I don’t feel the warmth of your arms anymore, but I guess I am going to stay.

Sometimes, when I kiss you good night, I wonder if I fell in love or just the idea of being in love.

In the non-existent romantic times, when our eyes meet for a split second, I try hard to think about the times when you were romantic. And I get lost. Not in your eyes, but beyond somewhere. The days when I am unwell, I hope that you would sit by my side, place your hand on my head and read me a book. But nothing like that happens and I keep staring at the window, wishing on a hollow star.

The other day, when we were walking by the park, I hoped that you would pull me close and tell me how much I meant to you; but you chose to not talk at all. It pushes me to think, “Do I not deserve to be loved?” Whom have I wronged to bear the emptiness that stretches through my days? But the feeling of not being cared for still doesn’t stop me from caring about you.

But love, what is that? I don’t think I know what it means.

There have been a thousand nights when I’ve stood on the terrace, staring at the moon, wishing that you were by my side, and then I would feel complete. There were a million times when I waited for you to ask me how I was, and then I would feel cared for.

I have gone through years of hopeless waiting for you to make an attempt to know me, my dreams, my thoughts, fears I hold inside, things that make me want to cry, places I wish to go, crazy adventures that freak me out, books I wish to read, things I dream of learning.

I guess I am just expecting a lot. After all, who am I? I’m just a married woman.

Three years into this forced arrangement and I’ve started believing that I am not supposed to hope for love. He is a nice man; he fulfills my financial needs, provides me shelter, gives me a societal status, keeps me away from odd eyes, doesn’t hit or abuse me, even gives my parents satisfaction. Which is too much I believe.

But he doesn’t consider me special. He cannot love me back the way I do. He puts himself first, unlike the selfless me. He never thinks about doing something that I would love. Nor does he care about how I feel in a crowd. He doesn’t understand my dreams and neither does he try to. Apart from that, he is a wonderful man.

But what choice do I have? A married woman never has a say.

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