Chapter 7: Returning the Past

6.

I arranged a courier. An hour later, the courier uncle sent me a video.

In it, Rohan stood at the centre, his friends crowding around:

"I told you, how could we really break up? See, she’s sending gifts to make up."

Though he tried to sound cool, his voice was tinged with bitterness.

"Rohan, you really found a good girlfriend—treating you like a king. What does she see in you?"

"Exactly. If it’s about money, which of us isn’t rich? If it’s about looks, Kabir is way more handsome than you—always wins college heartthrob by a landslide."

Rohan tried to keep his cool, but the corners of his mouth twitched up. He coughed, pretending not to care:

"Actually, no need for gifts. If she just apologised, I’d be fine. I’m not that petty."

Someone joked: "Then give the gift to me, I’ll pay you."

Rohan snapped: "No, my girlfriend gave it to me. No one else gets it."

He shot a look at Kabir:

"So what if you’re handsome? Love isn’t just about looks."

He tried to save face:

"Actually, I don’t even want to forgive Sneha. She was really too much this time."

"But, seeing her looking so eager, I’ll forgive her one last time."

"Oh, tonight’s bill is on me, as compensation for wasting everyone’s time."

Everyone rolled their eyes at his fake generosity, but turned away.

Only Kabir looked at the box, surprisingly calm. He said:

"Pay the cash on delivery fee first. The courier has another delivery—don’t hold him up."

Sure enough, the courier uncle was waiting, looking impatient but polite. Rohan paid, then handed over an extra thousand-rupee note as a tip. The courier uncle grinned, saying, "Madam se toh aajkal sab kuch milta hai, sir. Bas pyaar nahi milta." His words cut through the group, making everyone snicker.

After paying, Rohan opened the box eagerly:

"I bet it’s a tie. Sneha worked three months of overtime to buy my Valentine’s gift."

"I told her a regular one was fine, but she wouldn’t compromise. Sometimes, I really don’t know what to do with her."

He started pulling out items—watch, cufflinks, familiar trinkets. At the bottom was a box with a rose inside.

When we were in love, Rohan had once given me a bouquet of roses. I’d half-joked:

"I don’t want roses. Flowers wither, and I don’t want our love to fade."

Rohan had laughed proudly:

"Then I’ll give you a rose that never withers."

He’d bought a rare mineral, polished it himself, inlaid it with crystals and diamonds—an everlasting rose.

So I always thought Rohan loved me.

But I was naive. I didn’t know that Rohan’s pride, suspicion, stubbornness, and harsh words all came before love.

The rose will never wither. But the person holding it can let go first.

Now, freedom, respect, and trust matter more to me than my love for Rohan.

I tucked my hair behind my ear, eyes drifting to the blinking city lights beyond my window. For the first time in years, I felt the air on my skin and realised it was my own—no one else’s. My phone pinged again—another Status like, another message. But I let them pile up. I closed my eyes and breathed in the quiet, knowing that this time, my heart was finally, truly mine.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t reach for my phone. I reached for myself.