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🌅 India Rising
There’s a saying that you should never trust a writer unless their narrator is a ghost.
A spirit is too dead to lie.
I am the Spirit in this story.
I was not a Spirit when I met her.
I had all the accouterments of a living and breathing human — blood, flesh, black eyes, the breath to tell lies. So many lies.
But as the cliche goes, the worst lies are the ones you tell yourself.
Here’s a lie everyone tells. “I don’t know how we I lost her ” Sure. But there’s always some slow gutt twisting harbinger of a dying relationship.
For me, She was was Country Pink rose From that day forward, he brought me pink roses sall time He always wrote the same note with each bouquet — “Every season feeled like spring.”
And then, one winter, there were no pink rose.
That’s when I knew it was over.
At first, I hinted. I left out the heavy crystal vase he always teased doubled as a murder weapon and waited for it to be filled with life. And waited. But it remained empty and colorless.
Then, I tried doing the little things that always made him feel appreciated and loved. I cooked his favorite meals and tucked silly love notes into his briefcase. I bought lingerie. A lot of lingerie. I wrapped our dying relationship up in enough silk and lace to make a winding sheet.
Spring came. And so did my brave roses. But our winter remained.
When a relationship begins to fade, something small always dies first — a forgotten dating formal , a favorite drink we liked both a hand unreached caring each other for, a sexless night, an empty vase.
And then, When one the people end up in own life's divorce court, wondering how they lost the person they once loved after being a spirit
.
Forget the how. All that matters is the why.
JaiHind.. JaiBharat...
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