Adultery Between Nabila and Ranjeet

[naj0501]

I walked back into the kitchen and picked up my phone from the counter.

I unlocked it and opened Ranjeet’s chat—but paused.

The blinking cursor stared back at me like it could read my hesitation. This wasn’t just a message. This was me cracking open a quiet part of myself. And somehow, despite everything, he was the only one I wanted to talk to.

Ranjeet—my manager. My boss. And, over time, my quietest friend. Thirty-two, composed, reliable to a fault. Sharp in meetings, respectful in tone, always the first to defend a team member when something went wrong. But behind all that formality, he had something else—kindness. The quiet kind. The rare kind. And lately, the only kind I trusted.

I typed: “He left.”

My thumb hovered. Then, backspace.

I exhaled and tried again:

“Asif walked out. We fought again. This time because I invited my Ammi. It’s Adnan’s birthday, Ranjeet… and he still made it about his mother. About control. I’m trying to hold it together but I… I just needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t make me feel stupid for needing help.”

I read the message again. Then hit send.

The message had barely been delivered before my phone began to vibrate. Ranjeet.

For a split second, I panicked. My face was blotchy. My voice would crack. But I swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, softer. “I was just about to text you. Actually, I called to ask something work-related, but… are you okay?”

I sat down heavily on the nearest chair. My knees felt like they didn’t belong to me.

“No,” I whispered. “He left. It’s Adnan’s birthday. He just… left.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Nabila, I’m… really sorry. I don’t know what to say except—this shouldn’t be happening to you. Not today. Not ever.”

I swallowed. “He said he wouldn’t stay if Ammi was in the house. Like she’s some kind of threat. Like she hasn’t already kept herself small just to avoid conflict.”

Ranjeet exhaled, his voice laced with quiet anger. “That’s not right. None of this is. You invited your mother. For your son’s birthday. That’s love. That’s normal. What he’s doing… that’s not love. That’s control.”

A lump formed in my throat.

“I wasn’t going to message anyone,” I confessed. “I didn’t want to explain it all. I didn’t want to feel judged.”

“You’re not judged. Not here,” he said quickly. “And if I’m being honest… I’m glad you messaged me.”

That made me pause. “Really?”

“Of course,” he replied. “You’ve always shown up for everyone else. You deserve someone to show up for you too.”

I didn’t respond right away. My throat was too tight.

Then he added gently, “You don’t have to talk. I can stay on the line. You can just breathe. I’ll be right here.”

“Just for a bit,” I whispered.

And he stayed. No work. No pressure.

Just his voice. His breath. A quiet presence on the other side of the line.

And for the first time that morning, I didn’t feel like I was breaking alone.

Then he asked calmly, as if offering something without pushing, "Do you want me to come early? I’ll help you set up. Balloons, cake, whatever you need. You don’t have to handle this alone."

My fingers trembled slightly as I held the phone. His words, so simple and kind, cracked something open inside me. I walked slowly to the bedroom and sat at the edge of the bed.

Then he asked again, more softly this time, "Are you there?"

I let out a shaky breath. My throat tightened as a single tear escaped down my cheek. I wiped it away before it could fall any farther, swallowing the lump rising in my chest.

I stared at the wall for a long moment before speaking:

“Thanks. It would be a great help.”

The reply came within seconds.

“Welcome.”

I didn’t move. Just sat there, still clutching the phone, breathing in the silence around me. But something had shifted. I wasn’t okay—not yet. But help was on the way.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

It was mid-afternoon, a little after lunch, when the doorbell rang.

I wiped my hands on a napkin and hurried to the door, the sound sending a ripple through my chest—part anxiety, part comfort.

When I opened it, there he was.

Ranjeet, in jeans and a dark olive T-shirt, a small bag hanging from one hand. His hair was slightly tousled like he'd stepped out in a hurry after lunch, but his eyes—when they met mine—were steady. Warm. The kind that didn’t ask questions but offered presence.

“Salaam,” he said, his voice soft, respectful.

“Namaste,” I murmured, and the weight I’d been carrying all morning felt a little lighter.

He stepped in quietly, removed his shoes with care, and looked around the room—half-decorated, cluttered with balloon strings, party favors, the birthday banner still unopened.

“You’re okay?” he asked, gently.

I paused, then nodded slowly. “Trying. But better now. Adnan shouldn’t feel anything off today.”

He held my gaze for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Tell me what to do. Where do we start?”

He nodded slowly. “Chalo, mujhe batao kya karna hai.”

We began with the balloon arch.He held the balloons as I tied the string. Our hands brushed more than once. The contact was fleeting, but each time it happened, I felt its warmth linger. At one point, I looked up and found him watching me—not in a way that made me uncomfortable, but in a way that made my heart stumble.

Without thinking, I stepped a little closer. The room felt suddenly smaller, quieter.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“For what?” he asked.

“For showing up. For being here. For not making me feel like a burden.”

He didn’t say anything. He just opened his arms, the gesture soft and unspoken.I walked into them.

It wasn’t a romantic hug. It wasn’t hurried or tight. It was warm. Grounding. His hands rested gently on my back, and mine clutched the sides of his shirt like I was anchoring myself.

For a few seconds, I closed my eyes and let myself feel what I had been denying all morning: the ache, the weight, the quiet relief of being held.

When we slowly pulled apart, he looked into my eyes and smiled faintly.

“Anytime,” he said.

And I believed him.

At one point, I fumbled with a balloon clip and sighed in frustration.

“Do na,” he said, extending his hand.

“Main kar leti,” I muttered.

“Tum sab kuch akele kar leti ho, Nabila,” he said quietly. “Kabhi toh kisi aur ko bhi karne do.”

His tone wasn’t scolding. It was full of quiet understanding. And it made me pause.

I handed him the clip. He fixed it in seconds and passed it back, his fingers grazing mine intentionally or not—I wasn’t sure.

“Thanks,” I said, looking away quickly.

We moved to the cake table. I arranged the plates and napkins while he set the party favors. We worked in silence, moving like we’d done this together before—like we belonged in the same rhythm.

When I paused to check my phone, I noticed him watching me.

“Kya?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Bas dekh raha hoon,” he said. “Tum kaise sab kuch gracefully sambhal leti ho.”

I gave a faint smile. “Maa hoon. Options nahi hote.”

He shook his head slowly. “Par tum sirf maa nahi ho.”

I looked up.

“You’re strong. Beautiful. Intelligent. Deserving of much more than… jo kuch bhi tumse cheena gaya hai.”

My breath hitched.

“Ranjeet… that means more than you know,” I whispered, my voice softer than breath. “I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that until you said it.”

He came closer, standing beside me. Close enough that the side of his arm brushed mine.

“Please kabhi apne aap ko akela mat samajhna,” he said.

We stood there for a moment, quietly breathing in the calm between us. Around us, half-inflated balloons drifted gently across the floor, and unopened boxes of candles sat on the sideboard like patient guests waiting their turn. The room, messy and half-done, somehow felt whole in that silence. Like we had already built something unspoken between us.

I cleared my throat. “Us bag mein kya hai?”

He blinked and looked down at the bag as if he'd just remembered it was there. His expression softened into a smile—shy, almost boyish. “Adnan ke liye ek chhoti si gift hai,” he said, lifting the bag a little. “Remote control car. Jab dekha toh bas socha… yeh uske liye perfect hoga. Usse cars aur bikes ka kitna craze hai, yaad hai na?”

His voice held that gentle pride people reserved for thoughtful surprises, and for a moment, it was like he wasn’t just a guest—but someone who cared deeply, who had paid attention to the smallest things.

I smiled, a little more genuinely now. “Woh pagal ho jaayega dekh ke.”

“Main chahta ho woh khush rahe,” he said softly. “Tum dono khush raho.”

A breeze creaked the balcony door open slightly. A balloon floated lazily toward the window.

Adnan’s laughter rang out from his room, bright and echoing down the hallway.Moments later, his small footsteps padded quickly across the floor and he peeked into the living room, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Mumma!” he called excitedly. “Kya Ranjeet uncle aa gaye?”

I turned toward him, smiling with a softness I hadn't felt in days. “Haan, beta. Dekho toh zara kaun aaya hai tumse milne.”

My voice carried a gentle excitement, and I stepped aside so Adnan could get a clearer view of Ranjeet standing near the decorations.

Ranjeet crouched a little and held out his hand. “Hey champ! Happy Birthday!”

Adnan beamed and ran over to him, giving him a quick hug.

“Tumhare liye ek surprise bhi laaya hoon,” Ranjeet added, lifting the bag.

Adnan’s eyes lit up. “Mere liye? Kya hai?”

“Pahle ready ho jao, champ. Jab sab aajayenge aur hum cake cut karenge, tabhi milega gift. Surprise ka maza tabhi aata hai na?” I said quickly, gently nudging him toward the hallway.

Adnan groaned dramatically but nodded. “Okay Mumma… but mujhe sabse pehle balloon ka color choose karna hai!”

“You will,” I promised, kissing his head. “Ab jao.”

As he ran off, his giggle trailing behind him, I turned back to Ranjeet.

“Thank you,” I said softly, my voice touched with something warm and full.

And for a moment… it felt like everything was okay.

Like we were just two people setting up a party.

Not a shattered soul, and the one man who had quietly, patiently gathered every piece of her with eyes that never looked away.

With the decorations complete and the living room transformed into a little world of colorful cheer, I let out a slow breath. The hard part was done. Adnan was dressed now—his little button-down shirt tucked in neatly, hair combed to the side, a wide smile on his face as he admired the balloons and party favors like treasures.

“Main ready ho gaya!” he announced proudly from the hallway, spinning in place as if modeling his outfit.

“You look like the handsomest birthday boy ever,” I said, grinning.

He gave me a quick thumbs-up and darted back to his room, probably to line up his toy cars.

I turned to Ranjeet, who was still adjusting a streamer on the window frame.

“Bas thoda waqt chahiye,” I said quietly. “Ab mujhe bhi ready hona hai.”

He turned to face me, nodding with a soft smile. “Jao. Main yahan sambhal lunga. Don’t worry.”

I gave him a grateful glance and walked toward the bedroom, the quiet comfort of his presence still settling over me like a shawl.

It was time to take a breath. And be ready to welcome the world again—with a smile.