LOVED YOU
I stood before the mirror, drying my hair with the towel, the damp strands clinging stubbornly to my neck. Each movement felt heavier than it should, slower, incomplete. Irritation bubbled up without warning.
“The fuck… you don’t even own a hair dryer,” I muttered under my breath.
From behind me, I saw his reflection shift. He lifted his gaze from his phone, unimpressed.
“Even if I owned one… I would never share it with you,” he said.
I rolled my eyes, turning away from the mirror.
No matter how long I tried, no matter how patient I forced myself to be… doing all this with one hand felt exhausting. Frustrating.
I threw the towel onto the bed—right beside him.
He looked at me.
A glare. Sharp. Annoyed.
I didn’t care.
He huffed and looked away, like even reacting to me was a waste of energy.
I walked to the table, grabbed my comb and hairband, and stood there for a second.
Then I turned.
And walked straight to him.
Of course I couldn’t do this properly on my own. Not without risking that stupid shoulder again.
He looked up at me, blinking in confusion as I stood in front of him.
“Comb my hair,” I said.
He frowned immediately.
“Eh? I’m not here to babysit you,” he muttered.
I scoffed.
“You literally took off my dress—” I started.
“You’re making it sound awful,” he cut me off quickly, irritation flashing across his face.
I smirked slightly.
“I just helped you and now I regret it,” he said, shaking his head.
“Then help me again and regret again,” I replied without missing a beat, stuffing the comb and hairband into his hand.
For a moment, he just stared at them.
Then at me.
Like he was questioning every decision that led him to this moment.
I sat on the bed beside him and turned slightly, showing him my back. My knees came up instinctively, arms wrapping around them as I waited, pretending like this was all normal… like I wasn’t asking him for something I never thought I would.
“Do it fast,” I said.
“I never said I’m gonna do it,” he muttered.
“A ponytail,” I added anyway, ignoring him completely.
I heard him muttering something under his breath, probably questioning his life choices again.
“Just imagine I am one of your patients you are helping,” I said casually.
There was a pause.
“My patients won’t force me to marry them,” he replied dryly.
I rolled my eyes.
A minute passed.
Then I felt it.
His hand in my hair.
Careful. Slow.
Not rough. Not careless.
Just… there.
“Your hair is still wet,” he started, his tone suddenly shifting into something familiar, something professional. “If you tie a ponytail like this, it will pull the weakened strands. Wet hair is fragile, it increases hair fall… and you might get a headache and—”
“Uh, stop it,” I cut him off, turning my head slightly to look at him.
He paused.
“You’re speaking like you care,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.
He blinked once, caught off guard for a second.
“What—hell no,” he said quickly, almost defensively.
And his hand didn’t leave my hair.
I hugged my knees a little tighter, waiting for the familiar tug of a comb through my hair.
But it never came.
Instead, I felt him move beside me. The towel shifted, and then his hands returned—this time gently rubbing it against the damp strands of my hair, drying them slowly instead of pulling at them.
I didn’t say anything.
I just sat there. Quiet. Still.
The soft friction of the towel against my hair… the careful pace… the absence of irritation in his touch—it stirred something I wasn’t prepared for.
A memory.
The last time someone did this for me… was my mom.
After every hair wash, she would sit on the couch while I sat on the floor between her knees.
She would dry my hair slowly, talking about random things, sometimes trying out new hairstyles she had seen somewhere.
I would complain, she would ignore… and still continue, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
A small smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.
I never thought…I would recreate that moment with this man.
A stranger.
A man I forced into marriage in the worst possible way.
After a few minutes, when the dampness had eased, he picked up the comb and slowly ran it through my hair.
“Uh… keep your head straight. Don’t piss me off,” he muttered.
I winced immediately.
“You’re pulling my hair harsher,” I complained, hissing softly.
He didn’t reply.
But the next stroke… was gentler.
I let out a small breath, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little.
Silence settled again, but this time it didn’t feel as sharp as before.
“How much are you charging for this?” I asked, trying to sound normal, trying to bring back something familiar between us.
He didn’t answer at first. He just continued combing, untangling each strand patiently, like he wasn’t even listening.
Then, after a moment—
“Maybe a billion,” he said.
I huffed softly.
“Oh… glad you didn’t ask for more,” I replied.
He let out a quiet scoff at that, but didn’t reply.
His fingers continued moving through my hair, slower now, more careful as the knots lessened. The comb no longer tugged harshly, only glided… almost gently.
I didn’t realise when I stopped hugging my knees so tightly.
My shoulders relaxed.
My breathing evened out.
And for a moment… I forgot to be irritated.
The room was quiet again, but not the kind that suffocated. This one felt… still. Like both of us had unknowingly agreed not to disturb it.
When he finally gathered my hair together, his fingers paused for a second.
“Don’t move,” he muttered.
I rolled my eyes instinctively, but stayed still anyway.
He tied the hairband around my hair, securing it into a loose ponytail—not too tight, not too careless.
Just right.
When he was done, his hand lingered for a brief second… as if making sure it wouldn’t come undone.
Then he pulled away immediately.
“Done,” he said.
I reached back and lightly touched my hair, feeling the way it sat—neat, comfortable.
“Awfully tied… but what can I expect from a nerd,” I muttered under my breath.
“Thank you,” he replied immediately.
I smirked.
Of course he would take that as a compliment.
I picked up my phone and opened the camera, tilting it slightly to check my reflection. The ponytail sat neatly, a few loose strands framing my face. Not too tight, not messy either.
I examined it for a second.
“Hmmm… not bad,” I admitted quietly.
He didn’t respond, but I could feel his gaze flicker for a moment before he looked away again, pretending not to care.
I adjusted the angle once more, pretending I was just checking my hair… not the faint, unfamiliar softness settling in my expression.
Then I locked the screen and placed the phone beside me.
“So… you met your ex. You both are bonding, right?” I asked, out of nowhere, my tone casual—but not really.
He paused.
Just for a second.
Then he turned his head slightly and looked at me, his brows knitting together in confusion… or maybe irritation.
“Why are you suddenly asking this?” he said, his voice carrying a faint edge.
I shrugged, pretending it meant nothing.
“Just asking,” I muttered, picking at the edge of my sleeve like I wasn’t waiting for his answer.
He didn’t reply immediately.
The silence stretched.
Then he looked away again, his jaw tightening just a little.
“Say… you both talked in the hospital,” I said, like it didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t poking at something I clearly shouldn’t.
He didn’t respond.
“What did she say?” I asked, turning slightly toward him.
Silence.
“Mr. Justice Saviour,” I called.
Nothing.
“Mr. Nurse,” I tried again.
“What is your problem?” he snapped, irritation slipping through clearly this time.
“I’m bored,” I said simply. “So… what did you both talk?”
He went quiet again.
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer at all.
Then—
“She said she feels sorry for cheating on me,” he said.
I hummed softly.
“You forgave her?” I asked.
He turned his head and glared at me.
“Nah,” he said.
I nodded slightly, like I expected that.
“She told… ‘you deserve better,’” he added after a second.
A small chuckle escaped me before I could stop it.
“That’s what a cheater would say,” I muttered.
He didn’t laugh.
Didn’t react much.
But something about the way he looked away again…
Felt heavier than before.
“Did she leave you because you had no money?” I asked, shifting on the bed, my legs dangling off the edge as I lightly swung them.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Silence settled between us again—thicker this time, heavier.
I turned my gaze toward the window. The evening sun had dipped low, casting soft orange light into the room. It fell across his face, tracing the edges of his features, turning his brown skin into something warmer… almost golden.
For a moment, he looked different.
Quieter.
“Yeah,” he muttered finally.
I nodded slightly, like I had expected it.
“So now, just like other men, you’re going to put a label on all women saying ‘women are gold diggers’?” I asked, glancing at him again.
He shook his head.
“Cheating isn’t based on gender,” he said calmly. “We can’t say girls cheat more or boys cheat more. It depends on the person… their character. Not their gender.”
I hummed softly in response.
That wasn’t the answer I expected.
I had already prepared myself to argue, to mock, to provoke him into saying something stupid so I could snap back.
I thought he would speak like those fatherfuckers aka men.
I thought I would get angry and was ready to punch his face.
I thought I would have a reason to hate him a little more.
But…
He didn’t give me that.
I looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
“You’re mature,” I said simply.
Silence stretched between us again, softer this time… but not empty.
“You didn’t date anyone after her?” I asked, my voice quieter, less teasing than before.
He didn’t answer.
He just stared at the wall in front of him, like the answer was written somewhere there and he didn’t feel like reading it out loud.
After a moment, he shook his head.
I sighed lightly.
I expected that.
“So… you didn’t move on from her?” I asked, tilting my head slightly, watching him now.
No response.
Only a faint tightening of his jaw.
“Don’t dig my past,” he muttered.
I leaned back a little, unfazed.
“You love her still?” I asked, pushing just a bit more.
“Shut up,” he said immediately.
My eyes widened in mock shock.
“So you do love her—oh my god—” I said dramatically, placing a hand over my chest like I had just discovered a scandal.
“Stop it,” he snapped, a hint of embarrassment slipping through his irritation.
I gasped loudly, clutching an imaginary dupatta.
“My husband is in love with his ex! Where is the court? I want justice!” I declared, acting like I had stepped straight out of an overdramatic Indian serial.
He stared at me.
Blank. Done. Questioning his entire existence.
And for the first time in a while…
The heaviness between us cracked just a little.
“I don’t love her,” he muttered, looking away… like a child who didn’t want to be caught with the truth he couldn’t even name.
“Oh… I see,” I replied, the mockery still in my tone, even if it felt a little weaker now.
“I wonder how she even loved someone like you,” I added, tilting my head slightly, expecting him to snap back like always.
He didn’t.
He just looked at me.
For a second too long.
Then—
“Has someone ever loved you?” he asked.
The words didn’t come out loud.
They came out… steady. Direct.
And they hit harder than anything he had said before.
I stilled.
Completely.
The sarcasm on my lips faded before I could even use it.
Because there was no comeback.
No joke.
No easy escape.
My gaze dropped unconsciously, fingers tightening slightly against the fabric beneath me.
No one had.
Not like that.
Not in the way I secretly… quietly… had always wanted.
The room felt quieter now.
Heavier.
And for the first time—
I didn’t have anything to say.