Chapter 1: Roses, Barrages, and Breakup Rain

Winning over Mumbai National’s ice queen took more than roses in the heat and surviving hostel gossip—turns out, the real test came after.

Arrey, you can imagine the effort: standing outside the library with wilted roses in the Mumbai humidity, dodging side-eyes from the hostel aunties—only to land up with this? The disappointment hit different.

I kept thinking Priya was just shy, until the barrage hit me.

[LOL, yeh toh sirf hero ke liye hai. Side character ko sapna bhi nahi dekhna chahiye.]

[Heroine, bas khud pe bharosa rakh. Hero tujhe chhoo lega saat din, sab theek ho jayega.]

The words floated before my eyes, glowing like WhatsApp forwards—except no one else seemed to notice. My heart skipped a beat. Was I going mad?

Watching the college beauty, flustered and regretful, wanting to try again, I silently pretended to be asleep.

Her eyes darted at me, cheeks burning, fingers twisting her dupatta. She wanted to say something, but the silence between us felt heavier than any fight.

The next day, I sent her a message.

[My dad won’t let me date a girlfriend from another city. Let’s break up.]

First I typed it out in Hindi, then deleted and sent in English—felt more distant that way. Dad’s old-school logic was the perfect excuse.

I thought that would be the end of us.

Stupid of me, really. Things never end so cleanly in real life—especially not for people like us, with “log kya kahenge” floating around like flies at a mithai shop.

But when she saw me at a hotel with another woman, Priya lost it and dragged me out.

It was pure masala movie drama. She grabbed my arm in the lobby, face red with anger and something deeper, pulling me out like a lost kid at Kumbh Mela.

That night, her eyes were red, desperate as she said,

"Arjun, I’ve taken medicine. I can do better than her. Will you give me another chance, please?"

She looked so small—voice shaking, hair clinging to her face from the rain. Pride gone, only hope left.

As I deleted photo after photo with Priya, my roommate came in, smelling of rain and agarbatti, and told me she was waiting downstairs.

Each swipe sent another memory into the digital dustbin—selfies from Marine Drive, canteen boomerangs, Ganpati visarjan chaos. Even the rain outside felt like it was mourning.

I rubbed my eyes and croaked, "Tell her not to wait. I’m not coming down."

My throat was parched, voice breaking. The monsoon rain lashed the hostel windows, relentless as ever.

We’d already broken up—why stretch it out?

In my mind, her last words replayed, full of hope and hurt. There’s only so much a broken string can take before it snaps.

My roommate, sensing something was off, turned me to face him.

He looked into my eyes, concern all over his Indore-boy face. He’d always admired Priya from afar, never saying a word.

"Arjun, did you have a fight with the college beauty?"

He said it like he was talking about a movie star.

I switched off my phone and looked up. "It wasn’t a fight. We broke up."

My voice was flat, but my chest squeezed tight. Reality hadn’t set in.

He stared. "No wonder she said she couldn’t contact you. Did you block her?"

He sat down on the bed, stunned, whispering, "Did Priya cheat on you?"

Before I could answer, his phone rang. It was Priya.

The Nokia ringtone sliced through the tension. He looked at me, then at the phone, unsure.

I was about to tell him to hang up, but he answered, and Priya’s anxious voice tumbled through, breathless and panicked. "Is Arjun there? Did he say anything? Please, just let me talk to him!"

I tried to stop him: "It has nothing to do with her, don’t ask..."

I reached for the phone, but he shook his head, determined to let her speak.

"Arjun, is that you? Will you answer the phone?" Priya’s voice crackled through the speaker.

Hearing her twisted my heart, but I gritted my teeth and gestured for my roommate to end the call.

He hesitated, torn, but Priya’s desperation made him finally hand the phone over like it was sacred.

His eyes begged me to just talk, to fix things—like he was part of our story.

"If there’s any misunderstanding, clear it up quickly."

He said it gently, like an older brother giving advice. He’d watched too many Bollywood movies.

But there was no misunderstanding. She was never meant to be mine.

That was the truth—bitter as karela juice your mother swears is "good for your liver."

On the other end, Priya pleaded: "Arjun, please, come downstairs. Let’s talk face to face."

Her voice was thin. I pictured her in the drizzle, eyes wide, dupatta clutched, refusing to give up.

Holding the phone, I took a deep breath and said, "Senior, I’ve said everything I needed to say."

It was the tone you use to refuse a kurta at the shop—final, distant, rehearsed.

"Since we’ve broken up, let’s not drag this out. Let’s just end it here, okay? No drama."

My words sounded like old Doordarshan serial dialogue—formal, stiff, but necessary.

"If I don’t agree, it doesn’t count as breaking up!" Her voice got louder, a bit wild.

A sob crept in, that childish stubbornness she hid from the world. It almost made me laugh, if it weren’t so sad.

I didn’t want to waste more words and hung up directly.

My hand hovered over the phone, nearly calling her back. But I stopped, stuffing my feelings down like laundry in an overstuffed bucket.

My roommate took the phone, confused. "So why did you break up? That’s Priya—you finally managed to win her over."

He wasn’t wrong. But he didn’t know the whole story.

Yeah, that’s Priya.

Her name was legend in the canteen and corridors: Priya Arya, Mumbai National’s pride, Arya Group’s heiress, all-rounder, always at the top, always out of reach.

She was the kind of girl mothers point out during puja, telling sons to find "someone like her," as if that’s easy.

She had admirers galore, but never any rumours.

No one saw her at parties or late-night outings—always the first to leave, last to talk, never in gossip.

Compared to those rich girls who partied all day, she was a model student.

Her Insta was all poetry and temple bells, not clubbing selfies. She made tradition look cool.

It took me a semester to win her, but the sweet relationship ended in a year.

Twelve months. Enough to learn her routines, her Matunga bookshop, her favourite vada pav stall. Not enough to keep her.

Falling for her was easy; letting go was all sharp edges.

My mind kept looping on that. The falling was soft and dizzy, but the letting go was sharp as glass.