Chapter 2: The Goodbye That Hurts

2.

I don’t remember how long I cried before sleep finally claimed me.

When I woke, my eyes were swollen and gritty, my head heavy from all the tears. Rohan was sitting at the edge of the bed, watching me with a half-smile—equal parts tired and amused.

"You slap me, and you’re the one crying?" he teased, raising an eyebrow, but there was no anger left in his voice. It was almost as if he’d already found his peace, or maybe someone else had comforted him. The distance between us felt wider than ever. I turned away, clutching my pillow, wishing I could disappear under the covers.

When he reached for me, I slapped his hand away, voice sharp as a blade. "Don’t touch me with your dirty hands."

Rohan’s face darkened. He pointed at himself, frustrated. "I’m dirty? Priya, I shouldn’t have bothered buying you medicine."

His voice shook, and for a second I saw the old Rohan—the one who’d run out in the rain for Vicks or Maggi when I was sick. Medicine? I looked at my palm, and sure enough, there was a smear of yellow ointment.

I sniffed, the familiar scent of Boroline mixing with my tears. The smell brought back flashes of scraped knees and Amma’s gentle hands dabbing ointment on my childhood bruises. But what did it matter now? This felt like the last gasp of our relationship.

Since he wouldn’t say it, I took the plunge. "Rohan, let’s break up."

The words tumbled out, freeing and painful, like opening the window after days of monsoon humidity.

[Didn’t expect her to say it first!]

[Ab dekhna, jab banda successful ho jayega, sabse pehle yeh hi laut ke aayegi.]

[Bas karo, breakup kar hi lo.]

Those imagined WhatsApp forwards and snide DMs echoed in my mind. Rohan looked stunned, his voice barely a whisper. "What did you say?"

"I said, let’s break up. I’m tired."

He stared at me, face unreadable, fists clenched. "I want to know why."

Ashamed, I turned away. "Because I don’t want to wait for you every night till one or two, sometimes not seeing you for days. You know I’m scared of the dark. And honestly—I’d rather leave than be the one left behind."

[Selfish girl! Ladka toh career bana raha hai, isko sirf apni padi hai.]

[Good move, bro. Girlfriend like this will hold you back.]

[Asli heroine samjhegi usko, yeh toh supporting character hi rahegi.]

I could almost hear the relatives at family weddings, whispering that girls today are too demanding. Maybe Rohan thought the same.

3.

I wiped my tears in secret and began packing, dragging out my battered suitcase from under the bed. My hands trembled as I folded kurtas, the soft fabric still carrying the faint scent of Rohan’s cologne. An old movie ticket fell out of my jeans pocket—I paused, heart thudding, but forced myself to keep going.

Rohan watched, torn. "I told you, after this busy period, I’ll spend time with you. Why won’t you believe me? I don’t agree to breaking up. You don’t have to rush to move out. I’ll stay out for a few days, okay? You take care of yourself."

He sounded more like an older brother than a lover, but his words gave me a strange relief. When he left, the flat seemed to echo with emptiness—the ticking clock, Simba’s plaintive mews, the fridge humming in the silence.

I did the math—the rent was due in half a month. I’d stay till then, find another place, and just keep going.

I called my mother that evening, not daring to tell her the whole truth—just that Rohan was busy and I was thinking of moving. Her gentle, worried "Be strong, beta" made my throat tighten. The next days blurred together—packing tiffin, checking my face for tears in the mirror, pretending to laugh at my colleagues’ silly jokes.

Three nights later, someone knocked at the door.

For a wild second, I thought it was Rohan. My heart jumped, and I quickly checked my reflection. But it was a stranger—well-dressed, her kurta perfectly pressed, nails manicured, a whiff of imported perfume as she stepped inside. She didn’t remove her sandals at the door.

"I’m Rohan’s friend. He asked me to pick up some things," she said, a polite smile on her lips. My stomach twisted, but I kept my voice steady. "You’re Neha Sharma, right?"

She paused, then nodded, her eyes glancing over my plain look. I hesitated, then handed her Rohan’s things, fidgeting with the edge of my dupatta as I rattled off instructions: "He can’t eat peanuts—he’s allergic. Please don’t let him drink too much. And he needs his mask every day, can’t stand strong smells..."

The words tumbled out, half habit, half desperation. Neha’s smile was too sweet, her tone almost mocking. "Okay, got it. I’ll take good care of him for you."

When the door closed, I sank down, feeling hollow. Simba meowed, brushing against my leg, but even he couldn’t fill the emptiness.

[Arre, ab toh party shuru! Bar mein dono milenge, phir kya scene banega!]

[Asli heroine ki entry hogayi, ab supporting character ka kya hoga?]

[Bas, ab ladka move on karega.]

The thought of Rohan moving on so fast made me feel sick. Was this how love ended?

Maybe just to punish myself, I went to the bar mentioned in the comments. I wore a simple kurti and jeans, tied my hair in a loose ponytail, and walked the ten minutes with my heart in my throat. The bar reeked of spilled beer and sweat, the sticky floor clinging to my sandals. A cricket match flickered on mute above the bartender’s shouts.

I searched room after room until I reached one in the far corner. The corridor stank of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. As I reached for the doorknob, some embarrassing noises filtered through—someone was watching a daily soap, and the girl inside shouted at me in Marathi for barging in.

Red-faced, I mumbled a flustered apology, backing out just as I spotted Rohan and a girl entering another private room down the hall. My brief relief vanished, replaced by a wave of shame. I wiped my eyes, hoping nobody noticed.

4.

Logic said I should leave. Any sensible girl would have run. But I just stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to walk away from my own misery. I called Rohan.

He picked up right away. "You’ve cooled off? So, can I come home tonight?"

I stared at the private room door, not answering. "Where are you?"

He hesitated, defensive. "What am I afraid to say? Priya, can’t you stop being so suspicious all the time..."

Laughter and music spilled through the phone. Rohan, stepping out, saw me standing there. He pocketed his phone and walked over, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from drink.

"Why are you here?"

"If you can come, why can’t I?" My voice wobbled, but I forced bravado. In my head, the imaginary group chat was in full swing:

[Supporting character phir se scene banane aayi hai!]

[Communication hi nahi hai, isiliye sab galat ho raha hai.]

[Poor girl—no security, no trust.]

Rohan just shook his head, a sheepish smile on his lips. "Arrey, theek hai, meri galti. Wait a bit, I’ll take you home later."

I blurted, "Aren’t you going to introduce your friend to me?" My voice trembled, jealousy leaking through.

What was I doing? Did I really want to know?

But the thought of losing him still stung more than I could admit.

Three years together, more than a thousand days and nights—I couldn’t let go so easily.

It was all too much. I bit my lip, trying not to cry. "If it’s inconvenient, forget it. I’ll just book an Ola myself."

Rohan caught my arm, his eyes soft. "You never liked crowded places, na? I thought you didn’t want to come, so I never asked..."

He took my hand, leading me into the private room—seven or eight people, laughter, half-empty glasses, the smell of tandoori chicken, French fries, and overpowering perfume. The bartender shouted orders over the muted cricket match. I shifted, uncomfortable in the crowd.

Rohan introduced me to everyone, then draped his arm around my shoulders. "This is my girlfriend. You’re meeting her for the first time."

All eyes turned to me. I found Neha—sharp dress, hair perfectly styled, nails a glossy red. She looked me up and down, cool and a little challenging. Noticing my stare, she looked away without a word, tension sparking in the air.

5.

[Now the real drama will start! Supporting character vs. heroine!]

[Jealousy toh dikh hi rahi thi uski aankhon mein!]

Even my own thoughts betrayed me. I ducked into the restroom, splashing cold water on my face, hoping to wash away the embarrassment and tiredness. In the mirror, my face looked the same, just a little older, a little sadder.

Prejudice is a mountain, they say—maybe I was carrying my own baggage too heavily. I was drying my face when Neha appeared, arms crossed, blocking the doorway.

"You and Rohan aren’t right for each other. If you really cared, you’d let him go. Because of you, he’s holding back on his Mumbai project. I went with him to a client meet—he was still covering up those slap marks. You could ruin his whole career. If you want money, or anything else, we can talk."

The word "money" stung like salt on a wound. I clenched my fist, twisting my ring nervously. "Did Rohan ask you to say this?"

She just smirked, letting the question hang. I knew Rohan had landed a big project, the late nights, the hushed calls about investors. But the rest? I wasn’t sure anymore.

And those slaps—I couldn’t explain them. I replayed that night: dinner waiting, candles flickering, the sound of his key in the lock. My birthday, the food gone cold, the cake untouched. The fight. My anger, his tired voice telling me not to wait. The slap—my first ever.

It wasn’t the lateness or the forgotten birthday. It was the indifference that broke me, the feeling that I didn’t matter. Maybe I was the one expecting too much, holding on too tightly.

My heart felt like a pressure cooker about to whistle. I’d always believed love was enough. But maybe Amma was right—sometimes, love isn’t enough. Sometimes, you have to save a little for yourself.

I thought I’d already lost him. But tonight, I realised—I hadn’t even begun to fight.