Again she half shut the door, again boiling up my agression inside me; again crushing my honor under her feet. She continued to practice, at mightnight, having spied, me and our son asleep. She hid a box, excusing through  the breadth of her dupatta and left the bed-cover in the fine crease; as she was never with me: being with me.
For several nights, she has withdrawn herself,  silently moving  out my life. I never had the courage to assasinate my trust: to doubt her character.
She used to sit with a sleek-aluminium box, in the study room, with a low watt  lamp on. She never saw me chase her. She used to pick to read from a folded paper: letters. Sometimes she smiled reading it; other time she seemed worried; then I saw a mischievious silent-laugh, which she managed to keep herself.

‘To whom she is reading?’ was the question that escalated my eruption. She needs to leave me n my son, if she has something to cook inside her head…I won’t let her assassinate our relation, with her knife. I cannot tolerate this more.
Each passing day, I became harsh and rude on her. I began hating her; I wanted  to reveal it anyway. However, she had questions, which gobbled my soul, I was unable to meet them, as a noble person. I had nothing left, for her.

A day, let me an excuse to disclose what made my life worsen. I found her gone to the market. I don’t want to lose the chance and hastily I entered the study room, and found the box, right besides the books. I did not found any secrecy there, and immediately grabbed it. I sat down, crossed my legs on the floor, with the heart to farewell my betraying better-half.

Inside it, there were number of letters… and I tesfified all papers as love letters–it made me feel ashamed: greatly ashamed of being an honorless man, an unawared and opportunity-giver.

I opened the top most letter: a reckless writing on a pink, single-lined paper. The volcano that shook me, for the no. of nights, began cracking me down to tears. I managed to absorb my tears, with a hand on my face to soak the tears.                        

Each letter brought tides of regretion…the last letter completely shatterd me, a different writing from the previous ones. It said: 

My love Sarfaraz,

I kept all your letters safely, to remind me the love, you had for me once. Your husbandship is a practical approach, where you lost all emotions, the ability to read my emotions… and I too was afraid to remind you: our love. I tried to rewake our love in you, but your each screech, held me back, to abide by your each word. 

I found peace in your letters; I relive the life, we lagged behind. Sitting besides you, makes me feel a faithful wife, but not a woman who got her desired man. I hope to share your words some day, with you.
Your wife, 

Eiliya Sarfaraz

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