Nothing Changed. And That Changes Everything.

 

It’s always this woman or that, isn’t it?

Not because I’m any kind of womaniser. Far from it. But as with all men, women remain the greatest of mysteries. And I do like a good puzzle. Especially when nothing is at stake.

We met online. I don’t remember where or when exactly. Maybe a flirtatious thread on Twitter (back when it was still Twitter), or a comments section somewhere I’ve long forgotten. We chatted, debated, agreed, disagreed. I won a few. Lost many. Over time, I gained more insight from her than I could return. Most of what she said wasn’t particularly new. Familiar laments from the middle-aged, middle-class trenches. But then, occasionally, something would shift. And suddenly we were somewhere else entirely.

Like when she spoke of parenting. Not in the performative, Pinterest-board sense, but how one can nurture a child’s humane core without projecting personal dreams onto their future. And later, even deeper thoughts. On how to raise emotionally healthy kids with a grounded, respectful sense of sexuality. Exotic stuff, really. Stuff I didn’t know I needed to hear.

We shared things. Some dark. Some tender. That fragile shield of online anonymity made it easier to open up. With her, there was no performance. No pause to search for clever metaphors, no reaching for a flourish. Just thought and feeling. I was free. Relaxed. Slightly naked, perhaps. But never ashamed. Because she never made me conscious of my own flaws. That’s rare. That’s precious. That’s unfamiliar in the best kind of way.

We were born a few days apart, which made the intimacy easier. Or justifiable. Maybe.

Soon, the conversations drifted toward fantasies. And yes, it started to feel like a kind of infidelity. But it was only online. Fleeting. Inconsequential.

Until she said she was coming.

That changed everything.

So far, she’d only been a window on a touchscreen. A soft glow, rich with emotion and meaning, but ultimately, 2D. Now? Now there was movement. Now it could go anywhere.

Saturday night. Bangalore was in full swing. The beat, the buzz, the curated chaos of a city pretending it doesn’t care. I used to be part of that race, until I realised (or was made to realise, mercilessly) that the winner still ends up a rat. I thought I’d bowed out for good. And yet, here I was again. No plan. Just that stupid, hopeful flutter.

Xero Degrees wasn’t crowded. We found a nook. Cozy, private. She bubbled. Fizzed. Sizzled. I melted. Into her eyes, her voice, her mind. Her story came in glimpses. Whatever she felt like sharing with a man she thought was mildly interesting.

And what a story it was. Not glamorous. Not rags to riches. But real. Full of pain, little melodrama, and a quiet resilience that refused to go away. No superhero narrative here. Just an honest woman who kept falling and getting up, weaker maybe, but wiser. Her strength wasn’t in the show of it. But in the knowing. In the hard-earned understanding of how fragile and raw the human mind truly is.

It unnerved me.

In front of her, I was bare. Just a man. With all the usual manly failings. And yet, she didn’t flinch. She saw through everything and still stayed. And somehow, she chose to notice the little good that remained in me, the bits I didn’t know were still there. How kind of her. How powerful.

I gave in to that smile. Folded myself into her arms. She held me, for as long as she could.

Then we parted.

It ended abruptly. The kitchen was closing. The clock reminded us what world we lived in. Nobody escapes time.

So it ended.

Nothing changed.

She’s still strong. Only stronger.
And I’m still broken. More broken than ever.