Chapter 6: WhatsApp Games

It turned out, no one in this world knew Ritika better than I did.

I remembered every quirk, every trick she used to get her way. I knew she would reach out, sooner or later.

The night after we bought the stroller, I got a friend request from her on WhatsApp.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw the notification. I debated whether to accept immediately or make her wait. Old habits die hard.

But now, I was no longer the naive person I used to be.

Life had toughened me. I was no longer the desperate boy she could toy with. I had my own life, my own secrets.

Even though I was thinking of getting back together with Ritika, I left her waiting all night.

I watched TV with Meera, ate dinner with her family, all the while glancing at my phone. I wanted Ritika to feel the same uncertainty she once made me feel.

Meera’s kindness taught me one thing—in love, whoever takes the initiative is the fool.

It was a cruel lesson, but one I had learned well. I played it cool, pretending not to care.

Sure enough, when I opened WhatsApp the next day, my theory was proven.

Twelve friend requests, each more desperate than the last. I couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction.

That night, Ritika sent twelve friend requests in total.

Each message was more dramatic than the last, as if she was auditioning for a role in a daily soap. I read them all, smiling to myself.

After reading those twelve notes, I couldn’t help but smile.

I put my phone down, feeling a sense of power I hadn’t felt in years. For once, I was the one calling the shots.

To avoid Meera’s suspicion, I left early, saying I was going out to collect rent without even having breakfast.

I mumbled about urgent tenants, grabbed my keys, and slipped out before anyone could ask questions.

After driving out of the colony, I found a café, ordered pastries and coffee, and slowly accepted Ritika’s friend request.

The café was crowded, the hum of conversation a comforting background. I took my time, savouring the moment.

After accepting, I still didn’t say anything—just sipped my coffee and waited for her message.

I checked my phone every few minutes, pretending to be disinterested. The suspense was delicious.

But the result caught me off guard.

The minutes dragged. My confidence began to waver. Had I overplayed my hand?

I waited for over an hour, but Ritika didn’t send any new messages.

I began to fidget, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram, waiting for the notification that never came. My battery ticked down to 13%, adding to my anxiety.

She couldn’t have not checked her phone for so long, could she?

She was always glued to her phone. I remembered her scolding me for not replying quickly enough. This silence was unusual.

Gradually, two guesses formed in my mind.

Either she was playing mind games, or she was genuinely angry. Both possibilities made me uneasy.

Eventually, as it got to 1 p.m., the second guess won out.

I decided she was angry, and that I needed to fix things before it was too late.

Ritika was probably really angry.

I felt a familiar sense of dread, the same feeling I used to get before our fights.

Ritika was different from Meera. Though both had bad tempers, Meera’s came and went quickly—she’d even apologise without much coaxing. Ritika, on the other hand, could hold a grudge for weeks.

The most memorable time was when I was two days late giving her a gift for Women’s Day because my parents hadn’t sent enough money. She ignored me for over a month.

Thinking of this, I couldn’t stay calm anymore.

I started typing furiously, desperate to break the silence.

I hurriedly sent Ritika a message.

["Ritika, sorry, I went to bed too early last night and didn’t see your friend request, so I only accepted it this morning."]

I hit send, hands trembling. I stared at the screen, waiting for the typing indicator to appear.

But after sending this, it was like a stone sinking into the sea.

Nothing. No reply, no blue ticks. The minutes felt like hours.

Even by 4 p.m., Ritika hadn’t replied.

I felt a knot in my stomach, a sinking feeling I hadn’t felt in years.

At that moment, still sitting in the café, I wished I could slap myself.

I cursed myself for playing games, for not replying immediately. Pride had cost me everything before—would it happen again?

God had given me a chance to make up for my regrets, and I messed it up?

I felt helpless, angry at myself and at her. Why did she always have to make things so complicated?

Thinking this, I didn’t care about pride or face anymore.

I would have gotten on my knees in that café if it meant getting her back. I was desperate, willing to do anything.

I typed out an apology to Ritika.

["Ritika, are you angry? I’m sorry, I really did fall asleep last night."]

["How could I ignore you? All these years, I still dream about you."]

["Not being able to marry you is my biggest regret in life. How could I ignore you?"]

I poured my heart out, hoping it would melt her anger. I watched the screen, praying for a response.

After sending these, I was sure Ritika had seen them.

The blue ticks appeared, and for a moment, my heart soared.

Because her chat box showed "typing..."

I held my breath, fingers poised to reply instantly.

I waited eagerly for her reply.

My mind raced with possibilities—maybe she would forgive me, maybe we could start over.

But her eventual reply left me speechless again.

["Even if you really fell asleep last night, after you accepted my friend request this morning, why didn’t you say a word? Why did you wait until nearly 1 p.m. to say anything?"]

["Arjun, you’ve grown, huh? Want to play mind games with me?"]

["You’re overthinking it. I won’t play these boring games with you."]

["I added you only because, after all, we were once in a relationship. Since we met again yesterday, it didn’t seem right to keep you on my blocklist. That’s all."]

["Since you’re like this, you might as well stay on my blocklist. Goodbye."]

Her words were like knives, each one cutting deeper than the last. I felt exposed, vulnerable, foolish.

After reading her message, I tried to send her another one.

I typed apology after apology, but the messages wouldn’t go through. I realised she had blocked me again.

But I really was blocked again.

The finality hit me like a punch. I stared at the screen, unable to believe what had happened.

Instantly, a cold sweat broke out on my back.

My shirt clung to me, the air in the café suddenly stifling. I wanted to scream, to throw my phone against the wall.

I sat there in a daze for over ten seconds.

People came and went, oblivious to my pain. I closed my eyes, wondering how I had ended up here again, trapped in the same cycle of longing and regret.

Just then, my phone pinged—a WhatsApp from Meera: 'Lunch khaya?' The simple message cut through my daze, and I stared at the screen, torn between the past and the present, wondering what I’d do next.