Chapter 3: Waiting and Memories

This was the first time I hung up first since discovering Arjun’s affair.

Before, I was the one who bombarded him with calls and messages. I used the harshest words to curse him, and also pleaded with the saddest voice.

My best friend, Nisha, would sometimes snatch my phone away, saying, “Tu pagal ho gayi hai kya? Have some self-respect, yaar!” But heartbreak has its own logic – irrational and all-consuming.

But every time, Arjun would say impatiently,

"Are you mad or what? Talk to me when you’ve calmed down."

The words stung more than any slap. I could hear the disgust, the boredom, the exhaustion in his voice.

Then he’d hang up without mercy. No matter how many times I called or messaged, he ignored me.

Sometimes, my calls would go through to voicemail, his WhatsApp status would be blank. The silence was louder than any argument.

I wanted to control myself, but when I thought about our years together ending like this, I just couldn’t.

Some nights, I’d curl up on the bed hugging a pillow, trying to stifle my sobs so my mother wouldn’t hear. Even the walls seemed to ache with memories.

I wanted to question Arjun: why did you betray me?

The question haunted me at every mealtime, every empty Sunday, every time a friend asked, “How are you managing, Meera?”

I wanted to beg him: please come back, I’ll forgive you.

There were moments I typed out long, pleading messages, only to delete them at the last second. Dignity and desperation waged their private war inside me.

But after all the resentment and waiting, Arjun never changed.

No phone call, no apology, not even a text on my birthday. In the end, the silence itself became the answer.

And I gradually became anxious and insecure, just as he said—like a madwoman.

I would check his Instagram stories every hour, scan Priya’s profile for clues, replaying our old photos together, trying to find where it all went wrong.

I muddled through a long, tormenting period like this, stuck in this painful relationship.

Days blurred into nights, food lost its taste, and even the comfort of chai with Marie biscuits felt pointless. My mother would watch me from the kitchen, eyes full of worry.

Until three days ago.

I came across a street interview by a blogger called "Time Capsule."

His question was: "What would you like to say to yourself from five years ago?"

Someone said to study hard. Someone said they wished they’d spent more time with family. Someone said their future self was excellent and hadn’t let themselves down.

The answers came with all sorts of accents and backgrounds – a young boy in a school uniform, a tired office-goer with paunch, an old aunty in a faded cotton saree. Their words echoed simple truths you’d overhear at a chai tapri.

…

Among all these answers, I saw Arjun and his little girlfriend, Priya.

There they were, in high definition – Arjun’s easy smile, Priya’s giggle – framed by the yellow taxis crawling past in the background. It felt like the universe itself was mocking me.

That’s when I knew this wasn’t staged. With Arjun’s current status, even top journalists would need to book an appointment to see him. But this blogger really seemed to just pull people off the street—and happened to interview Arjun.

Only in Mumbai could fate pull off such a coincidence. The city has a way of making even the impossible look casual.

At first, Arjun looked annoyed by the interview. It was Priya beside him, her face full of surprise and curiosity.

"This is so interesting, Arjun, let’s do it!"

She shook his arm, acting cute. Arjun looked helpless, but indulged her.

Priya’s voice was that mix of mischief and confidence – the kind that always got her her way. Arjun’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile, the kind I once found irresistible.

The blogger introduced himself and asked the standard question.

Priya hesitated, thinking hard. Seeing her struggling, Arjun answered for her.

It was the same question I’d heard a dozen times before, but the answer this time felt like a slap.

"If possible, I wish the Arjun from five years ago could have met Priya first."

As he said this, he pulled her close. His voice was cool, but it wasn’t hard to hear the affection for the girl.

It was a voice I once believed belonged to me alone.

Priya looked at him in surprise, then covered her mouth shyly and echoed,

"Me too."

Her reply was barely above a whisper, but the happiness in her eyes was loud enough for the whole world to see.

When I saw this video, it already had tens of thousands of likes.

The view counter ticked upward every second, while my phone vibrated with notifications – friends tagging each other, strangers dropping hearts.

There were countless comments below:

[Wow, this couple is so attractive. I’m shipping them!]

[Oh my, pure love! There’s hope for us all!]

[So sweet. You two must be happy. Wishing you forever.]

Some even wrote in Hindi: [Rab rakha, you both are made for each other.] For a moment, I wondered if any of them would recognise me if they saw me on the street.

I stared blankly at the video.

My chai had gone cold, but I barely noticed. It felt like watching a movie where you know the ending, but still can’t look away.

Did Arjun really like Priya this much?

It was a question that settled like dust on every memory we shared, making me question if any of it had ever been real.

Did he forget?

Five years ago, we had just gotten married. That was when our love was at its best. Even though we were broke, we were incredibly happy.

There were evenings spent eating vada pav at Juhu Beach, long walks under the rain, him promising, "Someday, Meera, I’ll buy you the whole world." We laughed, planned, built dreams out of nothing. We’d share a cutting chai at the tapri downstairs, arguing about who got the last Parle-G.

And now, in the video, he says he wishes his self from five years ago could have met Priya first.

I thought I’d be furious, unable to control myself—grabbing my phone to call and question him, and if I couldn’t get through, smashing things in the flat to vent.

Once upon a time, I’d have thrown a glass or slammed a door, the sharp sound echoing my heartbreak. But today…

But to my surprise, this time I just sat there, motionless.

My limbs felt heavy, my mind strangely empty. The afternoon sunlight crept across the tiles, dust motes floating in its glow.

Those comments that should have stung just scrolled by like lines of code.

Each heart emoji, each congratulations, slid past my eyes without leaving a mark. The world was moving on, and for the first time, I was letting it.

It was as if something was slowly being pulled out of me, dissolving.

The anger, the pain, the longing – all of it evaporated in that quiet moment, leaving behind a fragile peace.

To my own surprise, I realized—I felt nothing about Arjun’s behaviour.

No rage, no bitterness, no urge to call and scream. Just a calmness, as if my heart had finally unclenched its fists.

Obsession can happen in a moment, and so can letting go.

I remembered what my dadi used to say, “Dil ka dard bhi ek din thak jata hai, beta.” Turns out, she was right.

That’s why I made that call earlier.

I knew it was over, truly over.