When I was 23, I got married at a Hindu temple in Queens in front of 300 guests. I'm a tomboy—most days I wear no makeup, Vans, and a green army jacket that I've had for years—but on my wedding day, I'd gotten up at five to have my eyes rimmed with kohl, and my hair smoothed and straightened into a low, sleek bun. My nails were painted red, my wrists jangled with dozens of bracelets, and an ornate gold necklace—the same one my mother had worn when she'd married my father—was clipped around my neck. I wore a red and gold sari made of six yards of heavy silk. On the day we'd gotten it, my mother had haggled over the price with the salesman. It felt like it weighed twenty pounds.

Before a Hindu ceremony officially starts, the groom sits before all the guests as the bride stays hidden. When I came out for vadhu aagman, or the arrival of the bride, my mother, father, and sisters were by my side. I was shaking—I don't like attention—and was strangely transfixed by the walls, swirling with paintings of Hindu gods and goddesses, the temple's altar set with dozens of idols. Under the mandap, which was curtained with yellow and red fabrics and strung with carnation garland, sat Ajay*, my future husband. He didn't say a word. He wasn't like, "You look beautiful." He wasn't like anything. Years later, I'd remember that moment with a zing. The priest guided us through three hours of prayers, calling every Hindu god to be a witness to our union. And the whole time I was just sitting there and thinking: This is a big mistake. This is such a big mistake.

I'd met Ajay when I was 18, working at a bookstore near the college where we both went. Ajay worked on a different floor. We hit it off, he asked me out, and we started dating. It wasn't much more complicated than that. I thought he was cute, and funny, and devoted. I'd broken up with my high school sweetheart a few weeks before college, and I felt ready for something new.

After five years of dating, I started bugging Ajay to get engaged. Now I regret it, but at the time, it just seemed like the natural next step. I wanted it so bad. On the night of our fifth anniversary, he proposed at a café on the Lower East Side, the same café where we'd had our first date. He said all sorts of romantic things, and I wasn't exactly surprised, but I was pleased. He proposed with a fake ring—like the kind you'd get out of gumball machine—which annoyed me, and as we walked home, he gave me the real one, which he'd had in his pocket all along. Later, when I was miserable in our marriage, dreading coming home to him, wishing I could be anywhere but in our apartment, and in our life, I'd look back on his proposal like it were a sign, too, as though that cheap fake ring held some prophetic significance I could never unfurl.

Ajay did not abuse me, or cheat on me. He didn't use drugs, he wasn't an alcoholic, he didn't have rage issues. And yet, three years into our marriage, I realized, quietly and in my own heart, that I was unbearably unhappy. I was frustrated with every aspect of my life—my job, my finances, my social life, and especially my marriage. I never wanted to have sex. I never wanted to do anything. But I never entertained the idea of leaving; I never told anyone, not even my closest friends. I was convinced that I wasn't trying hard enough, that marriage was about sticking it out. In the Indian community in which I was raised, there is no divorce. For as long as I could remember, my grandparents—who'd had an arranged marriage—had lived separately, each with one of their adult children. They got tired of pretending, but they never divorced.

At that time Ajay had just gone back to college, and after he finished his first semester, I gave him a selfish gift. I paid for a ticket to send him to Los Angeles for ten days to visit his brother. I just didn't want to be around him. Those were, without a doubt, the best ten days of my life. I was so relieved. I could breathe. I went dancing with friends. I stayed out late. I felt alive. And when I realized my life could always be like that, the thought was planted and the idea of leaving him was irresistible. When he came back, he texted me that he couldn't wait to see me, that he'd missed me so much. Once he got home, I just blurted out, "I can't be married to you anymore. This is over."

He was shocked. He didn't know how to react. And I was totally emotionless. He went to meet a friend at a bar, and when I went to bathroom, I saw that he'd left his wedding ring on the sink. I don't know why, exactly, but something about that gesture felt so final to me. I packed a Bloomingdale's bag with my taxes, my social security card, and my birth certificate. I put in three shirts, two pairs of pants and some underwear. Then I left.

The actual divorce took longer than it should have, and was incredibly sad. Ajay was—is—a good person, and I feel like I broke his heart and ruined his life. For the first few months after we split, I stayed with friends and with my parents, and then I got my own place. During that time, he was just crushed. He'd call me at all hours of the night, crying and sobbing. And I'd feel so awful. It's been six years, and I still feel tremendous guilt. It's a guilt I'll always live with, like a scar that stays an angry red.

He didn't want to deal with the official procedures of the divorce, so I went to a place that files the papers, and I signed. I think it cost $800. The company told me they'd contact him to sign—I didn't have to do anything. A month later, on one of those sunny, bustling New York City days that feel impossibly full of promise, I'd met a friend for coffee in Union Square. We were walking back to her apartment, and I saw him in there, signing the papers. He didn't see me, and he still doesn't know I saw him. I felt like the entire world stopped. My vision blurred with tears. My throat felt tight and painful. Seeing him there, alone, signing the papers, was one of the most devastating moments of my life. That was the day my heart broke. I still cry now, right on the spot, when I think about that day.

People say divorce is like a death, but a death is more final and more concrete. There is a funeral, and you're allowed to feel sad. You're encouraged to grieve and to process and remember. A divorce is murkier. Ajay and I tried to have lunch a few times, but it was awkward and sad. He deleted me on Facebook immediately, but stayed friends with my mom, and every now and then she'd give me an update, like that he was seeing someone, or had gone out that weekend. That made me happy, because I want him to be happy. For a while, he'd Facebook message me late night—I'd see the time stamp the next day—which always made me sad. I don't think he's seeing anyone now.

After I got divorced, I swore I'd never get married again. But then I met John*, and as they say, I just knew. We married last October in front of my mother and sisters at city hall. On the subway ride to our ceremony, I wore a white dress I'd gotten last minute upstate. Ajay used to say to me, "You're my best friend." And I'd always think, you're not my best friend. Maya is my best friend. Or Avni is my best friend. Now I know how he felt.

My relationship with John has made me a different person. I'm affectionate. I communicate. And, at least for this moment in time, I'm happy. Love is not fair, and it is not easy, and as far as I can tell, it doesn't come with a guarantee. Not ever. But for the moments when it works, at least in my life, love still feels worth trying for.

*Names have been changed.

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