Some wounds don't bleed.
They remember.And in silence, they stitch themselves into habits.
Like checking an old profile photo.Like wondering how she might have smiled, if things were different.
Her name was Supriya.
Once, she loved him.Before silence became his armor.Before wealth turned to service.
Before the world called him the Spend King.
They hadn't spoken in over two years.Not out of anger.
But out of a deeper ache-
Respect that couldn't find the right language anymore.
She had moved on.Or tried to.
-Teaching social entrepreneurship in Bangalore.
-Helping young women rise.
-Building what she once thought they'd build together.
But then came the unexpected call.
"I want to see you," she said.
"No agenda.No apology.
Just one coffee."
He didn't say yes.
He just arrived.At a quiet café in Mysore.
Off-grid. No staff cameras.
Just a wooden table between them and the scent of cardamom.
She looked older.Stronger.But her eyes still carried the same depth.
