The weathered Life

Two letters blinking at the crown of my phone.
‘1 new notification’ from someone I wished not to be notified.
'Hi'
The unknown number stirred nothing. The sender's display picture was the fuel.
Seven years.
I almost deleted it. I believe we shouldn't answer old lovers. But
“Tell me.” was sent.
His response was immediate. A phone call. "Let's meet. 4th Avenue McD. 5 pm."
I arrived early.
Outside, the wind kept thrusting rain against the glass, carrying me back to the storm that had ravaged Chennai years earlier. Left me lost. Abandoned.
The storm haunted me.
At twenty-three, I became something society had a name for before I had words for it, a virgin widow. I spent years running from leering eyes, changing offices, houses, countries.
I ran until I was twenty-four, searching for him in a new country.
When he stepped off the train, his warm smile lit up the gloomy day.
My best friend. My confidant. The man I had loved.
I mistook familiarity for safety.
I finished my coffee and saw him near the McD door.
Time had changed him. The lean, fit physique I knew had given way to softer, rounder edges. Is he even 6’2”? I questioned my own memory.
He sat opposite me.
"You haven't changed."
I had. Just not in the ways he could see.
"Why did you vanish?"
His silence.
His phone call. That week flashed like broken glass.
The restaurant. The night becoming a blur.
The single bed. Then, his hands. Sliding up my dress. Reaching for my tummy tucker. I slapped his hand. No use. My voice, low and alien. "No." Again. "No." My laughter of disbelief. It changed nothing. Strong arms. Nails in skin. A kiss like a hot railway track. Tasting blood.
The storm outside watched. A silent witness.
A face I didn't recognize, a monster.
He called himself a Christian. I lay with my arms outstretched, wondering which of us had been sacrificed.
Then, silence.
Morning. 10 AM. His body stirred. The smile returned. The monster was gone.
"Don't worry. We'll make it right." Followed with hollow "I love you" spoken to survive.
He promised to marry me, then left for India the next day.
Forty-five days later, he called to tell about his wedding to another woman. I wept, begging him to remember his promise.
Then came the words that have lived under my skin since that minute: "Why would I marry you? You're a damaged good."
"I was selfish," he finally spoke across the McD table.
I waited.
The apology never came.
Instead, he stirred his untouched coffee.
"I thought you deserved an explanation. I prioritised the wealthy, young woman my parents selected. She excelled on paper."
"What led to your divorce?"
"She wasn't good in bed. A loud voice. An independent spirit."
"Good in bed." The words echoed.
Not love. Not kindness. Not her.
"Good for her," I said.
I rose to leave.
Outside, the storm had gathered strength. I stepped into it.
I am not broken. He had always been.
For the first time, the storm no longer asked me to run.
This time, it answered.