Chapter 4: Shattered Illusions

I don’t even know how I got home.

The city lights blurred past. My hands gripped the wheel, jaw locked. The FM radio hissed static. By the time I reached my lane, the watchman was already snoring in his plastic chair. I stumbled into my room, hollow.

She walked in soon after, humming, almost dancing. Her anklets jingled. She twirled in the hall, eyes shining. “Kya dekh rahe ho?” she teased. I just stared, numb.

The pill box had vanished from her bag.

I checked while she showered—nothing. She was careful. My suspicion became certainty, sour in my stomach.

I grabbed her phone. Never done it before, so she never bothered to delete chats.

I hesitated—Amma always said, “Don’t snoop.” But what choice did I have? My chest burned with guilt. My fingers wouldn’t stop twitching, like I’d touched a live wire. I unlocked her phone: her dog’s name as the passcode. So simple, so trusting.

At the top of her chats was “Mr. Sharma.”

Not "Rajeev Bhaiya" or "R Sharma Sir"—just "Mr. Sharma." My stomach twisted. No emojis, nothing. But I knew.

Hundreds of messages. Each one colder than the last.

I scrolled till my thumb hurt. Inside jokes, hurried plans. Not a word of affection about me—just secrets, schemes, stolen moments.

“Stop leaving hickeys on my neck, I can’t keep telling my boyfriend they’re mosquito bites.”

A flash—last time I saw a mark, she’d just laughed: "Arey baba, Delhi ki mosquitoes are dangerous, na!"

“Behave yourself in front of your daughter.”

The audacity. In front of his own child? My blood boiled.

“Do you even feel anything when you look at your wife?”

“Honestly, touching her is like touching myself. Her washboard figure can’t compare to yours.”

“How about wearing that lace one again tonight?”

“If you don’t show me, I’ll make you cry so hard you can’t even close your legs.”

Reading those words, I gagged. The smell of burnt milk from the kitchen seeped in, but I couldn’t move. My world was burning too.

Further up, they talked about me:

“He treats me well, spends money.”

I remembered the Diwali dress, the silver anklets. All those gifts—used and mocked.

“Your boyfriend isn’t good? He can actually hold back?”

“Even if I can’t, I have to. He’d never break up with me.”

“You’re not really going to marry that loser, are you?”

“Never planned to. It’s nice to have a simp around, I’ll just dump him when I’m bored.”

Seeing it with my own eyes was like falling into an ice-cold pit.

Worse than a slap, worse than public humiliation. My vision swam. I wanted to break something, to shout at the world outside.