Ravi was content in his marriage. He wasn’t particularly happy, though. Like a peaceful sea without tides, their friendship remained steady. Grocery shopping, bills, hospital visits for parents, festivals, and even a couple of vacations were all well-managed by them. His wife eventually admitted that she had found someone. Someone who restored her sense of vitality. Someone she didn’t intend to meet but now finds impossible to live without.
Interestingly, Ravi didn’t object. Perhaps he realised in his heart that they were no longer emotionally available to one other. He signed the joint divorce agreement with a broken heart, not with rage.

And that’s where it started — the slow disintegration of everything he thought he understood about life.

He began to question everything:

• Why does everyone else look happy in their marriages?
• Why can’t I seem to be enough for someone?
• Why do I feel like a failure when I did the right thing?

Ravi was not alone in these thoughts, though it felt that way. Many people — especially in their 40s — go through this unsettling phase. A kind of midlife vacuum, where nothing seems wrong externally, yet everything feels off inside.

Around him, life seemed to bloom — or at least that’s what Instagram said. Friends smiling in Bali, colleagues sharing motivational quotes about morning routines, neighbors with their squeaky-clean lawns and perfect families. They all looked like they had it together.

And Ravi? He was drowning in a mix of grief, confusion, responsibility, and shame he couldn’t even fully explain. “What am I doing wrong?” he wondered. “Why does everyone else seem so sorted?”

In today’s metro world it is built with a strange culture: one where optimism is often forced, and struggles are hidden behind filters and curated captions.

Ravi’s friends tried to cheer him up: “At least it was mutual.” “Now you’re free!” “You can date again!”

But none of these statements truly helped. If anything, they made him feel lonelier.

He couldn’t share how heartbroken he felt when he walked into his parents’ room and saw their aging faces, more worried about him than their own ailments.

He couldn’t explain how he missed simple things — someone to share evening tea with, someone to ask “How was your day?”

He started wondering if maybe he was weak — because everyone else seemed to handle life so well.

That’s when he stumbled upon a book one evening titled “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.” And while the title was jarring, the message was real: You don’t need to have it all figured out. Life is not a competition of happiness.

As I know Ravi closely in office, I was seeing his struggle from far, one rainy day I asked him to come along for a cup of coffee, first he hesitated as this could cause office rumour , but when I insisted he agreed, The warm clink of cups and the low hum of conversation filled the corner café. The rains outside had just stopped, and the silence lingered in the air. Ravi sat across me, his eyes were tired, a forced smile on his face. He stirred his coffee more than he drank it.

I asked: “So how are you coping up?”

He wasn’t ready for a direct question, he hesitated and said, “I am fine”.

I smiled and said, see this is not a date, so relax, I know what “fine” means, so I will suggest talk to me as if you are talking to a therapist, and I am very sure I can help you dig in to some answers at least.

 Ravi finally exhaled, breaking the silence.

Ravi:
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Everyone seems… sorted. Like they figured life out. And here I am — single at 44, taking care of my parents, staring into empty weekends and thinking maybe I did everything wrong.”

I sipped your tea gently, then looked at him without flinching.

Myself:
“Do you know I felt exactly that… for a long time? It’s like the world hands you this script — marriage by 25, stability by 40, peace after that. But no one tells you what to do when the script burns mid-play.”

Ravi’s brows furrowed, his eyes softening. It was the first time he didn’t feel judged — or pitied.

Ravi:
“But don’t you sometimes wonder if it’s too late to start again? I mean… people my age is vacationing with spouses, planning their kids’ college, moving into bigger homes. And I’m just figuring out who I am without a ‘we.’”

I leaned in slightly, not to lecture, but to be real.

Myself:
“Let me tell you something I wish someone had told me when I sat where you are — age is not a deadline. It’s just a number society assigned to milestones in a particular fashion and rhythm, no one questions it. Thus everyone thinks that’s the only way of life. You’re not behind, Ravi. You’re just in a different chapter.”

He went quiet. You could tell the words had landed, but gently.

Myself (after a pause):
“People out there with smiling photos and vacation plans — they’re not necessarily happy. Some are, yes. But some are hiding behind curated joy. The real thing? It looks like this — a little messy, a little raw, but honest.”

Ravi (voice cracking slightly):
“I don’t even know who I am without the structure of that marriage. Even if it wasn’t love, it was something. It anchored me. Now I float… and I hate the silence.”

I nodded. And said I understand.

Myself:
“You float because your roots were tied to roles — husband, caretaker, provider. But now… you get to grow roots inside yourself. Not to impress, not to prove. Just to exist freely. The silence? It’s scary now. But it’s also where your truth lives.”

Ravi looked away for a second. You let the silence hang.

Ravi:
“I just… don’t want to be bitter or stuck. I want to be kind, still. Just don’t know how to let go without feeling like I’m betraying the past.”

Myself:
“Letting go isn’t betrayal. It’s gratitude in motion. You thank the past by honouring the version of you that survived it — and then, slowly, you start becoming someone new. And trust me — that someone will surprise you.”

He smiled, a real one this time. Faint, but real.

Myself (smiling too):
“Ravi, you’re not starting over. You’re starting deeper. You’re not behind anyone. You’re just arriving… finally… in your own story.”

Ravi (after a moment):
“You really believe healing is possible even now?”

Myself (softly, surely):
“Not just possible — inevitable, if you stop fighting time and start befriending it. Age is not your enemy. Stagnation is. And you, my friend, are already moving — one honest feeling at a time.”

The waiter arrived with refills. Ravi picked up his cup, this time with intention. As the steam curled upward, so did something within him — a slow but steady stirring of hope.

Myself (raising your cup):
“To not following scripts. And to living life on your own terms — no matter the page, no matter the age.”

Ravi:
“To freedom. Even if it starts with fear.