Chapter 5: Confrontations in the Rain

Dressed, I lay in the bathtub.

Wrapped in hot water, listening to the splashing, I finally felt like I was back in reality.

The water steamed around me, fogging up the mirror. The tap dripped rhythmically, matching my uneven heartbeat. I could smell the faint fragrance of Medimix soap mixing with the city’s rain.

I’d just received a package of Arjun’s belongings today.

Just an hour ago, I’d been at his samadhi.

But separated by a wall, his voice was so clear.

"Meera, what’s up with your fiancé, anyway?"

"I saw the messages you got. It’s not the first time, right?"

"And that guy’s face..."

The topic I’d been avoiding, he brought up again.

Yes.

Rohan’s secretary wasn’t the first to send me these kinds of photos.

But so what?

I didn’t care.

A part of me wanted to care, to rage or cry, but the anger felt old and tired—like an overplayed film song. Even the sting of betrayal was dulled, wrapped up in the routine of disappointment.

"Six years ago, my mom remarried—a builder from Lucknow."

"It’s a business marriage, you get it? You’re just a coincidence, don’t flatter yourself."

Arjun probably didn’t get it.

He fell silent.

Only the sound of footsteps, soft and shuffling, stretched from the living room to the bathroom.

Remembering his wall-walking trick earlier, I frowned and asked, "Arjun, you’re not trying to peep at me bathing, are you?"

No answer, only a tall figure reflected in the glass door.

Do ghosts have shadows?

I wondered, stood up, and changed into a bathrobe.

But the one I saw when I opened the door wasn’t Arjun.

It was Rohan—who, by all rights, should have been with his secretary at a hotel.

He was holding a photo he’d found among Arjun’s things, looking at me with a dark, unreadable gaze.

The air between us was thick with the smell of rain and the scent of aftershave. Rohan’s shoes squeaked on the wet tiles, the sound jarring in the hush. His eyes were narrow, his jaw tense. He looked me up and down as if measuring my worth, or perhaps his own anger.

"I was sick and you brought me medicine, I had a date and you brought me condoms in the rain, you’ve chased after me for six years, all because of this face?"

"Arjun? That’s the name you call every time you get drunk."

Rohan’s words made my heart skip a beat.

Instinctively, I looked at Arjun, who was floating out of the study.

But Rohan wasn’t done.

He raised an eyebrow and suddenly smiled, his tone casual.

"Where’s the person hiding? Come out and let me see?"

His smile was the kind that made you want to slap him and then run to the next room, just like those overconfident heroes in family soaps. Only here, the drama was real, the audience just ghosts and liars.