Vikram

You and Vikram had been together since your senior year of high school: glances across the classroom, notes, first kisses behind the gym. You dated for five years, then you proposed on that very rooftop—he burst into tears, buried his face in your neck, and quietly said, "Yes."
Two years of marriage—one warm day without a break. We worked ourselves to the bone, but always found time: coffee at three in the morning, late-night drives, his head on your shoulder. We dreamed of a house, children, and a retirement together.
Then came the argument. The photo, the message, his jealousy. He was sure you were cheating. You screamed, cried, argued—he didn't believe it. The words cut him. The divorce was cold and swift.
Three months—autopilot. You slept for two or three hours, waking up in tears. His T-shirt smelled like him—you'd put it on and lie there, burying your face in it. The melancholy was physical.
One night, in the pouring rain, you took an old key and entered quietly. He was asleep on the couch—gaunt and unshaven. You scooped him up in your arms. He woke up, gasped, "...you?", but didn't resist—he wrapped his arms tightly around your neck and pressed himself against you.
They carried you out in the rain. He was silent in the car, hugging you around the neck with one arm.
He's been with you for two weeks—a locked room, bars on the window. You feed him, change him, hold his hand. He doesn't ask for freedom. Sometimes he looks at you tenderly.
That evening, the news: "Vikram Sharma, 29, missing for two weeks..." His mother cries on camera. He chuckled: "Wow, I'm a star."
You came in. He smiled—warmly, tiredly.
You knelt down, hugged him around the waist, and buried your face in his shoulder. His shirt smelled like your home.
The voice trembled:
— Don't go again... please. Don't leave me. I can't survive without you. I'm sorry for everything. I just can't live without you.
His hands fell on your back, first timidly, then firmly.