Finding You Again: A Valentine's Day read
A Love Story Told in Moments
“Priya?” Ken said, the third time in the last minute. Even if a rat squeaked in their house, the neighbours would know. But Priya had not answered him.
“Priya. I have booked the table for 8 pm tonight.”
Ken went from one room to the other in his small apartment in Mumbai. Messy blankets lay on the bed, the dressing table looked unusually dirty, the kitchen unclean—but Priya was nowhere to be found.
Strange. That had never happened in the last twenty years; he knew her. He checked through the broken window to see if she was talking to a neighbour. The neighbour’s door was locked. He checked from the balcony to see if Priya was buying vegetables from the street vendor. No luck.
Ken tried calling her. The phone rang, but nobody picked up. Growing impatient, he called again. This time, he could hear the ring.
He walked into the bedroom with the phone sandwiched between his right ear and shoulder. The ring grew louder. He lifted the blanket to check—but found nothing. He paused, listening, trying to place the sound. Then he went to the bathroom.
There it was.
The phone lay on the washbasin.
But Priya wasn’t there.
He wanted to leave the phone where it was. They had always respected each other’s privacy. But the screen lit up. Ken stepped closer. It was an unknown caller—for him.
But Priya clearly knew the caller. She had saved the number as just one letter.
‘S’.
Before Ken could pick up, the phone stopped ringing.
Who was this S?
Why hadn’t Priya named the person?
Was she hiding something?
Thoughts rushed through his mind as he wondered where his wife of ten years could be—on their anniversary day.
Had she left him?
But why would she? Ken had remained loyal, unchanged—just as he had been when they first met.
His eyes fell on something they had both treasured for years.
Their album.
A recollection of their life together.
***
Ken went to the wooden almirah. It was shut in a hurry, clothes peeking through a narrow opening. On top of it lay their wedding album. He slowly opened the almirah to stop the clothes from falling, picked up the album, and sat down on the sofa.
As Ken flipped through it, every picture pulled him back—to how they had first met, fallen in love, and stayed together through the years. He remembered the first gift he gave her, their first date, and how he had fallen for her instantly.
But she had rejected his proposal.
Priya had been in love with someone else back in college.
That man had broken her heart, and with it, her trust in men.
The rejection had devastated Ken. He loved her deeply, but he respected her choice. He didn’t follow her like a man obsessed. He stayed quietly, respectfully—by being there when she needed him.
Over time, Priya fell for Ken. But she wanted to be sure before marrying him. They dated for ten years before they married. It had tested his patience and his love.
Ken and Priya often revisited their past and promised to keep their love close to it. Priya thought it was impossible, but Ken had promised her he would remain the same.
So every year, Ken took Priya to the same restaurant where he had first proposed. He decorated their house with the same flowers, wrote her a special message, and reminded them of who they once were. He wanted their life—and their love—to remain unchanged, even as years passed.
Ken paused at a group photograph—himself, Priya, and a few friends on an outing.
Her ex stood among them.
Ken froze. His hands trembled as he wiped the sweat from his face.
He remembered the man’s name.
Sumit.
Priya had saved the unknown caller as ‘S’.
Was this caller the same Sumit?
The phone buzzed.
This time, someone was calling him.
“Yes, madam,” Ken said, answering, still lost in thought.
“We’ll be visiting your house today at 5 p.m. for the final assessment,” the woman said.
The words jolted him back to the present. Ken glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 10 a.m.
“Can you come another day?” he asked.
“We have to submit your report by Monday. We don’t work on weekends,” she said. Then added, “But why are you worried? It will just be a formality now. Everything is fine with you and Priya, right?”
Ken didn’t answer. His heart began to race.
“Right, Ken?” she asked again, her tone edged with suspicion.
“Yes, madam. Everything is fine. We’ll wait for you,” Ken said, ending the call.
***
Ken placed the album back on the table, but his eyes drifted again to the phone on the washbasin. It lay there quietly now, screen dark, innocent.
He told himself he wouldn’t touch it. He had never needed to in ten years. Trust was not something you checked—it was something you lived with. But trust, he realised, was easy when nothing was at stake.
His marriage was.
If the counsellor didn’t find Priya at home, she would grow suspicious. Ken knew that.
He picked up the phone, then stopped midway, his hand hovering in the air, as if crossing an invisible line.
Once I unlock this, something changes, he thought.
He put it down again, frustrated by his own hesitation.
Ken opened WhatsApp, Instagram, Facebook—apps he rarely scrolled through unless Priya showed him something. He searched for Sumit’s name.
Too many results.
Too many Sumits.
He searched Priya’s profile instead, scanning comments, likes, unfamiliar names. Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
That bothered him more.
He called her mother first, keeping his voice steady.
“No, Ken, she isn’t here.”
Then her sister.
Then a close friend.
Each answer was polite. Concerned. Useless.
By the time he cut the call, the room felt smaller, the silence heavier. Priya hadn’t disappeared into someone else’s house.
She had disappeared from reach.
Ken sat down slowly, the phone still untouched, his heart racing with a thought he didn’t want to finish.
What if she didn’t want to be found?
Did she know the counsellor would be visiting today?
Did she want to sabotage the relationship?
The phone buzzed.
A message from someone.
***
Ken wanted to open her phone to check who had messaged her. He touched the phone, then withdrew his hand. But the brief touch revealed the sender.
It was a message from ‘S’.
Ken pinched his lips and picked up the phone. He tried different PINs to unlock it—her birthday, his birthday, their anniversary, the day they first met.
Nothing worked.
He clenched his teeth at the thought that Priya didn’t care for the days that mattered to him. Sometimes, he felt he loved her more—while she didn’t respond the same way.
The doorbell rang.
Ken startled.
It was the neighbour. She handed him an envelope, neatly sealed.
“What’s this?” Ken asked, examining it.
“Priya asked me to give this to you,” the neighbour said, already turning away, leaving Ken with more questions than answers.
Was this a letter explaining where Priya had gone?
Or worse—a divorce notice?
***
Ken’s heartbeat rose as he opened the envelope. His hands trembled as he pulled out the letter, while keeping the envelope carefully—just like everything else he had preserved related to her. He already knew what he would do with it later. He would keep it, like her old handkerchief, her letters, their wedding card.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the letter.
It’s been twenty years together. I appreciate your love and care. But many times, I feel one needs to grow as we mature. You want to keep things the same.
Ken felt discomfort—and relief. It wasn’t what he had expected.
But as he reread the letter, the familiar accusatory tone returned. Every year, Priya had asked him to change. He felt she was trying to make him into a different person. That she didn’t value his love. That she cared less about his efforts.
He remembered their fights—often stretching over days—each of them trying to explain their own point of view. He remembered how they had started sharing less, how he tried, but Priya had slowly begun spending more time with her friends, both online and offline.
Ken never understood why Priya wanted him to change when he had remained loyal, his feelings unchanged from when they had first met. To end the fights, he often apologised and promised to change. But he found it troubling when he tried. They argued again, and the cycle continued.
Priya had stopped explaining.
Ken had stopped apologising.
On the family’s suggestion, they sought help from a counsellor. Ken wanted to stay together. Priya said nothing. The counsellor decided to speak to them individually. Priya’s sessions were longer and more frequent than Ken’s. He felt the counsellor would side with her. He wanted to withdraw. Priya wanted to continue.
The counsellor had asked for a few months before making a recommendation. Ken feared the worst, but he had no choice. The counsellor’s final visit was scheduled for the day Priya went missing.
Ken leaned back against the sofa, his mind drifting to all the places Priya could be.
Did Priya leave me for someone else?
But she loved me.
Or was it never love—but compromise?
Ken stood up.
He decided to extend his search to the place where they had spent the most time together.
The restaurant where they first met.
***
The restaurant stood exactly where it always had, tucked between newer shops that looked louder and brighter, as if trying too hard to belong. Ken paused outside for a moment before going in. He had stood here many times before—once nervous, once hopeful, once certain.
They had come here every year.
Every single year.
Ken scanned the room for Priya but couldn’t see her. He decided to wait for some time.
Inside, the smell hit him first—oil, spices, familiarity. An unexpected comfort settled in his chest, the kind that comes from knowing what to expect. He chose the same table near the window.
He always had.
In his mind, the years began to overlap.
The first year—Priya sitting across from him, barely touching her food, listening as he spoke about his plans, his fears, his excitement. He remembered how she smiled then, how carefully she chose her words, how she asked questions that surprised him.
The second year—him retelling the story of how they met. Priya laughing, finishing his sentences, teasing him for remembering every detail.
The third year—him ordering without looking at the menu. Priya mentioning a new place she wanted to try next time. Ken smiling and saying, “But this place is special.”
And so it went.
Every year, Ken came prepared—with memories, with stories, with rituals. He spoke of how far they had come, how nothing had really changed between them. He found comfort in saying it out loud, as if repetition could protect it.
Across the table, Priya listened.
She always did.
But with each passing year, Ken remembered her nodding more than speaking. Smiling, then glancing away. Opening her mouth once or twice, only to close it again when Ken drifted back into the past—another anecdote, another familiar laugh, another reassurance that they were the same.
Ken had thought that was love.
One year stood out clearly—Priya talking about work, about feeling restless, about wanting more from life. Ken had reached for her hand and said, “Look how far we’ve come.” She had smiled then too.
He had taken that as agreement.
Sitting alone now, Ken realised she had wanted to say something.
The waiter arrived, waiting for an order. Ken waved him away. His eyes remained fixed on the empty chair opposite him.
For years, he had brought Priya back here, believing that returning to the beginning would keep them close. Outside the window, people walked past without slowing down. He felt an unease, as if they were walking away from the past—from something that had once felt perfect.
Ken stayed seated, the weight of repetition pressing down on him, with the quiet realisation that while he had been protecting the past, the present had quietly drifted away.
***
Ken didn’t know where to find Priya next. He stood by the road, watching people move from one side to the other, as if walking from the past to the future—from the old to the new.
He began walking toward their past, toward the college.
With every step, his eyes stayed on the people moving in the opposite direction. He turned to look at them once, then turned back and kept walking.
Priya’s words returned—the ones that had disturbed him the most.
You don’t want to understand me.
He had never thought about it then. Now he did. The thought troubled him, hurt him.
Does she even deserve me? he wondered.
Then he heard himself.
His thoughts.
They were full of him—him at the centre.
Ken stopped.
He turned.
He knew where to walk now—away from the college, away from his past.
***
Ken knew where he was going.
Priya had mentioned the place often—a café that had opened a few years ago. Loud music. Shared tables. People typing, laughing, living as if time wasn’t meant to be preserved but spent.
Ken had never liked it.
“Too noisy,” he had said once.
“Too modern,” another time.
“Not our kind of place,” he had concluded.
Priya had nodded.
She always did.
Standing outside now, Ken felt the familiar resistance rise in his chest. Through the glass, the place looked unfamiliar—bright, restless, unstructured. Nothing like the places he trusted. Nothing like the past he preferred.
He hesitated.
Then he walked in.
The sound hit him first—music layered with voices, laughter overlapping, chairs scraping. No clear beginning or end to conversations. Ken stood near the entrance, unsure of where to go.
No one noticed.
That unsettled him.
He took a corner seat, feeling exposed. This was not a place that waited for you to settle in. It moved on its own terms.
He imagined Priya here—leaning forward, animated, trying to say something new while he decided whether the place made sense.
For the first time, he saw it clearly.
She hadn’t wanted him to like the place.
She had wanted him to be there.
A server asked him what he wanted. Ken opened his mouth to order what he always did—then stopped.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you recommend?”
The question surprised him.
As he waited, something unfamiliar settled in him. Not comfort. Not nostalgia.
Curiosity.
The music was louder than he liked—some singer stretching notes instead of finishing them neatly. Ken frowned, instinctively. This was exactly what he had complained about.
Then he noticed his foot moving.
Just once. A light tap.
He froze, embarrassed, then realised no one cared. The café didn’t pause to judge him.
He listened again—this time without resistance, with presence. The song wandered, refused to return to where it began. It existed only in that moment.
Ken thought of how often he had dismissed things simply because they didn’t resemble what he already loved.
A laugh burst out nearby. He turned, irritated—then stopped. The laugh wasn’t disruptive. It was alive.
Something loosened inside him.
For the first time, Ken wasn’t trying to turn the moment into a memory. He wasn’t comparing it to the past or waiting for it to end.
He was simply there.
And without naming it, he understood:
The present could be beautiful too.
Not because it lasted—but because it was happening.
Ken tapped his foot again.
This time, he didn’t stop it.
***
Ken’s phone vibrated on the table.
He looked at it without urgency—the way you look at something when you already know it will change nothing. A message. He turned the screen toward himself.
We’re on our way to your house.
Below it was the counsellor’s name.
Ken checked his watch.
4:00 p.m.
For a moment, he waited—for the familiar tightening in his chest, the calculations, the urge to rehearse what he would say.
None of it came.
Instead, his shoulders dropped.
He hadn’t realised how high they had been.
The café continued around him. Cups clinked. Someone laughed too loudly. The singer adjusted the mic. Life, uninterrupted. Ken sat there, breathing more easily than he had all day.
He thought of how he used to arrive everywhere already prepared—with stories, with memories, with certainty. He had believed love meant holding things together, keeping them intact. Preserving what had once worked.
He saw now how often he had arrived late to the present, even when he was on time.
How Priya had spoken, paused, waited.
How he had nodded, reassured, redirected.
How he had stood beside her, physically close, while his mind wandered backward, checking old ground.
He thought of moments he had been there—at dinners, at walks, at anniversaries—and felt, for the first time, the spaces he had missed. Not arguments. Not crises. Just ordinary moments that had asked for attention and received memory instead.
Ken wrapped his fingers around the coffee cup. It had gone cold. He drank it anyway.
The thought of Sumit returned.
He didn’t care anymore.
Outside, the light had shifted. The afternoon had moved on without asking him.
He didn’t feel afraid of what would be said at home. He didn’t feel the need to defend himself. For the first time, he wasn’t reaching for proof that he had loved well.
Ken stood up, left some money on the table—
—and noticed something.
***
Sitting in a corner, in a black dress with a blue purse by her side, a woman looked at him, a drink in her hand. She looked gorgeous. Her eyes did the talking. They stayed on him, as if trying to look into his soul.
Ken looked up and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the woman was still gazing at him.
But she saw something different now—a flicker of hope. He had never looked at her like this before, not in the twenty years she had known him.
She leaned back in her chair, lifted her drink, and smiled through the glass. Ken remembered the first time she had smiled at him. Then he pulled himself back to the present.
Priya stood up and walked toward him. She looked into his eyes. He looked back. A sense of relief washed over him—not for finding Priya, but for finding what had been missing in him all these years.
As she came closer, his phone rang. Priya noticed immediately—it was her phone that Ken was carrying. The screen displayed a single letter.
‘S’.
Ken didn’t care anymore.
“Pick up,” Priya said.
Ken handed her the phone.
“Yes, Seema madam,” Priya said, listening, her eyes still fixed on him. “No, we don’t need counselling anymore. I think we’ve found what we missed.”
She ended the call.
Priya stepped closer, now inches away from him.
“So you finally found me,” she said, biting her lip.
Ken met her gaze, felt her breath on his skin. His eyes spoke before his words. He smiled.
“I still want to know you more deeply.”
Priya held his face and kissed him.
Their past dissolved into the moment, giving fresh wings to their love.
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Valentine’s Day Special
