It’s been 15 years, but I’ve never slept with my husband – until I overheard this conversation between him and his best friend.
The gas delivery man, the cleaning lady, the delivery boy in our Gurgaon apartment complex (a suburb of New Delhi), everyone still thinks my husband and I are the perfect office couple: leaving in the morning and returning in the evening, taking out the garbage on the right day, keeping shoes neatly at the door, watering the balcony plants on weekends and ordering masala noodles. No one knows that one thing is absolutely true in that ninth-floor apartment: for fifteen years, our two pillows have never met each other.
The bedroom has no lock. The door opens into the kitchen door, the balcony door. But the bed is as if divided into two parts by an invisible river. Its lamp stands upright in white light. Mine is yellow, with a cloth canopy. On rainy monsoon nights, I lie on my left side and listen to the sound of rain on the corrugated iron roof. He lies on his right side, back to the wall, sighing slowly as if pouring water.
I am used to him hanging his shirts neatly, folding his socks in half and placing his toothbrush in a cup at a 45-degree angle. I also remember well the smile that never met his eyes when relatives asked:
— When will you let your parents hold their grandchildren?
He replied:
— The company is busy with a big project.
We got married in the month of Sawan, which is the rainy season in North India. It rained lightly on the wedding night. After the party, my mother-in-law took off her hairpins and said:
— It is the daughters who keep the fire burning.
But the fire inside me slowly died out like an oil lamp. That night, she laid out new sheets, put my favorite book at the head of the bed and said:
— You are tired, go to sleep.
She pulled the blanket and turned her back. I bit my lip as I listened to the sound of a needle falling on the tiled floor.
Just the first night, I thought. But the second, the tenth, the hundredth night, every time I advanced, he would retreat. Not rudely, just as if avoiding a familiar stone.
He was still a good husband: early in the morning he would mix bottles, remember my mother’s death anniversary more than I do, during the pandemic, he would circle around entire houses in Delhi’s Dawa Bazar. My mother praised:
— You are so lucky.
I smiled sarcastically: Whose luck?
In the tenth year, I typed a draft of the divorce petition, named the file der_late.docx. Deleted and rewrote it over and over again. In the thirteenth year, I printed it out and gave it to him. He read it, looked up:
— Give me time.
— How much time?
He looked at the coat hanger:
— After this season.
Which season? The rainy season? The season of mango blossoms? Or the season when people stop waiting?
I tried everything: anger, straightforwardness, marriage counseling. The therapist asked:
— Do you have a problem with desires?
He nodded.
— About se:x:u:al orie:ntation?
He nodded.
— About trauma?
He remained silent.
At dinner, I wanted to break plates to hear a voice instead of silence.
Fifteen years. I stopped crying. Tears flowed like water from washing dishes, but the oil would not wash off.
That day, I came home early. It suddenly rained in Delhi. As soon as I opened the door, I heard his voice in the office:
Hello, Aarav?
Aarav - my best friend from high school. Every Saturday afternoon, he would go out to drink beer with Aarav, come home late, smelling slightly of alcohol, but with clear eyes. I had never felt jealous. Till that day.
For fifteen years, I lived what looked like a picture-perfect married life. But the truth? We had never once shared a bed the way most couples do. And the day I overheard my husband speaking with his best friend, everything I thought I knew unraveled.
People saw us as an ideal match. We worked long hours at reputable companies. We left for the office together every morning, returned home at dusk, and appeared side by side at every community event. Our apartment was always tidy, our Sunday routines predictable: potted plants watered, shoes lined up, dinner ordered from the same corner takeout.
But for all the neatness on the outside, inside our ninth-floor apartment, a silence lived between us — one deeper than words. We had been married for fifteen years, yet not once had we been intimate. Not a single night. Not even on our wedding night.
No one suspected a thing. Not the maid, not the doorman, not the delivery boys. They assumed we were like everyone else. But behind the doors of our home, our two pillows never touched.
The Life We Pretended to Live
Our bedroom was always open, no locks, no barriers. But it may as well have had a wall running down the middle of the bed. He slept on the right, I on the left. His bedside lamp cast a cold white glow. Mine was warm, soft, and shielded with a cloth cover.
On stormy nights, when the rain rattled against the tin roof of our balcony, I curled up facing the wall, and so did he — in the opposite direction.
Still, I kept up the act.
I washed his shirts with care. I aligned his toothbrush just so. I celebrated his birthdays and watched him light incense on the anniversary of my mother’s death. And when relatives asked why we hadn’t had children yet, he would offer the same practiced line:
Ezoic
“Work has been demanding. We’ll see after the next project.”
His answer always bought us time. But deep inside, I was fading. The flame inside me, once hopeful, had long gone dim.
The First Night — And Every Night After
I remember our wedding night clearly.
It was during the rainy season, a soft drizzle in the air. After the guests had left and the rituals were done, his mother placed her hairpin in my hand and said gently:
“It’s the daughter-in-law who keeps the household fire burning.”
But that night, when I stepped into our room, I saw fresh sheets and a book — my favorite — set neatly on the nightstand. He smiled gently and whispered:
“You’re tired. Rest tonight.”
Then he turned over and pulled the quilt over himself.
I thought maybe it was just the first night. That he was being thoughtful.
Ezoic
But it happened again the next night. And the one after. And the one after that.
Each time I moved a little closer, hoping he would meet me halfway, he shifted away. Not harshly. Not cruelly. Just… as if he knew exactly where the invisible line between us lay — and refused to cross it.
Trying Everything — Except the Truth
By year ten, I had typed out a divorce petition, saved quietly on my laptop as der_late.docx. I edited it often, sometimes deleting it entirely,
other times preparing to print.
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