Chapter 5: The Corridor of Goodbyes

The wedding bustle faded, replaced by the ache in my stomach—like someone had sprinkled mirchi powder on an open wound. I doubled over, the world spinning, breath ragged.

I scrolled through my phone, trembling, and dialed Rohan’s number. The automated message—"The number you are trying to call is currently unavailable"—felt like a slap.

Hatred flashed through me. How could he do this? In India, we say, “Apne hi kaam aate hain.” But what do you do when even your own turn away?

I stumbled towards the elevator, the corridor’s musty carpet muffling my steps, tube light flickering above. Somewhere, a lift dinged, and I remembered a Diwali night spent in a hotel like this—Rohan had surprised me with a room full of fairy lights and motichoor laddoos. Now, the memory was ruined by betrayal.

I pressed my palms together, Amma’s habit, swallowing the lump in my throat. Eight years together—how did we end up here? Was I never enough?

My mind replayed every fight, every happy moment. Was it my fault? The doubt was suffocating.

I pushed open my hotel room door. The room was silent, only my laboured breathing filling the space. I dropped my purse, too exhausted to care.

Then I saw them—two pairs of shoes by the door: one pair of heels, one of men’s loafers. The implication hit me before I could think.

Noises from the suite—moans, laughter, voices I knew too well—stabbed straight into my heart. I checked my room card again and again, praying it was a mistake.

“Bhaiya, be gentle,” Sneha’s voice, soft and triumphant. “Don’t talk,” Rohan replied, his voice low, urgent.

My knees went weak. I gripped the doorframe, knuckles white, the room spinning. My blood ran cold, as if I’d been doused in ice water.

Tears threatened, but I refused to cry—not for him. My ears buzzed. My mind went blank. I felt like a ghost, watching my own life collapse.

“Bhaiya, what are you afraid of? I’ve locked the door—no one will hear.” Sneha’s laughter rang, victorious. Every word was salt in a wound that would never heal.

I stood outside, gripping my card, eight years of love crumbling to ashes. I remembered every festival, every time he’d sworn, “Anu, main kabhi nahi jaaunga.” All gone. Everything seemed like a cruel joke now.

I almost laughed at the irony, but instead, tears streamed down my face. Outside that door, I left behind the girl who believed in forever.