Chapter 2: The Third Wheel

On the seventh day of my boyfriend’s silent treatment and disappearance, I ran into him in the colony where I tutor.

The dusty lanes of the housing society buzzed with evening life. Aunties in faded nighties gossiped on balconies, kids shrieked over cricket, the smell of frying onions drifting on the breeze. I balanced my jhola and borrowed textbooks when I spotted him.

He was carrying two giant Big Bazaar bags—one overflowing with sabzi and fruits, the other stacked with tissue boxes and toothpaste.

He looked surprised to see me, but not as flustered as I’d imagined.

He took me upstairs. It was the first time I met the girl from the rumours.

“She had surgery and no one’s here to take care of her. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d overthink it.”

For a second, I remembered Amma’s rule—never step inside someone’s house without noticing the chappals at the door. Two pairs. Not mine. My eyes lingered on the battered Kolhapuris and her pink furry chappals. The flat smelled of Dettol and boiled rice. For a moment, I almost laughed at how predictable everything was.

Priya was startled to see me, tried to get up in a hurry, and almost fell off the bed. She clutched the bedsheet, her eyes darting from me to Rohan, like she was bracing for a scolding from a strict teacher.

Her face was pale, hair tied up in a messy bun, and she clutched the bedsheet like it was a shield. There was a fleeting fear in her eyes, the kind you see when your secret is about to be exposed.

Rohan dropped the bags and rushed over, holding her shoulders, his brow furrowed in concern.

He murmured, “Arrey, sambhal ke, Priya,” his voice softer than I’d ever heard it with me. His fingers lingered on her shoulder, thumb rubbing circles. The sight made something cold coil in my stomach.

I stood at the door, not moving.

I clutched my dupatta, fingers twisting the edge, refusing to step any further in. It felt like if I crossed that threshold, I’d become invisible.

“I’m fine, hurry, let the guest in.”

Yeah, I’m just a guest.

The word hit harder than a slap. I almost wanted to laugh at how accurate she was. Guest, not girlfriend. Not even friend.

Rohan washed vegetables in the kitchen. Looked like we were having paneer tikka and dal for dinner. What used to be a meal for two now had me as the third wheel. Even my plate was a disposable one.

I noticed the difference instantly—the stainless steel thalis for them, flimsy silver-foil for me. I tried not to mind, telling myself it didn’t matter, but each scrape of the flimsy spoon against the foil plate made my skin crawl. I kept my eyes on my plate, counting the grains of rice.

“I’m really sorry, I don’t have any friends here, so I had to trouble Rohan.”

“I didn’t know he didn’t tell you. I already scolded him. Don’t mind him, he’s just a typical guy, doesn’t get these things.”

Her words sounded rehearsed, too polished. Maybe she was as nervous as I was. I forced a half-smile, picking at the rice, careful not to spill anything on her bedsheet.

I smiled slightly and said nothing.

My tongue felt dry. I wanted to say, ‘It’s okay,’ but the words died in my throat. I simply nodded, pressing my lips together.

I quietly finished the meal. Rohan walked me out.

He didn’t say much. The corridor smelled faintly of incense and leftover curry from someone’s dinner. The ceiling fan creaked overhead, distant laughter echoing from another flat. The clink of his keys in his hand sounded louder than ever.

Under the dim streetlight, only our shadows were close together, but we ourselves were far apart. Our shadows merged on the cracked cement, but our bodies kept an awkward distance. It was the kind of space where old lovers become strangers.

“Are you angry?”

I didn’t answer.

I fiddled with my phone, eyes fixed on the ground. The silence between us felt heavier than the summer heat.

“She’ll only need me for half a month until she recovers. I was going to tell you after it was over, afraid you’d create a scene.”

I almost laughed. Me, the dramatic one? He always acted like I was the problem, like his secrets were kindnesses to me.

“What kind of surgery takes half a month to recover from?” I asked, my voice calm, showing no sign of dissatisfaction.

I stared right at him, daring him to lie. My voice sounded so normal, even I was surprised.

“An abortion. Has nothing to do with me, don’t get the wrong idea.”

He avoided my eyes as he spoke, staring off at the flickering tube light above a paan shop across the road. His jaw worked, like he was chewing over every word.

“I know it’s not yours. It’s a married man’s.”

As soon as I finished, he caught my wrist, his fingers digging in, like he was holding on for dear life. I looked down, refusing to meet his eyes, the way Amma always said a good girl should in a fight. I frowned in pain.

His grip was strong, thumb pressing into the bone. I tried to pull away, but he only squeezed harder. The pain made my eyes sting, but I refused to flinch.

“You investigated her?”

His voice was low, almost threatening. My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it. For a moment, I wanted to snap back, but I remembered how every argument with him ended—with me apologizing. But I just looked at him, my wrist burning where he held me.

“No need. Didn’t the website you hacked spell it all out?”

He glared at me, silent for a long time.

I could see the war in his eyes—guilt, anger, maybe even a flicker of regret. But mostly, he looked like someone who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

It was the first time I’d seen him like that.

There was a wildness in his stare, as if he couldn’t believe I’d caught up to him. The Rohan who never lost control was suddenly lost for words.

“You stalked me and I didn’t say anything, but now you’ve really gone too far.”

Stalked him? Since he vanished, I hadn’t even looked for him. Where would I find the time to stalk?

For a second, I almost wanted to protest, to defend myself. But I just stood there, letting the accusation hang in the humid air.

Seeing I didn’t reply, he finally let go and sighed.

He shook his head, running a hand through his sweaty hair. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by exhaustion.

“There’s nothing between me and her. You don’t need to target her. I won’t pursue this, but you should stop too.”

After saying this, he hailed an auto and opened the door.

He didn’t wait for my answer. Just stuck his arm out, flagged down a rattling green-and-yellow auto, and gestured for me to get in.

I quietly got in. As the auto started, I rolled down the window and called out with a smile,

“Rohan, let’s stop here too.”

My voice was steady, almost cheerful. As the auto rattled away, the wind tangled my hair, and for the first time in months, I felt free.