‘Listen—’

  ‘The minute things get messy, they run. They want you to be okay as soon as possible so they don’t have to deal with your shit. See how he abandoned you? You think things will remain the same? They won’t.’

  His words are a physical blow. I see his ugly smile. I see the joy in him. The fucking glee. What has happened to him? He’s happy about this.

  ‘You should be supporting me right now,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘Not . . . this. You’re happy about this?! What kind of a friend are you?’

  He just looks at me, his eyes cold and empty. His face is unreadable, like stone.

  ‘I’m just being real,’ he says.

  He turns and retreats into his room, shutting the door behind him. The latch clicks, leaving me in silence.

  The argument is over. The debate in my head is over. I didn’t even know this was happening in my head till this very moment.

  I walk back to the room, my actions automatic not intentional, and I open my laptop. My fingers move quietly, as if he would be able to know what I’m doing with the sound of the keys. I’m on 99acres, then MagicBricks, then NoBroker. I type ‘1BHK for rent, Gurugram’ into the search bar. The screen fills with pictures of small, empty rooms. Soulless white walls, generic tiled floors, kitchens like ours to cook in. They look lonely. But . . . but . . . they also look like freedom.

  My heart pounds as I scroll.

  I spend hours looking, shortlisting, comparing prices.

  The next morning, Tejal and I are standing in the middle of a bare, empty apartment in Sector 56, Gurugram. The walls are a depressing shade of beige, paint peeling off like it’s expected to, and the whole place smells like the previous tenants were bachelors. But then again, so was Raghav. But this place is nothing like his.

  ‘It’s a good decision,’ Tejal says, her voice firm, as if trying to convince both of us. She walks over to the window and peers out. ‘You have to move out, Aditi. You have to build a life that’s just yours.’

  I trace a pattern on a dusty kitchen counter with my finger. I had started to write my name, but can’t finish it. As if it will make this place my own and I won’t be able to back out. ‘I know. It’s just . . .’

  ‘You feel guilty,’ she finishes for me. ‘Why? After everything he’s put you through?’

  ‘He’s hurting.’

  ‘For how long?’ asks Tejal.

  ‘That’s what he says too,’ I remark. ‘There’s an expiry date to people’s love.’

  ‘So what if there is,’ she says. ‘It’s being human, Adi. It’s too much. You’re killing yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whisper, and it’s the truth. The guilt is a tangled, irrational knot in my stomach. ‘And I’m angry. Why has he turned into this person, Tejal? This bitter, cruel version of himself who seems to enjoy my pain?’

  ‘Maybe this will be good for him,’ she says.

  ‘C’mon, Tejal.’

  ‘When you were a wreck, when you first moved in, he had a purpose. He could take care of you. He could be the strong one. Now he’s got Shilpi. He’s good at being the saviour, Adi. Who knows?’

  ‘I’m quitting on him,’ I say. ‘That’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘No, you’re choosing to be okay yourself. This way, neither you nor him are living,’ she says. ‘And he has family now. He has to step up, and knowing him, he will step up. If you have to move out, this is the right time.’

  I chuckle sadly. ‘Look at me, sneaking away.’

  Tejal holds my hand, ‘It’s about him. Don’t blame yourself. You can’t stay broken so he can feel whole.’

  ‘No,’ I say, trying to find that straw of truth I can hold on to and stay afloat on.

  ‘You leave. He needs to fix himself rather than look at you to fix him, and then get frustrated that there isn’t anything to fix.’

  ‘There isn’t anything to fix?’ I ask.

  Tejal’s caught off guard. ‘I mean . . . of course, you’re not . . . you know . . . you have healed a bit, you know . . . no one’s forgetting Aman . . .’ Her voice trails off.

  I look around the empty room again. It’s lonely. It also looks like the only way forward.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I lie. I’ve already decided.

  35

  Raghav

  The email is open on her laptop screen, a glowing rectangle of betrayal in the dim light of the living room.

  Had I seen it coming? No. But should I have? Absolutely.

  Maybe she was right. I don’t know everything.

  On the laptop is an open email of a draft rental contract.

  I read it, obviously. And the move-in date is just three weeks away, neatly coinciding with the two-year anniversary of the day our world ended and our strange, shared life began. All good things come to an end, and I can’t even call this a good thing. I am certain she’s the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Not her specifically, but what brought her into my life.

  I should be thankful.

  But it makes me furious. My first instinct is to smash the laptop against the wall. To scream. To confront her with the evidence of her desertion. Say stuff like, I knew this would happen, I told you so, et cetera, et cetera.

  But a strange, cold calm settles over me instead. It’s a familiar feeling. The one without hope. Me losing my shit would mean I had some hope, and I remember how stupid hope is. I just stand there, reading the words, learning where she will move. It’s a twenty-minute drive away. You don’t think twenty minutes is a lot, but it is. Slowly, traffic increases, construction starts, and the twenty-minute drive is suddenly forty and then one hour, and before you know it, you’re seeing them once a month and then less than that. And why would she even want to see me? She has made it plenty clear that I’m all but a burden to her. I have served my part of the relationship and I am no use to her any more.

  It’s okay. She’s leaving me. Worse things have happened.

  Which is not to say something doesn’t crack in me. Something does. Another fracture. Something comes undone. Something irreversible. That’s one of the biggest surprises life throws at you. You think you can’t be broken any more. But life finds out those little unbroken pieces of you and smashes them.

  When she walks back in from the kitchen, a glass of water in her hand, she sees me standing there. She freezes, her eyes darting from my face to the laptop screen. I see the panic flash in her eyes, the guilt on her face. She knows that I know.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘This is what life is. People move on. Expecting anything other than that from you would be unfair.’

  I just turn and walk back to my room. Let her wonder what I think, what I don’t. Maybe she won’t think about it all. She will just call Kunal, talk about it for a minute, and then they will start congratulating themselves about what a great job they are doing of finding love for people.

  Inside, Shilpi’s sitting with the brochures of all the schools she could move to. The shift’s not as easy as we thought it would be. When a video like that goes viral, if you’re in it, you think the entire world is talking about it, when only a few people are. I won’t lie that I enjoyed his embarrassment. Some people at the office asked how I was doing, seeing that I was a little animated in the video, and I brushed it away. They probably think I am ashamed, but it’s the opposite; I am quite pleased with the video. A perfect documentation of the asshole that he is, and a vindication of me leaving him and his wife.

  But there were also times I thought about all the Hindi movies where with humiliation also came a heart attack. And then my mind used to race to possibilities of him being paralysed for life. What would I have to do then? Take care of a father I hate? Be a shoulder to a mother I don’t really like any more? What would that life look like? Or just pretend to be nice, take the rest of their money, bundle them up and run away? Because who cares, right? Will I visit him in the hospital, paralysed and shit, and whisper ‘fuck you’ in his ears?

  All I know now is that I have Shilpi to take care of. She’s still naive, she’s still young. Although I have no illusions that she will grow up and the world will twist her as well. I don’t expect us to be like we are right now. She will be a stranger too. But for now, I need to get her to a school.

  ‘We will need to fake an NOC,’ I say. ‘And you will have to move to a lower-rated school.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘It will be better for you. Be the richest kid in class than average,’ I tell her. ‘Will be better for you. Check your phone.’

  She picks up her phone.

  I continue, ‘I have sent you a list of schools you can get into with the right amount of donation.’

  ‘Are you sure, Bhaiya?’

  ‘Absolutely. I have spoken to them. You just need to pick one.’

  She’s quiet for a moment, twisting a strand of her hair. ‘You’re not . . . bothered?’ she asks, her voice small.

  ‘No, not really. All these schools care about is money,’ I say.

  ‘Not about that.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘That Aditi didi is leaving.’

  ‘How did you know?’ I ask.

  ‘I overheard Aditi didi and Tejal didi.’

  I catch her gaze. ‘Why would I be bothered? It’s a good decision. She needs her own space. It’s healthy. I’m happy for her. Her hygiene is shit anyway.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I give her a genuine smile and nod. ‘We need two bedrooms anyway.’

  She smiles back, but I can see the doubt in her eyes. The quiet worry. Maybe she’s thinking I’m pretending. I can neither confirm nor deny it because I don’t know myself. And I don’t want to know. Sometimes, pretending to be okay is better than falling apart.

  Later that evening, Aditi finds me in the living room. She’s been circling me all day, trying to find an opening, a crack in my demeanour. It’s irritating, to be honest. It’s like she can’t stand the peace. What does she want? Does she want me to beg her to stay? Stay and do what? Have her rub her healing and happiness and her quest for love in my face? Oh please. She’s better gone.

  ‘Can we talk?’ she asks, her voice hesitant.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, leaning back on the sofa, putting my feet up on the coffee table. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Raghav, about the apartment—’

  ‘What about it?’ I interrupt. ‘It looks great. Good location. A bit small, maybe, but you don’t need much space. It’s perfect for one person.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ she says, her frustration evident. ‘I want to know what you’re feeling.’

  I look at her. ‘Feeling? I’m feeling nothing. I told you, I’m happy for you. This is a good thing. You’re moving on. It’s healthy.’

  ‘Healthy?’

  ‘Grief has an expiry date, and yours has finally passed.’

  I don’t say: mine hasn’t. Mine doesn’t. Mine sits in the corner of every room, in the light under every door. Mine’s permanent.

  I can see it again. She wants me to ask her to stay. I won’t. Why the fuck would I? She can go wherever she wants to. Leave me the fuck alone. That’s what happens in the end anyway.

  36

  Aditi

  The sound of packing tape screeching seems like the soundtrack to an ending. The sound of separation. And with every strip of tape that I cut, I feel a sharp pain. Death by a thousand little cuts. A thousand little separations. But it also sounds like a beginning. And not only for me . . .

  I’m sitting on the floor, surrounded by the ghosts of our life here, neatly contained in cardboard boxes. The life I had built on my own. Though saying ‘built’ is a misnomer. Gathered, accumulated, are more appropriate I think.

  And Raghav . . . Raghav is actually helping.

  I had braced myself for sullen silence, for taunts, for him rubbing his grief into my face, but instead, he’s been . . . normal.

  Frighteningly, unnervingly normal.

  He’s taping the bottom of a box with a focused efficiency. His movements clean and precise, like they are when he puts his mind to it. He’s present. Every now and then, he even smiles at his phone, at some silly video. It’s not like him at all. Did I imagine everything? His bitterness? His anger? To justify moving?

  The silence between us is not sharp any more. It is soft. It stretches like a blanket. I almost forget we fought.

  ‘Remember this?’ he asks, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. He’s holding up a ridiculous, oversized ceramic frog from a pile of decorative junk I’d forgotten I owned. Its painted smile is chipped, its googly eyes lopsided.

  We’d bought it at a roadside stall on a rare trip out for groceries in those first few months. It was what Megha would do, he had said. I had told him it would be my gift, that I would eventually pay him back for it, but as it was always the case with him, he didn’t ask and I didn’t offer. There are many little debts that I owe him.

  ‘Oh yes!’ I laugh, taking it from him. The ceramic is cool and heavy in my hands. ‘It’s even uglier than I remember.’

  ‘Can you imagine this was mass produced? Like hundreds of these are across houses? And they all bought it unironically?’ he says, a small, genuine smile touching his lips.

  It’s a real smile, one that reaches his eyes. The sight of it is so rare, it feels like a punch to the gut. We’re smiling? Sitting on the floor of what I had believed to be the wreckage of my departure, and we’re smiling? For a second, I want to stop time. I want the boxes to vanish. I want us to stay like this.

  Why am I leaving then? If smiling is possible in this house? If this is no longer the site of a grief group, why do I have to leave the house? The moment is so strange, so filled with a sad, tender nostalgia, that it makes my chest hurt. This is what it could have been. This is what we’re losing.

  Why couldn’t we live like this?

  He reaches into another box, this one filled with books, and pulls out a stack of thin paperbacks with titles like The Five Stages of Grief and Healing After Loss. The books we had picked out together. Ordered off Amazon. Ripped out of their packets but never read completely.

  ‘Remember this? Month two,’ he says.

  ‘Our “we can fix this with books” phase.’

  The nights we spent reading passages aloud to each other, searching for a road map, a set of instructions for how to survive. But we always gave up midway, complaining that no one knew pain as much as we did. That this is kids’ stuff. In the Olympics of grief, our team of him and me had all the golds.

  ‘We were so lost,’ he says.

  I look at him. His face is calm. Too calm. I wait for the mask to slip, but it doesn’t.

  ‘We thought a book could be a life jacket, keep us from drowning. How silly,’ he says quietly. ‘But take them.’

  Later, I pull a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle half-finished in its box from under the sofa. An impossible landscape of a blue sky. ‘And this?’

  ‘That,’ he says, ‘was month five. This will be the answer to our anxiety. Keeping ourselves . . . busy.’

  I remember the only hour we spent on this, heads bent over the table, not speaking, just searching for the right piece, the right fit, trying to make something whole again. We never finished it. The sky was too big, too empty. There were too many pieces missing. And then it remained on the table for a couple of more months. The maid was forbidden to touch it.

  We kept saying we would come back, fix it, and we never did.

  The unfinished puzzle lies heavy in my lap. It feels like a mirror.

  Later, I find him in the kitchen, with a cup of coffee. I have to ask the question I’m terrified to ask, but I have to.

  ‘I thought you’d be . . . I don’t know, angry,’ I say quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

  He doesn’t look at me, just continues to stir the coffee, his movements slow and deliberate.

  ‘I’m sad, Aditi. Of course I’m sad.’ He finally turns, his eyes meeting mine. ‘But I’m not unreasonable. You have to build a life. You can’t do it here. It’s fine.’

  The word ‘fine’ feels like a lie. But it is a kind lie, and I take it.

  ‘Raghav . . .’

  ‘I know I’ve been an asshole,’ he continues, cutting me off. ‘I know I’ve been . . . bitter. But that’s my problem, not yours. You shouldn’t feel guilty for this.’

  His maturity is a gut punch. It makes my decision to leave feel like a betrayal.

  ‘I feel like I’m leaving you.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Our old families were shackles. We chose each other . . . we can’t be the same, right? You have to go, you go. I will be okay.’

  I want to believe him. But his eyes tell another story.

  I nod. I don’t know what else to say.

  ‘My biggest event is tonight,’ I say finally, my voice a little shaky. ‘The collaboration with the gin brand. It’s a huge deal for Connect.’ I take a breath. ‘You should come.’

  He’s quiet for a long moment, just staring into his coffee mug. I expect him to refuse. Because he too understands what I haven’t said. I don’t want him to be there for me. I want him to be there for himself, to find someone. Does it feel like I’m palming off my responsibility to someone else? Maybe. But as Kunal says, we are too complex to be understood by just one person.

  ‘Okay,’ he says finally, looking up. ‘Yeah. I’ll be there.’

  I blink, not trusting my ears. I wait for him to take it back. He doesn’t.

  For a moment, I think I misheard him. But then, I see the small smile on his lips. And I feel a warmth in my heart I didn’t think I would ever feel.

  ‘I will wait,’ I say.

  And then, we get back to packing more of the boxes. But every now and then, I look up, dreading he would change his mind, but he says nothing and I keep praying he comes.

  When we’re done, I ask him again, ‘You’re going to come, right?’

  ‘If you don’t start getting ready right now,’ he answers, ‘you’re going to be late for your event.’

  And that’s what I do. As I get ready, I hear his shuffling in the other room. Maybe things can be right? And today’s the starting of it all? I can’t help but think that this is my doing. If I can do it, he can do it too, that sort of thing. I can’t help but smile at my own hubris and ego.