Chapter 2: The Rabbit and the Wolf

I clutched my head, the pain like boiling water in my ears. The agency’s new contact card flashed on my screen, and my heart thudded so loudly it drowned out the TV in the next room.

"Bro, if you really want her, add her and ask about her schedule. She’s super busy, haha."

The avatar made my skin prickle: it was our couple’s doodle—Sneha as a white rabbit, me as a grey wolf—drawn by my own hand on a lazy Sunday, set as our WhatsApp display because she’d insisted, “No one else has this, na, Rohan?”

I remembered her giggle, her blush as she burrowed into my arms, hiding her face in my kurta. "Chee, Rohan, people will see!" I’d called her meri sherni, my brave lioness, and she’d replied, “I’m only a rabbit for you.”

That memory was a knife. It was as if someone had stabbed me and twisted. The echo of her laughter felt like a mockery. I coughed, my throat burning. My blood boiled and my vision blurred.

With trembling hands, I sent a friend request—praying she wouldn’t accept, praying this nightmare would end. I wandered the room, palms pressed together, muttering, “Yeh sapna hai, bas sapna hai.”

Then, with a classic WhatsApp "ting," my phone vibrated, the sound making my heart skip. Notification: “Sneha has accepted your friend request. You can now chat.”

Her avatar sent a long voice message. I put the phone on speaker, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped it. Her syrupy, playful voice floated out: "Bhaiya, where are you? I’m at Paradise Hotel. You can book me tomorrow..."

My knees buckled. Paradise Hotel—that was where I was right now. The name was on the towels, the pillowcases. I gripped the edge of the bed, the world tilting.

I typed, my thumb hovering: "I’m also at Paradise. Where exactly are you?" Maybe it was a prank, or her number was cloned. My heart clung to hope—there had to be a logical explanation, something only we would know.

I remembered Sneha fussing about my salt intake, scolding me for skipping breakfast. How could the woman who made me chai after a fight be the same as this one? I begged the universe for a technical error, a cosmic joke—anything but the truth glaring from my screen.

My phone rang: food delivery. I hadn’t eaten all day. My stomach was twisted with hunger and dread. I stumbled toward the lift, phone buzzing, barely glancing at it. The lobby’s tube-lights washed everything in sickly white. The smell of butter chicken in my bag only made me feel nauseous.

On the way back, I caught a whiff of jasmine perfume. My eyes snapped to the familiar silhouette ahead—the sway of her walk. It was Sneha.