Chapter 2: The Truth on the Terrace

When those scrolling comments flashed in front of my eyes, I wondered if my mind was breaking from grief. But the comments kept coming—

[If the heroine goes up to the terrace now, she'll see the hero isn't dead at all.]

[The heroine hasn't eaten properly for two days because of him. She can barely walk, but she's still heading for the terrace.]

Dragging my heavy legs up the stairs, I paused, hand on the cool metal banister. My heart thudded in my chest, the sound of distant bhajans floating up from a neighbour’s radio. Only a short flight remained. Then, a voice I knew too well—a hint of mockery, but cold and far away—echoed: “My funeral isn’t even over yet.”

It was the same voice that used to call me for extra samosas in the canteen. Now, on this dusty staircase with peeling paint, it sounded like a stranger’s. The voice came from Rohan’s good friend Kunal’s phone.

“Not yet, Bhaiya.”

“Where’s Ananya? She hasn’t noticed anything, right?”

Kunal replied, “No way she could notice. Bhabhi’s been running around nonstop. Yesterday she almost fainted from crying. She’s probably still bawling in her room.”

Rohan’s tone was casual: “Comfort her for me a bit more.”

Amit chimed in: “But Bhaiya, you really fell for your little nightingale, huh? Faked your death and chased her all the way to London, and even had us brothers cover for you.”

The scrolling comments had been true.

I gripped the handrail so tightly my knuckles whitened. Every cell in my body trembled. I heard Rohan say:

“Whether I fell for her or not, that’s none of your business. Just help me keep it from her.”

Kunal asked, “So, are you still getting married?”

“Of course. When I come back, our wedding will go on as planned. But before that, you’ve got to let me go crazy for love just this once, right?”

“That’s true.”

“Once I’m married, I’ll only be allowed to orbit one person. I won’t get another chance, haha.”

They all laughed. My blood ran cold. I was shaking uncontrollably. I’d prayed so many times that Rohan might still be alive. But not like this.

A damp breeze drifted through the terrace grill, carrying the faint scent of incense from a neighbour’s home. The distant call of a koel echoed, mocking or warning—I couldn’t tell. What kind of love story is this, where the heroine is always the last to know?