Chapter 9: Claiming the Story

Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I saw almost everything had been moved out. The photo of Rohan and me by the bed had fallen to the floor. I stepped on it in my sandals. The frame shattered into countless shards of glass. He’s not dead, but in my heart he is. Walking out of the Rohan house, Rohan’s mother was still cursing behind me.

The sound of glass crunching under my heel echoed in the empty hallway. Outside, a stray dog barked as the afternoon sun beat down on the verandah tiles. The world carried on as if nothing had happened. My hands smelled faintly of the old rose perfume I’d splashed on my wrists—the same perfume I’d worn on our engagement day.

“Don’t ever come back! You’re not even allowed to light a diya at my son’s samadhi during Diwali!”

[This old witch is afraid the heroine will fight her for the inheritance, but the heroine’s family is so rich she doesn’t even care about that little bit.]

[Is your son the king? Lighting a diya is such a big favour, even a street dog wouldn’t do it.]

“Aunty, please don’t say any more.”

Amit and Kunal walked me to the door: “Bhabhi, let us know if you need anything.”

Their faces were tight with discomfort, but I could see in their eyes they were just waiting for this drama to end so they could report back to their so-called friend.

“No need, I just want to be alone.”

“Actually, you might be right. Bhaiya might still be alive. The police haven’t found his body yet. Maybe if we wait, there’ll be good news.” Kunal said.

[The hero is afraid the heroine will kill herself after moving out, so he’s having his brothers give her hope.]

[Little do they know the heroine already knows the truth. The three of them are just a bunch of jokers.]

Actually, I have a few flats, but they’re all rented out. I can’t just kick out tenants because I want to move in, so I accepted Meera’s suggestion and moved everything temporarily to the Kapoor family’s empty bungalow. When Meera handed me the keys, I asked: “Your brother won’t suddenly come back, right?”

“He won’t. I just asked him not long ago. He said he has no plans to return for now.”

“Even if he does, he hardly ever stays at that place. He always goes back to the old house. Just relax and live there.”

After sleeping under the covers for two days and two nights, my eyes swelled...

The new flat was cold, dust motes swirling in the sunlight through the old jali windows. I lay on the unfamiliar bed, the pillowcase smelling faintly of cologne and something else—maybe the leftover dreams of a life I’d never have. The distant honk of rickshaws and the smell of frying vada pav from the street below seeped through the window grills. Outside, Mumbai’s honking traffic reminded me that the world would move on, with or without my love story. As I drifted off to sleep, the last thing I heard was a new batch of scrolling comments: [Don’t let them break you, Ananya. This is your story now.]

I stared at my phone, heart thudding. For the first time, I didn’t feel like a side character. Maybe this really was my story now—and I wasn’t done writing it.