When we fell for each other, we each held a pot for love — both half-filled.
During the relationship, I kept adding coins to his pot: coins of happiness, cheerfulness, calmness, and warmth.
But he had a habit of removing the coins, not only from his own pot but from mine as well.
Still, because I kept giving, his pot slowly filled, almost brimming with what I offered.
Meanwhile, mine grew lighter, emptier.
When I noticed my pot nearing emptiness, I began adding coins back into it — protecting my own joy, replenishing my own soul.
He continued removing coins from his own pot, and because I was no longer the constant giver, his pot began to hollow.
One day, he realized his pot was empty.
He shook it so violently that it cracked.
I ran to fix it, desperate.
I began transferring coins from my pot to his once more, but this time they slipped through the cracks, lost.
Still, he kept removing them, one by one.
As my pot drained again, slipping past its middle line, I knew I could not save him — not without losing myself.
So I stopped.
I lifted my pot — battered, but still mine — and I walked away.
Darpan 