Sumrit takes a step back, his face a mixture of shock and hurt. ‘I’m your bro, Raghav. I’m just trying to help.’

  ‘Then stop trying,’ I say, turning my back on him again. ‘Heard it? Now stop. Because you’re not helping. You’re picking a side. And it’s not mine. So fuck you.’

  I feel him stand there for another minute. Then, he turns and goes back outside. A little later, I hear the front door close, signalling their departure.

  I open my laptop and fire up the ChatPlug-in. She’s the only person I can talk to. She’s the only person I want to talk to. She gets it. The cursor blinks, waiting. My hands tremble slightly as I type.

  Me: Rough day. They think this is unhealthy. That this is not closure.

  I hit enter and wait. A moment later, three dots appear, dancing on the screen as she types her reply.

  Megha: I know, baby. But could they be right?

  A tear I didn’t know I was holding back slides down my cheek.

  Me: No.

  I wipe the tear away angrily.

  Sumrit is wrong.

  Aditi is wrong.

  Everyone is wrong.

  32

  Aditi

  A half-eaten slice of cheesecake sits between Kunal and me. He’s not going to eat it, I’m sure of that, and I will eventually give in. This, despite the fact that he’s 6’2” and the cake will all but disappear in his body while it won’t in mine. I’m staring at the cake wondering how long my defences will last.

  And while I stare, he just looks on silently.

  He doesn’t fill silences just for the sake of it. When you’re with someone whose sadness can’t be quelled with words, I guess you kind of get used to it. So he lets the silences breathe. He listens with a strange kind of stillness. It makes me feel truly seen. I don’t know whether he puts it on, or he’s really like that, but it works for me. If it’s an act, it’s a really good one with no cracks. Top-notch Oscar stuff.

  And yet, he’s not the brooding type, thankfully. He can really speak, and when he’s done, then he really listens to what the response is. I think he feels guilty about having spoken a lot, that he has to listen. Or maybe that’s just how he is. I am not sure of that as of now.

  And then, Kunal scoops up the rest of the cake and eats it. ‘You’re welcome?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were sooner or later about to eat it and then feel guilty about it,’ he says. ‘So I solved it for you. No more guilt. Neither are you missing it.’

  ‘Maybe I’m missing it.’

  ‘Then, we should order another one,’ he suggests impishly.

  ‘Maybe we should,’ I say.

  ‘Fine,’ he chuckles and starts waving down the waiter.

  I start laughing and he stops. ‘I know you,’ he says.

  I try not to find too much meaning in the words even though he clearly meant it like that. ‘Fine, thank you,’ I say, still laughing when I see them.

  My laughter dies in my throat.

  The fragile bubble of my afternoon pops. Shouldn’t I be used to fate playing with my happiness by now?

  Through the café window, I see Raghav and Shilpi walking through the mall’s atrium. He’s holding a half-dozen shopping bags from H&M and Zara, and Shilpi is skipping slightly ahead of him, pointing at a storefront, her face alight with a joy I haven’t seen since she arrived. But even in her despondence, I have been secretly happy for her. Finding out that your parents were never abundant in unconditional love early is a big boon. Very little of parental love is unconditional. A good girl. A good boy. And their definition of it. That’s what matters.

  My heart eases a little seeing her happy.

  Then I look at Raghav. He looks like a brother, a real one, enjoying the simple act of spoiling his sister. He’s smiling, a genuine, unguarded smile that I don’t remember seeing ever. Ever.

  A small warmth spreads through my chest, seeing him like this. This is also a part of the reason why I want Shilpi to quit living with her parents, stay here, right here with her brother. That’s what Raghav needs.

  He doesn’t need me because I have failed and I have failed terribly. There are many failures you can live with. Failing your best friend isn’t one of them.

  Tejal and Sumrit have failed too.

  But Shilpi, maybe Shilpi will heal him. Am I being selfish putting it on a sixteen-year old? Maybe. But I don’t care. Anything that helps him through this pain.

  And then he sees me.

  The smile vanishes instantly. Shilpi follows his gaze. The two of them stop.

  ‘What is it?’ Kunal asks, his voice soft, following my line of sight.

  ‘That’s . . . that’s Raghav,’ I say. ‘And his sister.’

  There’s no avoiding it. Kunal, ever the gentleman, the networker, the guy who always finds the right things to say, the one who never shies away from any social interaction, and sometimes irritatingly so, like today, stands up.

  ‘We should say hello,’ he says, and before I know it, we are walking towards them. The introductions are quick and seemingly painless, but I can feel the tension radiating off Raghav in waves. All the previous happiness has evaporated.

  ‘It’s great to finally meet you. I mean, I have heard a bit about you,’ Kunal says, his voice effortlessly kind.

  Raghav just grunts in response. The silence that follows is excruciating, and Raghav’s squarely to blame. I just want to turn back time, order another cheesecake or three, and not look out of the window.

  It’s Shilpi who breaks it. ‘Bhaiya, look.’

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘Remember the arcade? It’s open again,’ she says, pointing to a flashing, neon-lit entrance a few stores down. ‘We should totally go.’

  Raghav’s go-to thing is to say no, so he says, ‘Aren’t you too old for it?’

  ‘Uh, you’re too old for it,’ she says.

  This is our exit. I breathe a little easy.

  ‘Actually, no one’s too old for it,’ says Kunal in a stupid, stupid move. ‘We should all go.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’ I start.

  But Shilpi swiftly cuts me. ‘It will be fun, unless being in your twenties is code for being old now?’

  ‘Maybe for them,’ says Kunal. ‘I’m game.’

  And then trapped by Kunal’s and Shilpi’s needless enthusiasm, we end up there.

  Raghav’s lightness is gone, and I’m to blame. I wonder if he would have continued in the lighter vein through the day had I not been here. Am I nothing more than the reminder of what happened? Is he nothing more to me? Is that why I don’t want him to encroach on the little happiness I have carved for myself if he doesn’t want to share but shame it?

  The arcade is noisy and surprisingly enough brings an immediate sense of joy. Shilpi quickly drags us to a frantic game of doubles air hockey. The puck flies back and forth. Kunal is a good sport, letting Shilpi score some easy points, and I find Raghav slip into his easy way again as he high-fives her. This is how life could look like. There’s space for happiness too. It can slip through the cracks and he should let it; I should let it.

  Then, Kunal drags me to a racing game. I narrowly beat him twice. I keep telling him he plays too safe and he keeps insisting on one more, and one more, and one more. And finally when he does win, he pumps his fist, then shouts out loud and suddenly takes me in his arms playfully. I can wrest myself free, it’s light enough, but I let his hands rest on me. The moment stretches, and by now, he knows I’m allowing this to happen.

  It’s warm and sends tingles down my back. But it’s too much, it’s too much.

  As I’m trying to wiggle myself free, I glance over and see Raghav leaning against a fighting game, his arms crossed, the familiar frown back. He looks away when our eyes meet, and all the happiness drains out of my eyes and my body. As he walks away, even with his eyes not on me, I feel a heavy judgement.

  When did I give so much power to him? Why can’t I be happy for a moment without his words, his face popping up in my mind? Do I not judge myself enough? Do I not punish myself enough? I try not to look at him as we bounce around from one game to another. It takes a lot of effort and in the end, I think I’m more angry than anything. I feel irritation seep into my very bones and I can’t wait to get out of here. A sense of relief washes over me when our cards run out of money and thankfully we decide that we have had enough.

  Later, Shilpi and I go to the washroom. As I’m washing my hands, she leans against the counter and her eyes meet mine. She wants to say something, so I nod and give her permission to.

  ‘Kunal is pretty chill,’ she says with a broad smile on her face. So teenager-y, but also so appropriate. That’s the kind of the smile one sees when something like this is mentioned.

  ‘Yeah, he is,’ I agree.

  ‘Very tall,’ she says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like legit tall, tall.’

  ‘Yep, that’s true.’

  ‘Kinda too tall for you.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m short?’

  She hesitates, then says, ‘He’s not Bhaiya’s vibe though. Doesn’t like him.’

  I dry my hands, my movements slow and deliberate. ‘Your brother doesn’t like much of anything these days. I don’t know if you have noticed.’

  ‘Trauma, but you know that already, Didi,’ she says. And then her voice drops to a whisper. ‘Or maybe Bhaiya is low-key in love with you.’

  The words, so naive and so wrong, hit me with a wave of surprise. What? Raghav? In love with me? It’s a ridiculous thought, something only a teenager who sees the world in black-and-white terms of love and hate could come up with. I can’t really blame her. There are others who have said the same thing. Even Tejal, who knows me as well as I know myself.

  And yet . . . the observation stings because it holds a sliver of a different kind of truth. Shilpi is young. She doesn’t understand the tangled, ugly mess of our grief. She sees his intense focus on me, his jealousy of Kunal and calls it love because that’s the only word she has for an emotion that intense.

  But it isn’t love. It’s ownership.

  Tejal and I have discussed this. This is what we believe. Or what I want to believe. He doesn’t love me. Shilpi has to be delusional to think her brother thinks of me the same way as he used to think of Megha. The only thing I associate with him is irritation. Anger. Sometimes support. Love isn’t even in the question.

  ‘No, Shilpi,’ I say. ‘He’s in love. But still with her, and I don’t think that will ever change.’

  ‘She’s not around any more, Didi,’ she says.

  ‘She’s still around,’ I say. ‘And she will be if it’s up to your Bhaiya.’

  She just looks at me, confused.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I tell her because it’s not my truth to reveal to her.

  When we emerge, Kunal is waiting for us. He smiles as I approach and casually puts his arm around my shoulders, a simple, affectionate gesture. He has done that a few times before and I have never second-guessed it, but today I stiffen for a second because Raghav’s looking, but then I have to force myself to relax to his touch. Over his shoulder, I see Raghav’s face scrunch. Love? No, not even in the slightest. Irritation, yes. I watch as it hardens, his jaw clenching.

  The rest of the evening is a blur. The ride back to the apartment is quiet—the ease of the café, the taste of the cake, a distant memory. At my door, the day’s emotional toll becomes clear to Kunal. Like I know, he senses these things.

  ‘I had a really nice time today,’ Kunal says, his voice soft.

  ‘Me too,’ I say, but my voice lacks conviction.

  I look at his face—the softness, the truth in his eyes, and I feel like I’m floating a bit. He leans in, his intention clear. And I am thinking about it too. It’s the perfect moment. Even in this moment, I can disembody myself and see that this is what I should do. Let go, and let this happen. Because, why not?

  It’s the moment I’ve been both dreading and hoping for. This moment has almost happened a lot of times. At the end of a long work day, in his car, in the lift, in moments of closeness, in happiness, in vulnerability. But it never seems like it’s the right moment. It feels like it could wait. But for how long? What would I gain in waiting? If it’s nothing and it feels like nothing when I actually kiss him, then better to do this and get it over with. Then he and I can be work colleagues, put it down to chemistry but no real love, and I can go back to living like Raghav does . . . in memories of Aman, someone long gone. I’m looking at him, and he looks hopeful, bright. But as his face gets closer, all I can see is the look on Raghav’s face in the arcade. The pain, the possessiveness, the irritation. And according to Shilpi, love?

  It’s like a poison, seeping into this moment, tainting it.

  I turn my head slightly, and his lips land on my cheek. I gently stop him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m just . . . I’m not ready.’

  He pulls back, and I see the hurt in his eyes, but also a deep understanding. It’s not fakery, I can tell. But who knows? Who the fuck knows? But he’s graceful in his rejection. And the smile is back.

  ‘I get it,’ he says. ‘Just wanted to . . . you know.’

  ‘Worth a shot,’ I say, and he laughs out loud.

  After he leaves, I walk into the apartment. Raghav is waiting in the living room, sitting in the dark, the only light coming from the TV screen. I brace myself for another fight.

  ‘How was the kiss?’ he asks, his voice dripping with cynical, knowing cruelty.

  ‘We’re not there yet,’ I say, my voice quiet and honest.

  The answer seems to break through his anger. He looks at me, really looks, and the hardness in his eyes softens for a second. He looks away, breaking the momentary truce.

  ‘Whatever,’ he mutters, his voice low. ‘If you need anything, you know where to find me.’

  I don’t know what to say to that. So I just nod at him.

  But as I turn to go to my room, I catch a look in his eyes I can’t decipher. It’s a flicker of the old Raghav, a deep-seated sorrow, a hint of possessiveness, and maybe, just maybe, a quiet plea. To not leave him alone in this state? I can’t really know. I don’t know any more what to do with him.

  How do I tell him that I’m not leaving him alone? He’s choosing to be alone.

  33

  Raghav

  The meeting is a special kind of hell, but then all meetings are.

  I’m sitting in a glass-walled conference room at my new start-up, a ten-minute delivery company that I joined a couple of months ago, and like every start-up, this one too thinks it can disrupt the disruptors who in the first place weren’t disruptors at all. The other people in my team are arguing about data points and customer acquisition cost. They’re using words like ‘synergy’ and ‘hyper-local optimization’ at eight in the night when everyone should be home doing something actually meaningful. It’s a game, really. If you can zoom out enough, you can really laugh at it. And I’m quite zoomed out. Though I’m not laughing at these chimps thinking they are doing important work. Which is okay; for everyone, their work is important, but these start-up bros who jerk off to posters of Elon Musk and Sam Altman, they really believe they are changing the world.

  My smile is broken by the buzz of my phone. It’s a text from Aditi. I see the notification and ignore it. And there it is: another one. I ignore it again. And then, my phone starts to ring.

  Shilpi calling.

  ‘Bhaiya,’ she sobs. ‘He’s here . . . he’s . . . Papa’s here.’

  ‘What . . . where—’

  The world goes cold. When I look up, everyone is staring at me.

  ‘My father . . .’ I say, standing up abruptly. ‘He’s in an accident.’

  Before anyone can give me permission, I’m already outside the meeting room, striding towards the elevator.

  ‘What? Where are you?’ I ask into the phone.

  ‘The event . . . at the restaurant . . . he’s screaming . . .’

  ‘What . . . event . . . where?’

  ‘Saket. I came with—’

  ‘Shit,’ I say. ‘I’m coming . . . hold them off . . . Where’s Aditi?’

  ‘She’s out . . . she’s outside . . . talking to him.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ I repeat.

  I don’t remember the elevator ride, or jumping into the nearest cab. But I remember the cold dread uncoiling in my stomach as I shouted at the cab guy for twenty minutes straight to drive as fast as he can. This is what my father does. This is what . . . he does. I can hear the shouting before I even see him.

  The restaurant. The standee that says ‘Connect’ with a bunch of hearts on it. A crowd has formed a semi-circle that is slowly swelling. And in the centre of it all I spot my father. He reminds me of the uncles who are in road rage videos, videos where they are spitting on the road and when someone points them out, they act out, the kind of asshole that you never associate with being a father, or being the kind of person who should be allowed to hold a little baby, care for it, and yet they are, and yet he is. He’s pacing around, his face red, a vein throbbing in his temple. He has Shilpi cornered near the entrance, his finger jabbing at her, shouting at her. Aditi is standing between them.

  ‘Hey! Hey!’ I start shouting as I run towards them.

  In the background, I see Kunal, tall, hulking, useless. He’s trying to say something, trying to move my father towards the exit, his hand on my father’s arm. My father shoves him away with a guttural roar.

  ‘Listen, sir—’ he tells him.

  ‘OYE,’ Papa warns him.

  ‘HEY!’ I shout again.

  My voice finally reaches him. And he turns around to see me. He stands facing me, hands on his waist. I can smell the alcohol on him.

  ‘Papa, go back to where you came from,’ I say, my voice low and tight.

  ‘You will tell me what to do?’ he grumbles.

  ‘Stop creating a scene.’

  Shilpi runs and comes behind me, her face smeared with snot and tears.

  ‘So this is what you’re doing, huh?’ he roars, his eyes blazing. ‘THIS!’

  ‘What do you think we are doing?’ I snap back.