Pridha hadn’t expected the yearning to be this intense — or this painful — even after all these years. That feelings could be so all-consuming and yet survive in the daily hum of life. That her real self could remain buried beneath the one she presented to the world.
She had never imagined she could love so long and so deeply without any expectations — and then end up writing about it. Her story was tragically funny, if one could even call it a story.
It was all in her head. The beginning and the end of it. She never voiced it, never spoke about it. She only let herself remember in the loneliest, most hollow hours — when even silence felt too loud — and pulled it out for a moment or two. There was nothing to make her feel good except the recollection of a hint of a smile, a swift hello, a nod in her general direction. She still didn’t know if the person she once considered the center of her world even knew she existed.
She was madly in love with him. And he had never even noticed her being.
Pretty glum, isn’t it — but that was the deal she had made with herself years ago. She had long suspected she wasn’t the kind of woman people fell in love with. She just was. No one really noticed her. She was often just a means to an end.
One winter morning in college, she’d gone to the canteen for a cup of tea. It was chilly, and as usual, she was lost in her own world. Suddenly, he had approached her and asked if they could talk for a minute. She could still hear her heart race at the memory. And all he wanted to ask was the best way to speak to her close friend.
It felt like a gut punch. She never spoke about it again.
Even in the real world, she hadn’t been chosen for love. Her husband had picked her the way arranged marriages often go in India — for her family background, her credibility, her calm. She had fallen in love with him, hoping this time love might be returned. In the early years, she tried — suggesting activities, creating space for companionship — but his quiet disinterest wore her down.
Still, she loved his strength. She had wanted to try again. She expressed herself. But it went unnoticed — again.
Sometimes, when she was alone, she allowed herself to dream. To imagine what it would feel like to be the object of someone’s affection. To be seen. To be the most special person in someone’s life.
She was invisible. She is invisible. And she knows it.
It’s painful. Gut-wrenching. But she is used to it. She’s used to being left out.
She just wants to be chosen, for once.
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