Chapter 1: Cracks in the Wall

Rohan and I shared a rented 2BHK in Pune—a third-floor flat with faded blue paint, tucked behind a kirana shop and a paan stall always bustling with morning customers. Each morning, the clang of the milkman’s cans and the sharp scent of agarbatti from our neighbour’s window drifted in, mixing with the distant honking on the main road. Our building was old—peeling paint, a lift that groaned with every use—but inside our cramped flat, we had woven together a messy, warm little world.

Lately, Rohan left before the sun was up and came home long after midnight, so distant that even the sound of his keys felt like a memory. The ceiling fan’s whirring kept me company into the small hours as I waited, eyes on the chipped door, hoping he’d return with the same smile he once had for me. Some nights, I’d doze off to the background noise of a TV serial, only to half-wake as Rohan slipped silently into bed. The space between us widened, silent as a crack in plaster, until one day it would all come crumbling down.

In a fit of anger, I slapped him.

My palm burned, the smack echoing so loudly in our tiny hall that it drowned out even the pressure cooker’s whistle next door. For a second, neither of us moved. Rohan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes wide in disbelief, his hand flying instinctively to his cheek. The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint hiss from the kitchen next door.

In my mind, a flurry of WhatsApp-style comments scrolled past:

[Arre, abhi propose karne wala tha, yeh kya kar diya!]

[If only she had thoda patience, fortune toh uska hi tha!]

[Bas, ab toh alag ho jayenge...]

Those voices sounded just like my old college friends, gossiping over chai or the society aunties with their sharp, knowing glances. I closed my eyes, then, almost on instinct, struck him again with the back of my hand.

This time, the slap surprised even me. My fingers tingled, heart pounding like a tabla at Ganpati visarjan, all my bottled-up anger finally spilling out. Rohan’s eyes widened, but he didn’t shout—he just looked at me like I was a stranger in our own home.

"Bol na, kya hai pocket mein?" My voice trembled, anger mixed with something like desperation.

1.

Rohan met my gaze, lips pressed tight, standing rigid as if waiting for another blow. The two red marks on his fair skin looked almost like sindoor smeared across a white canvas. Guilt twisted inside me. In five years, I’d never raised my hand at him. Still, the ache in my palm made me flex my fingers, rubbing them together as if that could erase what had just happened. I repeated softly, "What are you hiding? Just tell me, Rohan."

The imaginary DMs kept popping up:

[LOL, abhi bhi propose karega kya?]

[No tension, asli heroine sambhal legi ab usko.]

[Drama hi drama, supporting character ko toh yahi karna hota hai.]

The world’s judgments, swirling around me like static from a broken radio, stung more than the slap itself.

So I was the trouble-making supporting character now, was I?

Suddenly, I could see myself from above—just another overdramatic girl on TV, making a scene for all the wrong reasons. Was this really us now?

Rohan and I stood frozen, neither willing to move first.

Today, for sure, he wasn’t going to pull out any ring.

The old phone on our table began to ring—Rohan’s, blaring out that retro Bollywood song I always teased him about. But tonight, the melody felt like a funeral march for our love. I sighed, the fight leaving my body.

"Just go answer your call," I whispered, unable to meet his eyes. I turned and shuffled toward the bedroom, the slap of my slippers echoing too loudly on the tiles. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the name on the screen: Neha Sharma.

Of course—couldn’t be a guy, right?

A bitter taste filled my mouth. Was this the heroine the comments were talking about?

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt.

I stared at the cup of chai on the table, the dregs already turning cold, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Five years together, three years as a couple. We’d both come from middle-class families, fighting for a future in Pune after graduation.

We started out in crowded cafes, sharing vada pav in college canteens, promising one day to build a life together. To save money, we moved in—just us, in this tiny flat.

Every little thing in here was picked out after heated arguments and small victories: bargaining with the raddiwala for a bookshelf, fighting over whether to hang a Shah Rukh Khan or a Ranveer Singh poster, collecting mismatched mugs from sales. Our home was a patchwork of memories, right down to the stray cat we adopted.

Simba, our fluffy orange cat, would curl up by my feet every night, sometimes pawing at the door as if waiting for Rohan too. When I’d cry, Simba would nuzzle against my face, his little paws soft on my cheek, as if telling me to hang in there.

I looked around our messy flat, clutching at the memories, unwilling to let go.

Maybe soon, every corner of this place would become just another chapter in my story.

The fairy lights we’d strung on the balcony, the old Bollywood posters Rohan insisted on keeping, even the oil stains from my disastrous tadka on the kitchen wall—they all felt unbearably precious now. I lay on our bed, tears streaming as Simba climbed up and gently pawed at my cheek, confused by my sobs.

Not long after, the door thudded shut—Rohan leaving, maybe for good.

The sound was final, like the closing of a book. I buried my face in the pillow, clutching the bedsheet as my chest ached—sharp and stinging, like biting into a green chilli by mistake. My first love was ending right here.

Wuwuwu...

The only sounds left were my cries, Simba’s gentle mews, and, from the neighbour’s flat, the faint laughter of a family enjoying their evening, making me feel even more alone. The clock ticked on, uncaring, as the city outside carried on, indifferent to the storm raging in my heart.