Chapter 1: The Pill Box

My girlfriend and I had been together for over a year, but she never let me get too close. She always claimed she was traditional—old-school, the kind who’d keep her dupatta pinned tight on her shoulder even when the bazaar was crowded. She’d say, "It’s not about you, it’s about what’s right. Amma says a girl’s izzat is her treasure." Her voice would carry that soft but stubborn note, like she really meant it. Sometimes I’d tease her, and she’d just glare, strict as a schoolteacher. I’d feel almost proud, thinking I’d found a gem in Delhi—so sincere, so rare.

Until the day I found a box of emergency contraceptive pills hidden in her bag.

The box was clear: Two pills in each pack. First one within 24 hours, second one twelve hours later. But there was only one left. My mind started spinning, my feet rooted to the spot.

Suddenly, every sound got louder—the ceiling fan’s whoosh, a scooter honking down the lane, my own heartbeat thudding. I felt sick, like I’d bitten into stale samosa from the college canteen. The air felt heavy, squeezing my chest.

The water stopped running in the bathroom—her shower was over. Panicked, I shoved her bag back into place, my mind a whirlwind.

My fingers fumbled with the zipper, almost dropping the tiny packet. The bag’s zipper snagged. My breath caught. A WhatsApp ping from the living room made me jump. Somehow, I managed. My face burned, my throat parched. I sat on the bed, acting busy with my phone. The slap of her slippers echoed off the wet tiles, the fruity smell of her shampoo wafting out.

Just yesterday, she’d said she was out for dinner and a movie with her best friend. She got back close to midnight.

I remembered her WhatsApp: "Late night yaar, don’t wait up, will grab ice cream after movie." There was a selfie too, her and her friend throwing peace signs. Now, those memories poked at me. Ice cream? Late night? Really?

Could it be…

I tried to reassure myself, "Aisa kuch nahi ho sakta," but the thought clung to me, twisting my gut. Amma’s warnings rang in my ears: "Beta, girls are sharper these days. Don’t trust blindly."

The more I thought, the worse it got. My jealousy grew, my anxiety gnawed at me.

It was like ants crawling under my skin. My mind kept showing me scenes—her with another guy, laughing in a dim café, sneaking around. My head buzzed, vision swimming. Why am I even thinking this? But my heart wouldn’t listen.

She came out in pyjamas. I tried to sound casual: “So, which movie did you and your best friend watch last night? Was it any good?”

She stopped, towel in hand, drying her hair. “We just picked anything. Honestly, we chatted so much, I forgot what it was.”

Her voice was airy, but her eyes darted away. She squeezed water from her hair, droplets pattering on the floor, her feet tapping—restless. The answer was too quick, too neat.

Sensing my curiosity, she cut me off fast: “Bas karo, drama mat karo. I have class early. Need to sleep.” She muttered it under her breath, half in Hindi, half annoyed.

She turned away, missing the storm on my face. That night, I couldn’t sleep at all. Somewhere outside, a dog barked and the clock struck two. But inside, my trust had already broken.

She switched off the lights, letting the yellowish streetlamp spill in. I stared at the ceiling, the mosquito’s whine, a dog’s distant howl. My chest was heavy. Even the old clock seemed to tick louder, each second stretching the night.