Chapter 4: Chai Shala Confessions

The day after the breakup, Rohan, who’d disappeared for a week, actually showed up at my hostel, looking unshaven and unwashed.

He looked nothing like the campus heartthrob. Shirt wrinkled, hair sticking up, a faint smell of sweat and something bitter on his skin. Even the watch he never took off was missing. The watch I’d given him.

“Can we talk?”

People passing by cast curious glances. When had Rohan ever looked so dishevelled?

Two girls from my batch giggled behind their hands. One auntie carrying a bucket of laundry paused to stare. I held my head high, refusing to let their eyes affect me.

Because of me? Probably not.

He looked lost, but his eyes darted everywhere, as if searching for someone else. I felt a strange detachment, like watching a scene from someone else’s life.

We went to a café near campus—my choice.

I picked Chai Shala, where the waiter wiped the table with a damp rag, leaving behind the sharp smell of phenyl. The chairs wobble and the wall fans rattle, and the place is always noisy with laughter and Bollywood remixes. The kind of place Rohan always complained about.

They have a dessert I love. I’d invited Rohan two or three times, but he always refused.

He’d wrinkle his nose at the thought of their sticky chocolate cake. ‘Ananya, it’ll give you diabetes!’ he’d joke. Today, he said nothing.

I took a bite of cake and felt a little better.

The sugary rush warmed my tongue, melting away some of the bitterness in my chest. I avoided his eyes, focusing on the crumbs.

“Why’d you come out? Doesn’t she need you to take care of her?”

I made sure my voice was even, not accusing. But I knew the sting would land anyway.

“Do you have to talk like that?”

His fingers drummed on the chipped table, irritation flaring.

“Like… what? I’m just asking, nothing more. I’m really curious—doesn’t Priya need someone to take care of her?”

He sighed and pushed his coffee aside.

The cup rattled, leaving a ring on the plastic tablecloth. He didn’t touch it again.

“I know you’re angry, but you should know, I haven’t done anything to let you down. I won’t coax you.”

“So I’m asking you seriously—do you want to break up?”

I held his gaze, refusing to blink first. His mouth tightened, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

Halfway through the cake, the heart-shaped decoration had been picked at until only a corner was left.

I stabbed it to pieces.

With every poke of my fork, I felt a small thrill. A goodbye to every humiliation, every time I waited for his call.

“It’s not about wanting to break up. It’s already over.”

My voice was flat, like reading from a textbook. I felt nothing.

Rohan’s face was colder than the iced Americano in front of him.

His eyes narrowed. For a moment, he looked as if he might beg, or shout, but then he just closed off.

He deleted all my contact info right in front of me.

I watched him scroll through his phone—tap, tap, tap—then show me the empty chat window. It was so performative I almost laughed.

“Hope you don’t regret it.”

He stood up. As he passed me, I grabbed the hem of his shirt.

My fingers clung to the old, faded cotton—an instinct, not a plan. The feel of the fabric brought back memories I didn’t want.

Looking up, I caught the faint, unintentional smile at the corner of his mouth.

But he seemed to misunderstand something.

I looked at him seriously and said,

“As an ex-boyfriend, we should split the bill for this meal.”

He looked startled, almost amused. I let go, and this time, he walked out without looking back.