I pause in front of the mirror, lipstick in hand. My heart is restless. My hands shake. Why do I feel like I’m waiting for an exam result?

  When I’m at the event, that’s all I can think of. Will he come? The air is thick with the smell of craft beer, expensive perfume, and the nervousness of a hundred people trying to find love, but all I can think about is him.

  Then I dive into the work, managing the check-in desk, coordinating with the bar staff, making sure the playlist is just right, and yet nothing can keep me from stealing glances at the door. Every few minutes it would open and close and it would not be him. I think of dropping him a text, but I don’t want to push my luck here.

  And then, it happens.

  Raghav arrives an hour later.

  He’s wearing a blue polo T-shirt, straight-fit jeans, and he looks clean. Easily the handsomest boy in the room. But he looks terrified, and I don’t blame him. I have been through this and it wrecks you. To reach out for love, when all you had was drained out from you. It takes a toll.

  The crowd doesn’t notice him. But to me, it feels like the whole room tilts in his direction.

  I watch him from across the room, my heart a nervous drum against my ribs. I start saying a small prayer, hoping he doesn’t turn away and bolt.

  I walk over to him, weaving through the laughing, talking crowd. ‘Hey. You came.’

  ‘I said I would,’ he says, his eyes darting around the room.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I say, and I mean it.

  Then, I take a deep breath. This is it. The real test. The thing I have been meaning to tell him, the thing I should tell him, that I should have the courage to tell him. ‘But if you’re really here, Raghav . . . if you’re really trying . . .’

  The words choke me. My tongue feels heavy. I almost stop.

  I can’t bring myself to say it. Should I spoil everything the day it’s gotten better? But what would anything mean if I don’t say this? Friends should be able to say the tough things. Things that no one else would say.

  ‘I know what’s coming,’ he says, his voice quivering.

  ‘. . . there’s one more thing you have to do . . . you need to delete it.’

  He freezes for a bit. His eyes move towards the phone in his hand.

  I say. ‘Right now. In front of me.’

  The music keeps playing. People laugh around us. But to me, everything goes quiet. Only his silence matters.

  I see a flicker of panic in his eyes, a cornered, desperate look. He shakes his head slightly. ‘Aditi . . . but . . .’

  ‘Yes, here,’ I insist, my voice firm. ‘It’s not fair to you. It’s not fair to her. She deserves to rest. And so do you.’

  He keeps staring at me for a bit. I tell myself not to waver. This is the time. He has to do it today.

  Then, he looks away.

  He lifts up his phone, his hand trembling slightly.

  He unlocks it, his thumb hovering over the app icon. I can see the war happening on his face—the desperate need to cling to his last remaining comfort, and the terrifying possibility of letting it go. The moment stretches on to what seems like an eternity.

  I want to grab the phone for him. But I force myself to be still. This has to be his choice.

  Finally, he presses down on the icon. The small ‘x’ appears. He hits it. A confirmation box pops up. Are you sure you want to delete this app?

  He closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, and taps ‘Delete.’

  The app vanishes.

  He looks up at me, his face pale, his eyes looking lost. ‘It’s done,’ he whispers.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Now join them . . .’

  For the next hour, I watch him. He makes a genuine, painful effort to engage. He stumbles at first. His hands twitch. His eyes search for the exits. But he stays.

  I see the old him emerge—of whatever little I knew of him. He talks to a few people, his conversations awkward at first, then surprisingly . . . not. He’s witty, he has always been. He’s smart too, and he’s almost too good-looking for an offline mixer to be his last resort to find someone.

  I feel a huge wave of relief and hope wash over me as a couple of girls start fawning over him. As Raghav used to say, hope is the most dangerous drug of all for someone who has learnt to live without it, but I’m clinging on to it now. Maybe he can do this. Maybe we can do this.

  I’m talking to Kunal later, buzzing with the success of the event and the fragile hope for my friend. ‘I think he’s really trying,’ I say. ‘I’m so happy.’

  Kunal smiles. ‘I’m happy for him. And for us. We can do with some guys like him in our mixers. But . . . where is he?’

  I look around. The spot where he was standing is empty. I scan the crowd, my heart starting to beat a little faster. He’s not by the bar. He’s not talking to anyone. He’s gone.

  My stomach drops. The hope I was holding slips away like sand.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ I say to Kunal, the panic already starting to rise in my throat.

  ‘Aditi,’ Kunal says quietly, his hand on my arm. ‘See?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t be his keeper.’

  I frown. ‘This is hardly the time for a lesson, Kunal.’

  I pull my arm away and rush through the crowd, my earlier triumph forgotten. I push my way outside, into the cool night air. The parking lot is dark and mostly empty. The distant sound of traffic on the main road is a low, constant hum. I run around trying to find him. He can’t have gone too far.

  And then I see him.

  He’s hunched over on a concrete bench at the far end of the lot, under the weak glow of a streetlamp. His shoulders are shaking. He’s crying. Not with loud, theatrical sobs, but with a silent, body-racking grief that is a thousand times more painful to witness.

  The sight freezes me. I don’t know whether to run to him or back away.

  I walk over slowly.

  ‘Raghav?’

  He looks up, his face a mess of tears, his eyes red and raw. He wipes them away when he sees me.

  ‘It’s so empty . . . to do this.’

  I sit next to him, our knees touching.

  ‘It is,’ I say. ‘I know it is.’

  We sit there for a long time, in the dark. The distant sound of the party seems a world away. After a while, he composes himself, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He looks at me, his eyes red but clear.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, taking a deep breath. ‘Okay.’ He manages a small, watery smile. ‘I just . . . I need to try harder.’

  ‘One step at a time,’ I say.

  He nods. ‘Call me for the next event too.’

  I smile at him.

  ‘You should go back,’ he says. ‘I will call a cab for myself.’

  I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m coming home with you.’

  ‘Are you—’

  ‘Sure?’ I ask. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  Back in the living room, the smell of cardboard hangs in the air. The boxes stare back at us. We don’t talk. We just wordlessly resume our task. He hands me the last of my books. I place them in the final box. He folds the flaps down, one over the other. I pull a long strip of tape from the dispenser, that screeching sound again: it echoes in the quiet room. I press it down firmly, sealing the box shut. Sealing this chapter of my life shut.

  The sound rings in my ears. Louder than it should. Final.

  We both stand up. The room is bare now, stripped of my presence, it’s just his apartment again, like it was that day, two years ago.

  ‘Well,’ I say, my voice thick. ‘That’s it.’

  He just nods, his throat working.

  ‘I don’t think this is it, is it?’

  He looks at me, his eyes filled with a universe of unspoken things. Sadness? Gratitude? A terrifying, bottomless fear? Because I feel all of those things?

  And then he steps forward and pulls me into a hug. It’s not romantic. It’s not even really a hug between friends. It’s the desperate embrace of two survivors. His arms are tight around me, and I can feel his shoulders shaking slightly. I wrap my own arms around him, burying my face in his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself cry.

  We stand there, in the middle of the empty room, holding on to each other like we’re the only two people left in the world.

  And in a way, we were for the longest time.

  37

  Raghav

  I can’t believe that I’m saying it, but it feels good. To have these people around, words and jokes and anecdotes flying about.

  ‘No, seriously, this boy has a separate protein shaker just for his post-workout post-workout shake,’ Tejal is saying, her voice ringing with laughter. ‘But it’s the same thing!’

  Sumrit, sitting on the floor and shovelling biryani into his mouth, points a spoon at her defensively. ‘It’s about the mindset. You wouldn’t understand. It’s science. You can fool your mind into believing anything.’

  ‘It’s insanity,’ Kunal says with a slow smile. ‘But whatever works, man.’

  ‘Actually, I agree with Sumrit,’ says Shilpi. ‘I read it too!’

  ‘Sure, Shilpi. Sure,’ says Aditi, shaking her head with a smile.

  I’m laughing too. Like I have been laughing all evening. Every now and then, of course. This is not a very funny group, I have realized that now. Not every group needs to be funny. The objective of why these people came together was something else, and that aim has been more or less achieved by now.

  And for a moment, I let myself feel safe. I let myself feel like this is life again. But what if it’s a lie? The moment I stop laughing, the silence returns. The silence always returns. Will it return?

  But every now and then, my eyes keep drifting to the boxes. And every now and then, my laugh dies a little.

  They are stacked against the wall like a barricade. A monument marking her departure. Her life, kind of our life, sealed away with packing tape. Books. Clothes. Charging cables.

  The boxes look bigger now. Heavier. They are not just lifeless cardboard boxes. They are screaming and mocking at me from across the room.

  The sight of my handwriting is a physical blow every time I look at it. I signed on this. I’m letting her go. But she was going anyway. This wasn’t in my hands. This was written. I have to keep reminding myself of this. This was a long time coming.

  But my chest still fights it. My lungs fight it. My throat closes each time I remember. My heart asks, what if she stays? Will she change her mind? Maybe one small miracle. But why am I even leaning towards it? And then my eyes go back to the boxes, and the miracle dies. Then the miracle starts again. Then it dies again. Again. And again. Like waves. It’s happening. I have to accept it.

  I watch her as she moves through the room, the undeniable centre of its gravity. She’s laughing at something Sumrit said, her face bright and animated, a lock of hair falling across her face.

  She glows. She does not even know she glows. She glows when she eats, when she laughs, when she pushes her hair back. And I sit here, watching her glow, and I burn. I burn because soon that glow will leave this room. Soon this room will be dark. Why am I thinking like this? I can’t. I have to move on. Everyone else clearly has.

  She shares a quiet, intimate look with Kunal, a silent conversation that passes between them in a single, shared smile. And in that moment, I feel smaller. I feel ignored. The fucking irrationality of this feeling angers me. I try my best to push it out of my head.

  But I can’t. I can’t. His smile is like a knife. Her smile back is like a knife. Every time they look at each other, I bleed. I bleed but no one sees. This is the last day I will see them. Isn’t it obvious that the next time we meet it will be at her place? But who cares? It’s fine. I had expected this. What else could have happened here? Nothing. This is where the story ends.

  The conversation eventually, inevitably, turns to them. Like it had to. At the end, it’s about them. It always has been.

  To Aman and Megha.

  It starts with Tejal.

  ‘You know,’ she says, her voice a little thick with emotion, looking at the boxes. ‘I never met the two of them. And it’s my shitty luck but I think they would be proud of today. Seeing the two of you happy. And Aman?’ She points at Aditi. ‘He would have been so ridiculously proud of you, Adi.’

  ‘And Megha would be of you,’ says Shilpi softly.

  For a moment there, I get a glimpse of Megha, laughing, in this house, the house that was supposed to be hers, ours, the house that was earmarked for creating memories, not erasing them . . . and yet that’s what we sought to do here.

  Forget them.

  For a moment, I see him too . . . Aman . . . of what could have been . . . the double dates.

  And I want to tell them to stop taking their names. Stop pulling them back. Everyone else seems to find a strange comfort in talking about them, but for me there’s no comfort. All I hear is them talking about their deaths. For them, their names are warm. For me, their names are fire. For them, their names are smiles. For me, their names are knives. For them, their names are stories. For me, their names are graves.

  I yank myself out of the thought.

  The reality is fucked up too.

  They left, and Aditi? She’s leaving too.

  ‘They must be looking down and feeling so proud of you guys, bro,’ says Sumrit.

  I nod, my throat tight. I can’t speak. The panic is starting to rise. I tell myself so what, so fucking what. I will deal with this. I will deal with my grief alone. Who cares? And yet, the panic climbs. It climbs up my throat. It climbs up my eyes. It climbs up my skin. I can feel sweat even though the AC is on. I can feel my heart beating too fast, too wild, like it will break out of my chest.

  This is it. This is the last time we’ll all be in a room together, talking about them like they’re still a part of our lives. Once she’s gone, the stories will stop. The memories will fade. I’ll be the only one left to carry them, and the weight is going to crush me.

  Of course they will say that they will still come, but will they come? No, they won’t. And after a while, I won’t expect them to come.

  That’s how friendship dies. Not in a fight. Not in a bang. But in a slow silence. In a slow forgetting. In a slow stopping of visits. And I know. I know this is the last night. I know it. But then, do I even want this? Everyone forgets everyone. Eventually.

  The party continues, but the energy has shifted. The easy laughter is replaced by a more subdued, nostalgic tone. But as the night winds down, everyone gets a bit tired. They want to leave, and who am I to stop them?

  Tejal and Sumrit give me long, meaningful looks as they go.

  You will be okay, their eyes say. But they don’t know. They will never know. They will go home and sleep. I will sit here and count the cracks in the wall till morning.

  Kunal shakes my hand, his grip firm, his expression unreadable. ‘Take care of yourself, man,’ he says.

  I know his tone. He’s telling me that it’s finally time to get my shit together. I shake his hand with the same intensity.

  And then they’re gone.

  It’s just us. Aditi and I.

  Alone in the room with the boxes and the ghosts.

  The silence is not silence any more. It is a body. It is breathing with us. It is heavy on my shoulders. It sits between us on the sofa. It crawls into my ears.

  I can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic on the main road. I watch her as she starts to gather the empty glasses, her movements small and slow.

  I know this is the last time I will watch her do something as simple as picking up a glass in this house. Tomorrow she will pick up glasses somewhere else. In someone else’s house. Not mine. Not ours.

  ‘Don’t go,’ I say, the words so quiet they’re barely a whisper.

  She stops, her back to me. ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘Don’t go,’ I repeat, my voice breaking.

  The words are too small. The words are nothing. But they are all I have. So I throw them out, again and again, hoping they will grow. Hoping they will be enough.

  I cross the room in three long strides, and then I’m standing in front of her.

  ‘I can’t . . . I can’t do it.’

  ‘Do what?’ she asks, the useless question that she knows is useless because she has tears in her eyes too.

  The tears stream down my face. I haven’t cried like this since the day it happened.

  ‘I’m so jealous of him,’ the words bubble out, and I gesture to the door Kunal just walked out of. ‘Of Kunal. I hate him because he gets to have this.’

  I laugh, but it is a broken laugh. It sounds like choking. It sounds like drowning. Because even I know how stupid it is. But knowing it is stupid does not kill the pain. The pain stays.

  ‘What do you mean, Raghav?’ she whispers.

  ‘The easy laughter. The future. Your future. I got the broken you and now that you’re healed, he gets to have you while I’m here . . . alone . . . and it’s fucking scary, Aditi. I can’t live like this, here. Alone, with all the memories.’

  I gesture wildly at the empty room, at the ghosts and the memories that haunt it.

  ‘I deleted her,’ I whisper. The pain tears through me. ‘I deleted her, and there’s nothing left. Just this . . . this giant, empty space. And if you go, I . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.’

  The silence after this is like thunder. It crashes on me. It crushes me. My knees shake. My lips shake. I want to take the words back. But I can’t. They are out. They are in the room now. They are alive now. Unlike the others, my words will always be alive.

  I take a breath, my eyes locking on to hers. And then I say the words that shatter the last of my defences.

  ‘I’m in love with you,’ I say. ‘I know it’s insane. I know it’s fucked up. But it’s the truth. I’m in love with you. Please. Please don’t go.’

  The words are knives leaving my mouth. I can feel the cuts as they pass my throat. I can feel the blood in my chest. But I still say them. Because I have nothing else.