My name is Arpit, and I moved to a new society in Delhi 6 months back. The place was perfect—modern amenities, lush green surroundings, and just a short commute to my office.
The neighbours seemed friendly, too. Among them was a family that appeared particularly distinguished—Harsh, his wife Richa, and their young son, Ahaan.
As days turned into weeks, the initial charm of my new home began to fade. I started noticing the cracks in the facade of my seemingly perfect neighbours. The first hint was subtle—raised voices muffled by walls.
But soon, the quarrels became a daily soundtrack to my life. The once peaceful atmosphere was shattered by Harsh and Richa’s relentless arguments. One particular day stands out vividly. I was working from home, deep into a crucial meeting.
The familiar sounds of conflict erupted next door. Harsh and Richa’s voices—names I had picked up from their arguments—reached a crescendo. Their shouting was so intense that it penetrated through the walls, making it impossible for me to concentrate. My patience snapped.
The frustration of countless interrupted moments boiled over, and I felt a surge of anger. How could a family that seemed so polished on the outside harbour such turmoil within? My mind raced as I tried to focus on my work, but their voices were a constant, grating presence.
Somehow, I managed to get through the meeting, my mind racing with frustration. The moment it ended, I marched next door and knocked firmly on their door. When Harsh answered, I let my anger spill out, telling them to lower their voices or I’d call the cops.
That day, for the first time in weeks, I was met with silence from their apartment. A few days later, I ran into Harsh and Richa in the elevator. The memory of my outburst made me feel awkward. I quickly apologized for yelling at them.
To my surprise, they were gracious, accepting my apology with polite smiles.
Time passed, and one evening, I encountered them again. Harsh extended an invitation for dinner. I agreed, hoping it would help mend any lingering tension. That night, their home was filled with delicious aromas and the sound of Ahaan’s cheerful chatter.
We had a delightful dinner and a pleasant conversation. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Throughout the evening, I noticed Richa’s strained smile and her attempts to conceal her discomfort. She laughed at Harsh’s jokes and nodded along to the conversation.
But her eyes told a different story. Determined not to overstay my welcome, I finished my meal quickly. As I stood to wash my hands, Richa directed me to the washroom. It was then that I saw them—faint bruises on her wrists, barely visible but unmistakable.
My heart sank. The silence from their apartment suddenly made sense, but it only deepened my concern. What was really happening behind their closed doors? I went inside, washed my hands, and returned to the living room. With a polite farewell, I left their apartment, my mind swirling with concern.
The next day was my day off, and I found myself with little to occupy my time. I settled into my living area, mindlessly watching TV. But my thoughts kept drifting back to Richa and those bruises. Around mid-morning, I heard Harsh leaving their apartment.
His voice carried through the thin walls as he called out to Richa, saying he’d be late and not to wait for him for dinner. Sensing an opportunity, I waited for an hour, my anxiety growing with each passing minute. At 11 am, I gathered my courage and knocked on Richa’s door.
She opened it, and there she was, standing alone in a yellow saree and matching blouse. Her hair was neatly tied back. She looked beautiful but weary. I asked if I could come in, and she nodded, stepping aside to let me enter. I sat down. She offered me coffee, which I gladly accepted.
As we chatted, I couldn’t shake the feeling of her unhappiness. Her forced smiles and evasive eyes told a story she wasn’t ready to share. Gathering my courage, I gently asked, “How did you get those bruises on your hands?” Richa’s face tightened, and she quickly looked away, dodging the question.
Instead, she asked, “What happened? Why are you here, Arpit?” I gently told Richa I was there to discuss her troubles, to understand if she was truly okay and if she felt any semblance of happiness. I urged her to open up, to share what was in her heart, offering my support in hopes of finding a way to help.
Though initially hesitant, her resistance melted away as she slowly began to reveal her anguish.
She spoke of a reality that was far from the serene image she had projected—a world where Harsh’s anger manifested in harsh violence. She struggled to hide the physical and emotional scars. Her voice quivered as she recounted her struggles, and my heart broke with each word she shared.
I listened, fully present, my heart aching for her pain. I tried to offer comfort, whispering reassurances and encouraging her to hold onto her strength. Her tears fell freely, a torrent of emotion against my shoulder. I held her tightly, my embrace a silent promise of support and solidarity.
Eventually, through her shuddering breaths and tearful eyes, she whispered, “Arpit, can you please help me? I’m lost and don’t know what to do.”
“Of course,” I replied softly, “What do you need me to do?”
Her voice trembled as she asked, “Can you find out if my husband is cheating on me?”
I nodded, feeling the weight of her request. “I can try, but finding out if someone is unfaithful is never straightforward.”
“I understand,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I feel trapped with no other options.”
I pressed gently, “What makes you suspicious?”
She explained with a painful sigh, “He used to go out with friends, but for the past month, he’s been leaving every night, coming home late. He says it’s because of work, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding something. When he returns, he’s exhausted and distant, rarely speaking to me.”
Her voice cracked as she spoke, each word a reflection of her deep sorrow. I continued to comfort her, my heart aching as I held her. In her moment of raw vulnerability, as she cried on my shoulder, she leaned in and placed a tender, unexpected kiss on my lips.
I was caught off guard, but the intensity of the moment pulled me in. I responded with a gentle kiss, our emotions intertwining in a silent exchange. For a few minutes, we shared a kiss filled with unspoken fears and longings.
When she finally pulled away, her eyes were filled with a mix of regret and gratitude.
“Arpit, thank you for your kindness,” she said, her voice trembling. “But you should go now.”
I nodded, my heart heavy with the weight of our encounter. “Okay,” I said quietly. With a last lingering look, I left her apartment, my thoughts swirling with the complexities of what had just transpired.
After that night, everything changed for me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had crossed a line. I felt guilty for kissing Richa, knowing she was just my neighbour and that I was married too.
My wife, Ankita, was away for work, which was why these encounters could even happen. I kept replaying the kiss in my mind and felt ashamed. I didn’t want to cause trouble in Richa’s life or make things worse.
Even though I tried to push her out of my thoughts, I couldn’t stop thinking about her and the way her lips felt. I felt lost and confused, unsure of what to do. For days, I avoided her, not knowing how to face her or deal with the situation.
One day, as I was waiting in the lobby for the lift, I saw Richa coming from the other side of the building. She was wearing a red top and blue jeans, looking stunning and confident. To avoid an awkward encounter, I quickly took the stairs up to my floor.
When I reached my floor, I was startled to find her standing near my door. She smiled warmly and asked, “What’s going on? Why are you avoiding me?”
I was caught off guard and didn’t know how to respond.
I stammered, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”
Richa looked at me with understanding eyes and said, “Why are you feeling guilty? It wasn’t a forced kiss. It was a moment between us, and honestly, I enjoyed it. Don’t feel bad. Just be yourself. I didn’t mind the kiss.”
Her words eased some of the tension inside me. I gave a small, relieved smile and apologized once more.
I said, “I must admit, I’ve never kissed like that before. It was beautiful.”
Richa’s cheeks flushed slightly as she smiled back. “Thank you,” she said softly. With a final nod, she turned and went inside her apartment.
That night, as I was having dinner, I heard the familiar sounds of arguments coming from Richa’s apartment again. It struck me that I hadn’t been home much lately. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t noticed the ongoing fights.
Though the noise was still there, I felt conflicted about intervening. So, I left things as they were. Later, I went to my room and started reading a book. Just as I was getting lost in the pages, the doorbell rang. It was almost 10:30 pm—who could it be at this hour? I got up and opened the door.
To my surprise, Richa was standing there. She looked exhausted and deeply sad. I was taken aback by her late visit. She asked if she could come in, and I opened the door, letting her enter. She sat down on the sofa while I quickly changed into a T-shirt and shorts.
When I returned to the living room, Richa was slumped on the sofa, her head hanging low, dressed in a top and pyjama. “What’s wrong?” I asked, concerned.
She looked up with tear-filled eyes and said, “I’m so sorry for coming here so late.” My worry grew.
“Don’t worry. Just tell me what happened,” I urged.
“I’m sorry for bothering you at this hour,” Richa said, her voice trembling. “Harsh and I had another fight. He left, and I don’t know when he’ll be back. I’m feeling so alone and need someone to talk to.”
I was shocked by her confession. I sat beside her on the couch and wrapped my arm around her. She rested her head on my shoulder, and her tears soaked into my shirt. I held her quietly, giving her the space to cry and collect herself.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said through her tears. “Harsh is cheating on me, and I don’t know how to handle it. He doesn’t love me anymore; he’s with someone younger.” I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed silent, just being there for her.
After a while, she managed to calm down. “Thank you for being here,” she said softly. “I needed someone to listen. I’m sorry for troubling you.”
“It’s okay,” I said gently. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you can call me anytime.”
She nodded, her gratitude evident. Then she hugged me tightly, pressing her body against mine. The hug was so intense that I almost fell back onto the couch. We held each other for a long time, and I kept my arms around her, savouring the comforting closeness.
As we stayed in this embrace, I became aware of a growing tension between us. I could feel my own body reacting to the proximity, and I sensed her awareness of it, too. Slowly, she pulled away and sat back on the couch. Our thighs brushed against each other, creating an electric connection.
We sat in silence for a moment, her tears still glistening on her cheeks. I reached out, taking her hand and kissing it gently. She looked at me in surprise, asking, “What are you doing?”
“I just want to make you feel better,” I said softly.
“Thank you,” she replied, holding my hand tightly. “It means a lot.”
To comfort her, I said, “You’re a wonderful person. Don’t worry; things will get better.”
I pulled her into another hug, this one even tighter than before. As I held her close, I kissed her forehead and whispered, “You’re special, and you deserve the best. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.”
Richa hugged me even tighter and whispered, “Thank you for everything.” As we stayed in this close embrace, she kissed my cheek. I felt the warmth of her lips, and then she kissed my neck. I was taken aback but allowed her to continue.
She then kissed my lips, and I responded. Our kiss deepened, filled with unspoken emotions and longing. We kissed passionately for several minutes until she pulled away, her eyes moist.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s okay,” I reassured her. “It was a moment we both needed.”
“But I’m married,” she said, “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“And I’m married too,” I replied gently. “It was just a moment of connection. Don’t feel guilty.”
Her surprise was evident. “You’re so kind. Thank you for understanding.”
“If you need to talk,” I said, “I’m always here for you.”
She smiled and thanked me again. Richa hugged me tightly, kissed my cheek, and then we both sat there, holding each other. I felt her tears on my shoulder. After a while, she said, “I should go now.”
“Okay,” I said. “Take care.”
“You too,” she replied. She got up, and I opened the door for her. As she was about to leave, she reached near the door, then closed it, surprising me. She kissed me once again. I didn’t miss this chance and kissed her romantically, feeling her back gently with my hands.
When we stopped kissing, I looked at her and asked, “You’re doing the same thing that your husband is doing.”
Richa replied, “If my husband has the right to enjoy his life, why not me? Why should I cry alone and make my life hell?”
I asked her to think again. Richa said she would but needed my help to think again. I smiled and said, “You are most welcome until my wife comes back.”
She smiled and hugged me tightly once more before finally leaving. As she left, I closed the door and went back to my room, my mind filled with thoughts of her and the kiss we shared.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I felt a mix of guilt and happiness. The next day, we saw each other in the lobby again. We exchanged smiles and went our separate ways. Though we didn’t talk much, our smiles and glances spoke volumes.
To be continued soon!
If you enjoyed the story, I’d love to hear your thoughts and comments! Feel free to reach out via DM, email at [email protected], or chat. I look forward to your feedback and a memorable conversation.
Next Part: Behind Closed Doors – Part 2