The Mistake I Called Protection

 What happened that night?

That call was just a trailer.
The main story? It started the very next day.

They met.
They got into a fight.
And she called the cops.

Yes, the cops.

There he was—caught in his own chaos, the same chaos I thought I had finally walked away from. And still… my heart skipped beats. My hands shook. I ran to help him.

I called his friends.
I checked with his sister.
I couldn’t sleep—not because of fear for myself, but for him.

All I wanted in that moment was for him to be safe.

Because there was this voice in my head, and it wouldn’t stop.

“What if it was you? Wouldn’t you want someone to help you?”

That thought stayed with me.
It swallowed the betrayal. It softened the blow. It made me forget, for a moment, all the things he had already done to me.

She was threatening to file a case if he didn’t marry her.
And somehow, by morning, things cooled down.

He thanked me.

He looked me in the eye, full of guilt and need, and said,
“I need to disappear for a while… until this blows over.”

And I—so, so stupid—offered him shelter.
I offered him my home.
Because I thought no one could touch him if he was under my roof. If I was protecting him.

I had no idea what I was inviting into my life.

This was the biggest mistake I ever made.

When My Gut Knew Before His Mouth Did

We had been together for almost a year.

It wasn’t a relationship I could define easily—it was everything and nothing at once. I was exhausted by the confusion, but still holding on, still choosing him, still hoping I could be enough.

That night, he was at my apartment again. I was cooking for him—because of course I was—at some godforsaken hour past midnight. I think I was making eggs or tossing something in the pan when his phone rang.

He looked at it.
He didn’t say anything, but something in me knew.

My gut said, it’s her.

He hesitated. That hesitation said it all.

So I told him, “Pick it up. On speaker.”

He didn’t want to. But he did.

And there she was.
The voice of the woman he had always gone back to. The one who never really left the picture. The one I cried over so many nights, wondering what she had that I didn’t. Wondering why he kept circling back to her every time I thought we were finally getting somewhere.

He tried to act smart—like he didn’t know why she was calling.

But they spoke in a language I didn’t belong to.
Foul words. Casual aggression. That sick kind of intimacy two people share when they’ve been toxic for so long, it starts to feel like home.

And then she heard my voice.

She didn’t hesitate. She started listing the nights. The places. The times he was “at his cousin’s,” or “working late,” or “visiting his uncle.” She listed all the times he was with her instead. The dates overlapped with the days he said he loved me. Lied to me. Slept next to me.

It all unravelled right in front of me.
But the worst part?

I wasn’t surprised.
I was hurt—very hurt. But not surprised.

Because somewhere deep down, I had known. I just hadn’t wanted to accept it.

You’d think that after all this, he would have begged for forgiveness. That he’d fall to his knees and promise to make it right.

But he didn’t.

Once the night was over and the truth was out there in all its filth, I asked him to leave. I told him not to contact me again. I don’t think I even raised my voice. I was done begging to be chosen.

He did send me messages though.
Maybe 30 of them. Apologising, justifying, explaining.

And then—on his way back from work the very next day—he went to meet her.

After everything.

And I realised, this man wasn’t sorry.
He was just caught.

Evil Eye

After everything you’ve read so far — especially the last part — you’d think it was time for something good, right?

It wasn’t.

As Jimmy and I landed back in my city and went our separate ways, I remember feeling... giddy. Light. We were texting nonstop, smiling at our phones like idiots. He hadn’t slept the entire flight, but he still stayed awake until I reached home safely. That kind of care shouldn’t feel rare — but it does.

And then, everything changed.

I can’t even explain how or why — but by that evening, it was as if all the peace, all the softness from those five days had been scrubbed away. Like something evil had cast its eye on the joy I wasn’t sure I deserved.

I started ignoring Jimmy.

I hate typing that.
But I did.

And deep down, I know why.

I was waiting for Landon’s message.

And when it came — late at night, with him parked outside my society, wanting to "talk" — I didn’t even hesitate. I don’t remember what I told Jimmy. I don’t remember what excuse I made. I only remember that once again, I let Landon walk back in.

And in doing so, I quietly shut the door on Jimmy.
I didn’t know then that it would be forever.

---

Landon and I — we called it “giving our relationship another try.”
But now, I can laugh at that.

Not the kind of laugh that comes from healing.
The kind that comes when you realize you were the motel all along.
He came when he was lost, inebriated, lonely.
And every time, he was met with the same hospitality:

• Food

• Comfort

• Even more alcohol, if I had any to offer

---

This check-in/check-out love lasted until March.

Then — surprise — he cheated again.
I cried. I collapsed. I swore I was done.

And then, after a break of two or three months — during which he happily went back to his ex — I let him back again.

At the time, I told myself it was me giving him another chance.

But if I’m honest, I think it was him who couldn’t handle the idea that I had found something better. Not in another man — but in myself.

In silence.
In Jimmy.
In soft mornings and strong chai and knowing that I didn’t have to beg for love.

He couldn’t stand that I had moved on — not to someone else, but toward peace.

And so he came back.
And like an addict missing the chaos, I let him.

The Last Chai

 During the cab ride from the airport, Jimmy and I didn’t speak much.

We didn’t need to.

The weather was beautiful, the silence was warm, and his presence was enough.

Our chai stop broke the stillness.
That’s where we both admitted — it felt like a dream.
We had never spent time alone like this before.
Just us.

But even in that peace, my mind was racing.
What if I made a mistake coming here?
Where would I sleep?
Would he expect something more from me?
Did flying out to see him send the wrong message?

Jimmy, in the most Jimmy way possible, had already anticipated every thought I was too scared to voice.

When we entered his apartment, I walked into a room that looked like it was waiting for me.
Not romantically — respectfully.

The double bed was divided into two singles.
There was a side table between them, with space for my things.
Fresh toiletries, just for me.
A section of his wardrobe emptied out — for me.

And in that moment, I cried a little.

Because there I was, standing in front of a man who made sure I would never feel pressured.
A man who planned for my comfort, without me asking.
And in my heart, I couldn’t help but compare him to the man I had left behind —
the man who left me with bruises I was still carrying.

We slept after lunch, had to log in for work in the evening.
He was excited to show me things — his new title at work, his new apartment, his chai-making skills.
Like a little boy showing off his world.
And I smiled — not just with my face, but with something deeper inside me that hadn’t smiled in a while.

Those five days?
I can’t speak for him, but they were the best days of my life so far.

His room’s balcony became our place.
Chai in hand, hearts in conversation.
Safe. Soft. Still.

After our shift, we took a long walk.
He made me try his favorite vada pao.
We came home.

By the next afternoon, I woke up sick — cold, cough, the works.
I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to be a burden.

But Jimmy?
He cared for me like I was made of glass and worth protecting.

Warm water bottles, medicine, steam, strong ginger chai.
All without being asked.

And the strangest part?
No one had ever taken care of me like that before.

It’s as if the universe — or maybe God — was showing me what love was meant to feel like.
And in that gentle care, I realized:
What I had left behind wasn’t love.
It was survival dressed up as affection.

He asked about the incident — the slap, the screaming, the betrayal.
He got angry.
And then he calmed me.
He reminded me: You deserve better.
And for the first time in a long time, I almost believed it.

When it was time to leave, we decided to fly back to my city together — he had to visit his parents.

Just as we were stepping out, bags packed and waiting by the door,
he turned to me — shy, polite, and warm — and asked:

“Can we hug?”

We were in the balcony.
Our final chai in hand.
We hugged.

And neither of us wanted to let go.
But neither of us said a word.

I didn’t know it then…
But that was our last meeting.
That was the last time I would feel love — in its purest, most unspoken form.

The one who waited

 

Part 4

Do you think some things feel romantic simply because they didn’t happen?

After the midnight collision, I couldn’t even look my 10-years-younger sister in the eye. I was embarrassed. Not just by what happened—but by what I had accepted. I didn’t want her to think this was what relationships looked like. I didn’t want her to learn that love came with bruises, yelling, and late-night apologies you didn’t owe.

Just when I thought the trauma would stick to me like second skin—I got a call.

It was him.

The only person who has seen me at my absolute worst and still wished the best for me. The only one who never asked me to be anything other than what I already was.

Jimmy.

He’s my Jess. Yes, a Gilmore Girls reference.
The one who yelled at Rory: “Why did you drop out of Yale?”
The one who said: “Write about yourself. Your story.”

That’s who Jimmy is to me—was to me.

He called to wish me a happy new year. But as soon as I said “hello,” he knew. My voice betrayed me. I was drowning.

Without hesitation, he said, “Come to me for a few days.”

And for the first time in my life, I didn’t overthink it.
I booked the flight. Instantly.
Packed whatever I could find.
And flew to him.

The thing is—Jimmy and I had always been something between friends and more than friends. He’d confessed once, in real words. I never really reciprocated. Not because I didn’t feel anything… but because I felt too much.

We had a quiet, platonic intimacy that I didn’t want to ruin. There was no physical touch between us. Just shared chai, unfiltered conversations and ice bursts. And sometimes, I wonder—did I not say yes because of our cultural differences? Because I couldn't picture the long-term? Or was I just afraid to lose the only person who saw me without wanting to fix or claim me?

That morning—everything aligned.
The flight was smooth.
The food tasted better than it should have.
Even the boarding felt easy, like the universe had finally decided to stop testing me.

And when I landed, walked out of the airport—
There he was. Waiting.

No one had ever done that for me before.
He waited the whole time I was mid-air.
An hour, maybe more.
Just to be there.

And when I saw his face—that smile—I forgot all about the night before.
We didn’t hug. But we wanted to.
We shook hands instead, smiled like two people carrying things they’ll never say.

We sat in the cab, and the first stop we made?
A tiny chai shop—for old times’ sake.

Because sometimes, safety doesn't show up as fireworks.
Sometimes, it’s just a quiet friend.
A warm cup.
And a place to land.