first, nothing changed.
That was the strange part.
After the breakup, Pritam still called Iqra.
Still texted her good morning.
Still said, "You're the only one who understands me."
And for a few days, she allowed herself to believe this was what she had been waiting for.
No competition.
No tension.
Just the two of them again.
The way it used to be.
But something was different.
He didn't laugh as easily.
He didn't talk about the future.
He didn't say "always" anymore.
He just sounded tired.
One evening, while they were sitting in silence on call, he said quietly, "Do you think I made the right decision?"
The question caught her off guard.
"You weren't happy," she replied carefully.
"That's not what I asked," he said.
His voice wasn't accusing.
It was searching.
And that scared her.
Days later, she heard something she didn't expect.
He had met Tannu to talk.
Not to argue.
Just to talk.
"They deserved closure," he explained simply when she asked.
Deserved.
The word felt sharp.
When he came back from that conversation, he didn't call her immediately.
For the first time in years, she was not the first person he reached out to.
Hours later, her phone finally buzzed.
His message was short.
"We talked honestly."
Her chest tightened.
"About what?" she typed.
"About everything."
That night, his voice sounded different.
Clearer.
Calmer.
"She said something," he began slowly. "She said I always ran to you whenever we fought."
Iqra's breathing slowed, controlled.
"She said I let your opinions decide things that should've been ours."
Silence.
Not defensive.
Not angry.
Just processing.
"Iqra," he continued, "did you ever want us to work out?"
The question felt like a spotlight.
Of course she didn't.
But saying that out loud would mean admitting something she wasn't ready to confess.
"I just wanted you to be happy," she said softly.
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"Then why did it feel like every time I tried to fix things, you reminded me why I shouldn't?"
Her heart stuttered.
"I never—"
"You didn't shout," he interrupted gently. "You didn't tell me to leave her directly. But you made it sound like she was always wrong."
He wasn't angry.
That was the worst part.
If he had yelled, she could've defended herself.
But he sounded… hurt.
"I trusted you," he said quietly. "I thought you were neutral."
Neutral.
The word echoed painfully.
She had never been neutral.
She had been desperate.
"I was just protecting you," she whispered, but even to her own ears, it sounded thin.
"From what?" he asked softly. "From being loved by someone else?"
That question shattered something fragile inside her.
Because the answer was yes.
She had been protecting herself.
Not him.
He exhaled slowly.
"I reread our chats," he admitted. "Not because Tannu told me to. But because I wanted to see clearly."
Her stomach dropped.
"And I realized something."
The pause felt endless.
"You didn't just love me."
Her throat tightened.
"You wanted to win."
There it was again.
That word.
Win.
As if his heart had been a competition.
As if love had been a prize.
"I never meant to hurt you," she said, her voice barely steady.
"I know," he replied.
And somehow that hurt even more.
"Intentions don't erase consequences, Iqra."
The use of her name felt distant.
Formal.
Like he was already stepping away.
"I need space," he said finally.
Space.
Not forever.
Not goodbye.
But distance has a way of becoming permanent.
After the call ended, her room felt unfamiliar.
Quieter than it had ever been.
She stared at her phone, waiting for it to light up again.
It didn't.
For the first time, she understood something painful and undeniable.
She hadn't lost him when he chose Tannu.
She hadn't lost him when they started fighting.
She lost him the moment she chose control over honesty.
And this time, there was no one else to blame.
Not Tannu.
Not timing.
Not fate.
Just her fear.
And fear, when left unchecked, can quietly destroy the very thing it's trying to protect.