Misc. Erotica The Price of a Hero - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

The living room felt colder than it should’ve been.

The rain had stopped. But inside me, it hadn’t.
I sat on the sofa.
Her sofa.
Our sofa.
And stared at the half-empty cup of tea on the table.
The one Sudha had made for him.
Steam no longer rose from it.
It sat still, abandoned, like something forgotten in the middle of a war.
I picked it up. Took a sip.
It was cold.
Bitter.
I placed it back down, but didn’t let go.
My fingers gripped the handle like it was the only solid thing left.
From down the hallway, the bedroom door was still open.
But I couldn’t hear much.
Only a shift in weight.
A creak of the mattress.
One low voice. A murmur. Then silence.
My mind filled in the blanks.
Every silence screamed louder than sound ever could.
Sudha’s face flashed in my head—smiling in a yellow saree on our temple trip.
Washing her hands in the sink while I wrapped my arms around her waist from behind.
Telling me once, “You’ll be a big star, Ram. I know it.”
I believed her then.
I think I still do.
But now… that belief came with a cost I hadn’t counted.
Was I still the man she was doing this for?
Or just the excuse she needed to finally feel something else?
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
The tea cup sat on the floor now.
I stared at the dark reflection inside it.
And for the first time since I dreamed of being a hero—I asked myself:
Was it worth it?
That’s when I heard the door.
Not a slam.
Not a creak.
Just… a soft click.
Like someone gently shutting the past behind them.
I didn’t look up right away.
The cup of cold tea still sat near my feet.
The air in the room had shifted—like it knew a secret I hadn’t yet faced.
Then I heard the rustle.
Of cotton.
Of pleats being straightened.
Of footsteps returning to familiarity, but with something missing.
Sudha stood near the hallway entrance.
Back in her yellow saree.
Hair tied, lips bare, face calm.
But she was different.
Not bruised.
Not broken.
Just… quiet.
Her eyes scanned the room briefly—landing everywhere but on me.
I stood.
Slowly.
Unsure of what to say.
Unsure of what I was allowed to ask.
Her eyes finally met mine.
Not with guilt.
Not with anger.
Just with distance.
The kind that grows when two people still share a house, a bed, a surname…
…but no longer the same silence.
She walked past me toward the kitchen.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she’d simply stepped outside and returned with milk.
The smell of him was faint—musk, sweat, something masculine and unfamiliar—clinging to her skin like a final word.
She didn’t speak.
She just opened the fridge, pulled out the steel jug, and poured water into a glass.
I watched her.
Wanting to touch her.
Wanting to say thank you.
Wanting to say I’m sorry.
Wanting to say please come back—
—even though she never really left.
But the words never came.
Because I didn’t know what I’d be speaking to.
My wife?
Or the woman who had crossed a line for me… and now couldn’t uncross it?
She drank the water slowly.
Then set the glass down. Still not facing me.
And then—
She spoke.
A single sentence.
Her voice calm. Measured.
“You have your hero role now, Ram.”
I wanted to cry.
Not because she said it.
But because of how little it meant now.