Hi, I am Ishika, a widow, age 33.
I never imagined grief would feel this way—so silent, so heavy, so unbearably quiet. When my husband died during COVID, I thought I’d be consumed by loud, raw pain—screaming, wailing, unable to breathe. But the grief was nothing like that.
It crept in slowly, settling into every corner of my life, filling the empty spaces with its suffocating presence. It was like a fog, thick and unrelenting, clouding my vision and muting the world around me. There were no dramatic outbursts.
Just quiet, steady tears that slipped down my face, soaking into my pillow as I lay awake night after night. I felt so incredibly lost. As if the ground had been pulled from under me, and I was free-falling, unable to grasp onto anything solid. Days blurred into each other, each one a monotonous stretch of grey.
I walked through life like a shadow, barely there, barely alive. My home, once filled with warmth, became a hollow shell, every corner reminding me of him. His belongings were still there. His shirt casually draped over a chair, his watch left on the nightstand, and his favourite mug in the kitchen.
They were relics of a life that no longer existed, reminders of the man who had been taken from me too soon. Sometimes, grief was sneaky. It would appear suddenly, unannounced, triggered by the smallest, most unexpected things. His scent lingered on a jacket I couldn’t bring myself to wash.
The sound of his favourite song playing at a random coffee shop. The worst moments were the ones where I’d forget, just for a second, that he was gone. I’d reach for my phone to tell him something funny that had happened or instinctively pull out his favourite snack at the grocery store.
Those moments felt like being sucker-punched, the reality of his absence crashing back with brutal force. Nights were the hardest. I used to find such comfort in lying next to him, our bodies intertwined. His warmth seeped into my skin. Now, the bed was a vast, space, cold and unwelcoming.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my body aching from the emptiness beside me. I missed the sound of his breathing, the way he would reach for me in the middle of the night and pull me close. I would cry for hours, the crying that left me breathless, my body shaking from the force of it all.
And when the tears finally dried up, I was left with a hollow, aching numbness. I wondered if this was how I would feel forever—empty, lost, and broken. I didn’t believe I could ever be happy again. How could I? My world had shattered, and I was left to pick up the pieces.
But I didn’t even know where to start. Every day was a reminder that he was gone, that the future we had planned together had vanished in an instant. I felt like I had lost not only him but a part of myself, too. Who was I without him? Who was I without the life we had built together?
And then, out of nowhere, came the offer from his company. They wanted me to take his place, to step into his role as if I could somehow replace him. It felt wrong like I was betraying his memory by filling the void he had left behind. But I didn’t have a choice.
I had to survive. I had to keep going, even though every step felt like walking through thick, unrelenting mud. So I got up, forced myself to get dressed, and walked into the office that had once been his. It was the hardest thing I had ever done.
Walking into that building felt like stepping into a different world. Everyone knew who I was—his widow. The looks of pity, the hushed whispers, the awkward silence when I walked into a room—it was suffocating. I felt like a ghost, living in his shadow, surrounded by people who remembered him.
I was trying to survive in a world that had lost its colour. Every desk, every corridor, every face felt like it was somehow tied to him. His old colleagues would glance at me. Some with awkward smiles, others with expressions of sympathy so heavy it was unbearable.
I felt like an imposter. I was walking in shoes that were too big, trying to fill a void that could never truly be filled. I didn’t know how to carry on, how to keep pretending that I was okay when inside. I was anything but. And as the days passed, an insidious guilt began to grow in the back of my mind.
I was still breathing, still living, while he wasn’t. What right did I have to keep moving forward? Sometimes, the guilt was paralyzing. Even simple moments—laughing at a joke someone made in the office, enjoying a cup of coffee—felt like betrayals. How could I feel anything but sorrow when he was gone?
And then there was Karan. From the moment I met him, Karan was different. He didn’t treat me like I was broken, didn’t handle me with the kind of delicate care that made me feel fragile. He spoke to me like I was… me. Not the widow, not someone to pity, but just Ishika.
I didn’t know how to react to that at first. I had become so used to people treating me like I was something shattered, something that needed to be fixed or handled gently. But Karan was different. He didn’t offer me condolences or tiptoe around my grief. He treated me like a person, not a tragedy.
At first, I was wary. It had been so long since anyone had treated me like I was normal that I didn’t know what to make of him. Part of me wanted to ask why he was so casual, how he managed to act like everything was fine when my life had fallen apart. But I never asked.
I didn’t want to know the answer. I didn’t want to risk breaking the delicate balance we had. Maybe, deep down, I was afraid that if I asked, he would start treating me like everyone else, with pity and sadness. And I couldn’t bear that. Not from him.
Karan was lively always full of energy. He had this way of making everything seem lighter, even the darkest moments. His sense of humour was infectious, and he could make me laugh even when I didn’t want to. The first few times he cracked a joke, I remember feeling startled.
Laughing was something I had forgotten how to do. It felt strange laughing again after so much time spent in sorrow. But with Karan, laughter came easily, naturally. He had a way of lifting the weight that had been pressing down on me for so long.
Yet, even as I started to laugh again, even as I began to enjoy our conversations, the guilt lingered. How could I find joy in anything, even fleeting moments, when my husband was gone? I felt like I was betraying his memory as if every moment of happiness I allowed myself was somehow erasing him from my life.
Karan made me feel alive again. But in the quiet moments, when I was alone with my thoughts, the guilt would creep back in. Could I move forward without letting go of the past? Could I let myself be happy without dishonouring the man I had loved?
Over time, our conversations grew deeper. We talked about our lives, our pasts, our dreams. Karan shared his own stories of his struggles, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t alone. He didn’t carry the same heaviness I did. But he understood that life didn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.
He didn’t try to fix me or offer solutions. He just listened. And in listening, he helped me heal. Six months passed, and in that time, we became close friends—closer than I had ever expected. Karan had this effortless way of making me feel comfortable, making me feel like I could be myself again.
He never pushed for more, and I never thought of him romantically or sexually. It wasn’t about that. It was about how he made me feel—seen, understood, not defined by my grief. He didn’t see me as the widow, the broken woman. He saw me as Ishika, and that was all I needed.
Looking back, I realize how much Karan changed my life. He became my lifeline, my escape from the darkness that had consumed me. He didn’t even realize it. But he gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope. Hope that I can move forward and that I can be happy again.
He made me feel alive and made me remember what it was like to laugh, to feel joy, to be present in the moment. Without even trying, Karan had started to heal the parts of me that I thought were lost forever. And for that, I will always be grateful.
I didn’t know how Karan found out my birthday was approaching. He asked me in the office about how I planned to spend the day. It caught me off guard. The question hit me like a wave, bringing back a flood of memories. My last two birthdays had been incredible, spent with my husband.
He had always made sure they were special—surprise breakfasts, little gifts. The unmistakable look in his eyes when he wished me at midnight. The thought of facing this birthday alone, without him, felt unbearable. I told Karan that I planned to take the day off from work, visit a temple, and stay home.
It felt like the only thing I could do—hide from the world, drown in my thoughts, and try to make it through the day without breaking. But Karan had other plans. He insisted I do something for myself, that I shouldn’t let the day pass by in silence and sadness.
His persistence was gentle yet firm. “Come on, Ishika,” he said, with that easy smile that had become so familiar. “You deserve a break from all of this. Let me take you out for lunch. Just one meal, nothing more, Promise. We’ll go to one of your favourite places.”
I hesitated. How could I celebrate when everything still felt so hollow? But there was something in his voice, something in the way he saw through my defences, that made me agree. Reluctantly, I nodded. “Alright,” I said, unsure if I was ready to let this day be anything but a reminder of what I had lost.
He promised to pick me up. The night before my birthday, as midnight approached, I found myself staring at my phone. I wasn’t expecting much, but when Karan messaged me a simple “Happy Birthday, Ishika.” I was a little surprised.
I had expected him to call, but then again, maybe a message was easier—for both of us. I shook off the disappointment, telling myself it didn’t matter. The next day, I found myself at the mall, waiting for him. He had chosen a café that I hadn’t visited in months—one of my favourites.
As I sat across from him, I asked, “How did you know this place was my favourite?” Karan smiled but didn’t answer. He just shrugged in that casual way of his, and we moved on to light conversation. For the first time in what felt like forever, I found myself enjoying the moment.
We talked about everything and nothing. Though I tried to keep the sadness at bay, it still lingered quietly in the background. After lunch, Karan handed me a small gift. I immediately hesitated. “I don’t need this,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “I’m not in the mood for presents.”
But Karan, as always, had a way of convincing me. “You’re Ishika. And Ishika used to love gifts and shopping. Take it, please.” His words hit me in a way I didn’t expect. He wasn’t treating me like the widow I had become. He was treating me like the person I used to be.
It was like the version of myself that still existed somewhere beneath all the layers of grief. With a deep breath, I took the gift. It felt strange, almost wrong, to accept something so thoughtful, so normal.
I was grateful, but a part of me also felt guilty—guilty for letting myself enjoy something when my heart was still so heavy. As we left the café, Karan offered to drive me home. I hesitated again, but this time, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to go.
It was because, for the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of something that wasn’t sadness. But I agreed, and as we drove in silence, I realized how much of a lifeline Karan had become. Yet, there was still that ever-present conflict inside me.
A part of me that wanted to keep him at a distance to protect myself from feeling anything too deeply. As we pulled up in front of my apartment, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this day—this birthday spent with Karan—was different from the birthdays of my past. Not better, not worse, just different.
I surprised myself when I asked Karan to come inside for coffee. I didn’t even know why I did it, but a healed part of me. One that had been buried under layers of sorrow and yearned for a moment of joy—just for today, on my birthday.
As we stepped into my apartment, the door closed behind us, and a heavy silence enveloped the room. It was a silence that amplified the emptiness I felt. Before I could suppress them, tears welled up in my eyes. Karan wiped them away gently with his thumb, his touch both comforting and electrifying.
“Not today,” he said softly, his voice steady. I hugged him tightly, the warmth of his body against mine igniting a flicker of comfort I hadn’t felt in months. I hadn’t realized how much I craved this simple act—how much I missed being held being cared for.
But as our eyes met, and I felt the closeness of our bodies, an unexpected tension hung in the air. Our lips were almost a centimetre apart, and I could feel the pull between us. Before I could think it through, Karan kissed me. The sensation was overwhelming.
I was taken aback, caught between instinct and hesitation. I wanted to escape, to run away from this moment that felt so right yet so wrong. But I found myself frozen, unable to move my hands or legs. Karan kissed me again, and this time, his hands travelled gently along my back.
His touch ignited something within me that I had buried deep. I wanted to stop him, to remind myself of the heavy chains of widowhood I carried. A part of me was terrified of what this meant. Of the societal expectations, the whispers of judgment, the fear of being unfaithful to my late husband.
But another part of me, a part I had neglected for so long, craved this connection, this release from the shackles of grief. Karan’s kiss deepened, his lips moving softly against mine. I couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through me. I tried to hold back.
But the intensity of his affection and the care he had shown me in the past months broke through the barriers of my heart. Thoughts raced through my mind how he had lifted me from the depths of despair. How he had helped me reclaim my joy, how he had reminded me of what it felt like to be alive.
As he kissed me again, I felt the weight of my hesitation begin to lift. Finally, I let go. I kissed him back, wrapping my arms around him, pulling him closer as if I could merge our pain and our healing into one. The hug tightened, and in that embrace, I found solace and freedom.
For the first time in a long while, I felt alive again. I wanted to enjoy this moment but felt a whirlwind of emotions, unsure of what to say or how to react. So, I decided to let Karan take the lead. His warmth enveloped me, and I surrendered to the moment, my heart racing.
Karan’s kisses danced along my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead, and then back to my lips. With each tender press, I felt my walls crumble a little more, the weight of sadness lifting. I found myself kissing him back, leaning into the softness of his touch, exploring the sensations flooding my senses.
As he moved down, kissing my neck, a gasp escaped my lips, “Oh, fuck, Karan.” I moaned his name hard, the sound echoing in the quiet of my apartment. The intimacy of the moment pulled me deeper into a well of emotion I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in so long.
I was torn between the rush of pleasure and the nagging fear of what this meant for me, for my identity as a widow.
Karan paused, looking into my eyes, searching for any hesitation. I could see the concern etched on his face, but all I could feel was the warmth of his breath against my skin and the pulse of something new blossoming within me. It felt so foreign yet so right.
“Ishika,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I want you to feel everything, but only if you want to.” His words were a gentle reminder that this was my choice, a chance to reclaim a piece of myself I thought I’d lost forever. The conflicting voices in my head battled for dominance.
But the yearning to feel alive, to embrace this moment with Karan, surged stronger. Taking a deep breath, I nodded, letting the unspoken invitation hang in the air. As he leaned in to kiss me again, I felt a sense of liberation.
Maybe this was the beginning of something beautiful, something that could coexist with the memories of my past. Karan continued to kiss my neck. I surrendered to the sensations—his lips, warm and inviting, sent shivers down my spine.
I could feel his hands exploring my back, grounding me in this reality where joy and sorrow could intertwine. I was no longer just a widow. I was Ishika, a woman learning to embrace her desires. At that moment, I decided to let go of the fear that had held me captive for so long.
With each kiss, I began to believe that perhaps I could allow happiness back into my life, even if just for today. Karan pushed me gently onto the sofa, his eyes dark with desire. He hovered over me, the warmth of his body radiating against mine.
He began kissing my neck with a fervor that sent shivers through my entire being. I felt a rush of anticipation as he moved my top aside from my shoulders, his lips tracing a path along my skin. My eyes fluttered closed. I surrendered to the moment, allowing the love, the desire, and the heat to wash over me.
I didn’t stop him. Instead, I embraced the sensations flooding my body. Karan’s kisses travelled down, and he lifted my top slightly, exposing my waist. When his lips found my navel, I gasped—a sound that was both new and familiar. The way he kissed me there was unlike anything I had ever experienced.
It was electric, intimate, and utterly thrilling. “Aah, Karan,” I moaned his name, my voice a mix of pleasure and surprise. The intensity of my reaction surprised even me. I was lost in the moment, revelling in the warmth of his kisses. He playfully licked my belly button, something my husband had never done.
It was an exhilarating experience, awakening parts of me I thought were long dormant. I ran my fingers through his hair. Pushing him further down toward my navel, I felt a sense of freedom I hadn’t felt in years. Karan continued his exploration, kissing all around my waist.
Each touch sent ripples of delight coursing through me. I was smiling, moaning softly, utterly lost in the bliss of this newfound intimacy. The world outside faded away. It was just me and Karan, two souls connecting in a way I had thought was lost forever.
The feelings surged within me—desire, longing, and the undeniable urge to lose myself in this moment. I wanted to let go of the past to embrace the here and now. With every kiss, I felt lighter, as if Karan was lifting the burden of grief that had anchored me for so long.
Karan’s hands moved to my breasts, and he gently pressed, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body. His touch was different—tender yet igniting something primal within me that I had been yearning for. I wanted him to make love to me, to feel alive and free in a way I hadn’t experienced in years.
The heat of the moment engulfed me, and I felt the shackles of my past beginning to loosen. He pushed my top up, and I instinctively raised my arms, helping him peel it away. The thrill of vulnerability surged through me as he took off his shirt and vest, revealing his toned torso.
When he came back over me, I hugged him tightly, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine. The moment our bodies connected, an electric spark surged between us, igniting a fire deep within my core. Karan kissed my cleavage, and I instinctively pushed him closer, urging him to explore further.
The sensation was intoxicating, and I felt myself losing control. His hands travelled down my body, and with a gentle tug, he unclasped my bra. The cool air met my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. He lowered his mouth, kissing my breasts with a tenderness that made me moan softly.
The walls I had built around my heart began to crumble. I embraced the connection we were forging in this intimate moment. Karan lavished attention on my breasts, kissing and licking my nipples with an intensity that sent waves of pleasure coursing through me.
Each gentle tug and caress made me moan his name repeatedly. I wanted him to unleash his passion, to go harder, to explore me with a hunger I had longed for but never expressed. It was as if he could read my unspoken desires, sensing what I craved in a way my husband never had, and it thrilled me.
His hands moved with a confidence that made my heart race. As he wildly pressed and sucked on my breasts, trying to take me fully in his mouth, I found myself lost in the sensation. Every flick of his tongue, every pull of his lips ignited a fire within me, one that I had buried for far too long.
I revelled in the moment, surrendering completely to the pleasure he was giving me. While he lavished my breasts with attention, Karan’s fingers danced lower, expertly unbuttoning my jeans and gently pulling down the zipper. The anticipation sent a thrill through me, a rush of excitement and longing.
I could feel his warm breath against my skin, heightening my senses as he continued his exploration. I wanted him to touch me everywhere, to take me to heights I had only dreamed of since my husband’s passing.
To be continued.
PS: This story has been written by Karan on my behalf. Please feel free to share your thoughts and comments by mail/DM at [email protected].
Next Part: Finding Light in the Dark – Part 2