WhatsApp.

I stared at that little red heart longer than I should have.

Then locked my phone.

"Idiot," I muttered.

I wasn't sure whether I meant her.

Or myself.

When she returned, I was waiting near the door.

She looked surprised.

"Bro! You came home early?"

"Traffic was less."

A complete lie.

She smiled. "Missed me?"

"No."

"Then why did you order my favourite snacks?"

I looked at the packet in my hand.

"Discount offer."

She laughed. "Of course."

I turned away.

But I was smiling.

I had started waiting for her voice.

Remembering her favourite things.

Finding excuses to spend time together.

And feeling inexplicably happy when she smiled because of something I had done.

I was an engineer.

I understood systems, algorithms, circuits, and machines.

Yet I couldn't understand what was happening to my own heart.

It was a Sunday evening.

A football match was playing on television.

She was preparing to go grocery shopping.

"Bro, I'm going out. Need anything?"

"Chips."

"Anything useful?"

"More chips."

She rolled her eyes. "Unbelievable."

"Get the spicy ones."

"Okay, Your Highness."

She picked up her bag and left.

I returned to the match.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Then another.

I checked my phone. No messages.

I called her.

It rang. Finally, someone answered.

"Hello?"

"Where are you? How long will you take? I'm starving."

There was a pause.

"Sir, who is this?"

I sat up. "What?"

"I'm calling from an ambulance. This phone was found near a woman who was brought to the hospital after an accident."

My entire body went cold.

"What accident?"

"Sir, there was a serious road accident. The injured woman has been shifted to the hospital."

I couldn't breathe.

"Which hospital?"

He gave me the address.

I grabbed my bike keys and rushed out.

The city lights blurred past.

My heart was beating violently.

Every traffic signal felt endless.

My hands trembled against the handlebars.

"Please… please…"

I didn't know whom I was praying to.

I didn't even believe in God.

But for the first time in my life, I desperately wanted someone, somewhere, to listen.

I reached the hospital and ran inside.

"Accident case! A woman brought in recently!"

The receptionist directed me toward the emergency ward.

A doctor emerged.

"Are you related to the patient?"

My throat tightened.

"I'm…"

I couldn't finish. The doctor waited.

"I'm her husband."

For the first time, those words didn't feel like a burden.

They felt like my entire identity.

"She's in critical condition. We're treating a serious head injury. The next twenty-four hours are important."

My knees weakened.

"Can I see her?"

"Not yet. Please wait."

I sat outside the ICU.

The corridor was cold. The lights were too bright. People walked past. Phones rang. Nurses moved hurriedly.

But all I could hear was my own heartbeat.

Memories attacked me.

The café. Her smile. Our wedding. The sweet box. The way I had spoken to her. The night she was unconscious. My mother's slap. The ten-minute timer. "Happy Friendship Day, Bro!" Our chess matches. The pilgrimage. Her holding my hand. The bike ride. The concert. The cricket stadium.

And her voice—

Tears rolled down my face.

I pressed my hands against my eyes.

"What have I done?"

I remembered every moment I had wasted pretending she didn't matter.

Every day she had waited for kindness.

Every opportunity I had to tell her how much she meant to me.

I had spent months building walls around my heart.

And she had walked through them without ever trying to break them.

I lowered my head.

"Please don't leave me."

My voice cracked.

"I haven't even told you…"

I couldn't finish.

Then—

A hand touched my shoulder.

"Bro?"

I froze.

That voice.

I turned around.

She was standing behind me.

Alive. Uninjured. Looking completely confused.

"Jeevan? What are you doing here?"

For a second, my brain stopped functioning.

I stared at her. Then stood up.

And hugged her.

Not a polite hug. Not a friendly hug.

I held her as if the entire world would collapse if I let go.

"Bro? What happened?"

I couldn't speak. Tears streamed down my face.

She grew frightened.

"Jeevan, please tell me. Are you okay?"

I buried my face against her shoulder.

"Don't ever scare me like that again."

She gently held me.

"Hey… I'm here. What happened?"

After several minutes, she explained.

There had been an accident outside the grocery store. She had helped call the ambulance, assisted the injured woman, and accompanied her to the hospital. In the confusion, she had left her phone in the ambulance.

The hospital staff had then taken the patient inside. She had been helping contact the woman's family.

The woman in the ICU was someone else.

I stared at her.

Relief. Shock. Embarrassment. Love.

Everything hit me at once.

She wiped a tear from my cheek.

"Bro, were you crying for me?"

I looked into her eyes.

For once, I didn't have the strength to hide behind sarcasm.

"Yes."

She became silent.

Then smiled gently.

"Idiot. I'm not going anywhere."

I wanted to believe that.

But I finally understood something terrifying.

She could leave. Life could change. Tomorrow wasn't guaranteed.

And I had been treating the most precious person in my life as though I had forever to love her.

That night, I didn't sleep.

I watched the moonlight fall across the living room floor.

And admitted the truth I had been avoiding.

I was in love with my wife.

Completely. Irrevocably. And much too late to pretend otherwise.

The next morning, Amma called.

She had seen my late-night message about the hospital.

"Jeevan! What happened?"

I told her everything.

For a long moment, she was silent.

Then she asked softly,

"Did you realise something yesterday?"

I closed my eyes.

"Yes, Amma."

"What?"

My voice trembled.

"I can't imagine my life without her."

My mother exhaled.

"Then stop wasting time, kanna. Tell her."

A few days later, we visited my parents.

The next morning was my birthday.

I woke up to the smell of homemade sweets.

When I entered the living room, she stood there with a small cake.

"Happy birthday, Bro!"

Amma and Appa smiled.

She held out a gift.

"Open it!"

Inside was a beautiful watch.

I looked at her.

"You remembered I liked this?"

"Of course. You showed it to me months ago."

I stared at her.

She remembered things I had forgotten saying.

"Bro? Did you like it?"

I slowly placed the gift down.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Please don't call me Bro anymore."

She blinked. "What?"

"Don't call me Bro."

She laughed awkwardly.

"Why? Did someone tease you?"

"No."

"Then?"

I stepped closer.

"Because I don't want to be your brother, your flatmate, or just your best friend anymore."

Her smile faded.

She searched my face.

"Jeevan… what are you saying?"

I took a deep breath.

"Do you remember our first meeting?"

She nodded.

"You asked whether I was happy about our marriage."

"Yes."

"I lied."

Her expression changed.

"I know."

That surprised me.

"You knew?"

She smiled sadly.

"Jeevan, I could see it in your eyes."

My chest tightened.

"Then why did you marry me?"

"Because I thought maybe we could understand each other with time. But after the wedding, I realised you needed more space than I expected."

I looked down.

"I'm sorry."

She said nothing.

"I'm sorry for the wedding night. For the things I said. For leaving you alone. For treating you like you didn't matter."

My voice cracked.

"You didn't deserve any of it."

Her eyes filled with tears.

I continued.

"When Amma asked me to speak to you for ten minutes, I thought it was punishment."

She laughed softly through her tears.

"Honestly, it looked like punishment."

I smiled.

"But those ten minutes became thirty. Then hours. Then entire evenings."

I stepped closer.

"I started coming home early because you were there."

A tear rolled down her cheek.

"I started remembering your favourite food. Waiting for your messages. Looking forward to our arguments."

She covered her mouth.

"And when I thought I'd lost you at the hospital…"

My voice broke.

"I realised I had spent so much time convincing myself I didn't need anyone that I almost lost the one person I needed most."

She whispered, "Jeevan…"

I held her hands.

"I don't know how to be the perfect husband. I don't know how to write poetry or say romantic things. I'll probably still be irritating, stubborn, and obsessed with my laptop."

She laughed and cried at the same time.

"But I know one thing."

I looked directly into her eyes.

"I love you."

She became completely still.

"I love your stupid jokes. I love how you beat me at chess and then act innocent. I love how you care for people. I love how you make every place feel like home."

I wiped my eyes.

"And I love the person I become when I'm with you."

Her tears flowed freely now.

"I don't want you to forget everything I did wrong. I want to spend my life making sure I never hurt you that way again."

I took a breath.

"So today, on my birthday, I want to ask you something."

She nodded through her tears.

"Will you give me a chance to become the husband you deserved from the beginning?"

For a few seconds, she couldn't speak.

Then she whispered,

"Are you sure?"

I smiled.

"For the first time in this marriage, I'm absolutely sure."

She laughed through her tears.

"You idiot…"

"Your idiot?"

She smiled.

"Unfortunately."

I opened my arms.

She stepped into them.

And this time, when I hugged her, it wasn't because I was afraid of losing her.

It was because she wanted to be there too.

From the doorway, Amma quietly wiped her tears.

Appa smiled.

And for the first time, my home felt complete.

That evening, I went into the kitchen.

She was preparing coffee.

I leaned against the doorway.

"Can I ask you for something?"

She turned. "What now?"

"Do you remember our wedding night?"

Her expression softened. "Yes."

"You made a sweet for me."

She nodded. "I still remember."

"I never tasted it."

"No."

I moved closer.

"Will you make it again?"

She looked at me. "Why?"

"Because I want another chance at that moment."

Her eyes filled with tears.

I continued softly.

"That night, you came to me with love, and I gave you pain. I can't erase what happened. But maybe we can make a new memory."

She put down the coffee cup.

"Jeevan…"

"This time, I promise I won't run away on my bike."

She laughed.

"And no headphones?"

"No headphones."

"No laptop?"

"No laptop."

"No ten-minute timer?"

I smiled.

"Not even a stopwatch."

She shook her head, laughing.

"Anything else, Your Highness?"

I stepped closer.

"Yes."

"What?"

"Can you stop calling me Bro permanently?"

She pretended to think.

"Hmm. I'll consider it."

I groaned.

She laughed and wrapped her arms around me.

"Okay, husband."

That single word felt more beautiful than anything I had ever heard.

Later that evening, she brought the sweet in a small steel box.

Just like our wedding night.

But this time, I was waiting.

I took a bite.

She watched nervously.

"How is it?"

I remained silent.

She frowned. "Jeevan?"

I took another bite.

"Terrible."

Her mouth fell open.

"WHAT?"

I laughed.

"Terribly good."

She hit my shoulder. "Idiot!"

I caught her hand gently.

"Thank you."

"For the sweet?"

I shook my head.

"For not giving up on yourself. For becoming my friend. For allowing me to know you."

She smiled.

"And thank you for finally learning how to behave like a decent human being."

"Wow. Such a romantic compliment."

"You're welcome, husband."

We both laughed.

And somewhere in that laughter, our marriage finally began.

Not on the day we exchanged garlands.

Not when I tied the mangalsutra.

Not when hundreds of people blessed us.

But on an ordinary evening, with a small steel box of sweets, two cups of coffee, and two people who had finally chosen each other.

People say marriages are made in heaven.

I don't know.

I'm still the same engineer who believes in logic, technology, motorcycles, and evidence.

But I know this.

Some relationships begin with love.

Ours began with an uncomfortable coffee meeting.

Some couples fall in love before marriage.

We became friends after marriage.

Some people express love through poetry.

I expressed mine through grocery lists, fixed Wi-Fi connections, late-night conversations, chess matches, and eventually a confession I never imagined making.

I was the man who believed he needed nobody.

She was the woman who never demanded that I become someone else.

And somewhere between ten-minute conversations, friendship bands, temple visits, bike rides, terrible jokes, and the word "Bro"…

I fell in love with my own wife.

Even today, she occasionally calls me Bro just to annoy me.

And every time, I give her the same look.

"Seriously?"

She laughs.

"Sorry, husband!"

Then she holds my hand.

And I remember the day I almost lost her.

The day I finally understood that loving someone wasn't about surrendering freedom.

It was about finding a person with whom freedom felt even more beautiful.

I once told her I hated marriage.

Today, I can't imagine a life where I never married her.

And if someone asks me whether I believe in love stories now, I have only one answer.