One night, Rohan returned at midnight. She was sitting in the dark living room, still in her work clothes.

Then one Tuesday, Rohan got the call.

And within three months, he became a stranger. Longer hours. Shorter temper. He started calling her “Meera” instead of “Meeru.” He stopped noticing when she cut her hair.

The old man smiled. “I got a promotion in 1985. Became branch manager. My wife left me the same year. Not because of another man. Because she said I had become the bank. She said I talked like a ledger, walked like a file. She was right.”

“Is it?” she asked.

He looked up at her. “That’s the question, isn’t it? How much of yourself do you burn to keep others warm? And what do you do when the person you love most is standing in the fire with you?” The next morning, Meera called in sick. She walked to the park near their apartment. An old man was feeding pigeons. She sat beside him.

He got the promotion.

He sat down on the floor, leaning against the sofa.

Rohan and Meera had been married for seven years. Seven years of shared chai, unpaid electricity bills, and a love that had quietly matured from passion into partnership. Rohan was a senior analyst at a mid-tier IT firm in Noida. Meera was a school teacher.

“You promised,” she said quietly. “Not again. You promised.”