Adultery Priya Didi

[shailu4ever]

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Priya swallowed. “I was scared. And when I get scared, I try to make things… clear-cut. Black and white.”
 
Her gaze dropped briefly to her hands. There was a vulnerability in that small movement, in the way she acknowledged her own flaws.
 
“This wasn’t.”
 
Silence followed.
 
Not heavy.
 
Expectant.
 
“I shouldn’t have put everything on you,” she said finally. The words landed carefully, deliberately. “That wasn’t fair.”
 
Ravi felt something shift inside him, like a weight moving, not lifting entirely, but redistributing. The truth that had been slowly churning inside him found its place.
 
“You don’t have to, ” he began, instinctively trying to protect her.
 
She shook her head. “I do.”
 
She looked up again, and this time there was no ambiguity in her eyes. No accusation. No retreat.
 
“I had a choice,” she said quietly. “And I didn’t take the safer one.”
 
The room felt suddenly smaller.
 
Ravi didn’t trust himself to speak. His words felt too big for the space between them, too fragile to carry any weight.
 
“I’m not saying this to reopen anything,” she added quickly. “I just… I don’t want you thinking you’re the only one who did something wrong.”
 
That sentence did what no apology could have done.
 
It gave Ravi back his humanity.
 
He exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing for the first time in days. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, the words almost a plea.
 
“I know,” she replied.
 
And this time, she meant it without reservation.
 
They sat there, the space between them altered. Still careful. Still restrained. But no longer poisoned by imbalance.
 
Priya leaned back slightly in her chair, as if allowing herself to breathe again. “I don’t know what this means,” she admitted, almost to herself.
 
Ravi looked at her, surprised.
 
“I don’t either,” he said honestly.
 
Their eyes held.
 
Not with hunger.
 
With recognition.
 
She smiled faintly. “At least we’re not pretending anymore.”
 
He returned the smile, small, relieved. “That helps.”
 
Outside, the afternoon deepened. Inside, something fragile had been acknowledged, not acted upon, not resolved, but named enough to exist safely.
 
Priya stood after a moment. “I’m going to make some tea,” she said. “Do you want some?”
 
“Yes,” Ravi replied immediately, then corrected himself, softer. “If it’s okay.”
 
She paused at the doorway, glanced back at him. “It is.”
 
Not a promise.
 
Not an invitation.
 
But permission to stay.
 
As she moved into the kitchen, Ravi closed his laptop, not because work was done, but because something more important had begun.
 
The silence returned.
 
But this time, it wasn’t a punishment.
 
It was a pause, before the next breath.

-- oOo --

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