Chapter 2: Second Chances and Old Wounds

The only person who knew I liked the campus bad boy, Kabir, was my childhood friend, Arjun.

We grew up sharing mango pickles on the terrace, fighting over the last piece of kaju katli during Diwali, and sneaking into the colony library when the power would go out. Only Arjun had seen me cry after losing my first story competition, and only he knew how my heart fluttered every time Kabir’s bike roared past the college gate.

On the night of our university farewell party, Yashi asked me to help her upstairs to rest.

The party was held at Kabir’s bungalow—a sprawling place with echoing marble floors, tube lights buzzing above, and the faint aroma of masala chai lingering from the afternoon. Yashi, with her perfect makeup and pink chiffon saree, leaned into me with dramatic flair, complaining of dizziness. I, ever the good girl, didn’t think twice before nodding.

I didn’t realise it was the campus bad boy’s room.

The corridor was dim, walls lined with movie posters and half-opened suitcases. I simply followed Yashi, her arm heavy around my shoulders, until we stopped before a door with a broken cricket bat propped against it—Kabir’s room, as all the girls on the floor would know. But in that moment, I was too busy worrying about Yashi’s wobbling heels to notice.

And the college queen’s acting was flawless.

Yashi stumbled and slurred, her cheeks flushed just so—an award-winning performance worthy of any saas-bahu serial. Her eyes, though, gave her away: sharp, calculating, and ever so slightly amused at my confusion.

As soon as we were out of everyone’s sight, she instantly sobered up, even glancing at me with mocking eyes.

Her transformation was instant—the drunken act gone, replaced by a cold, knowing smile. She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on my worn-out jhumkas, and I felt a chill crawl down my spine. In the hallway, the music thumped on, oblivious to our private drama.

In my previous life, I didn’t understand any of this.

All I’d ever known was to keep my head down, study hard, and avoid drama. But tonight, the drama had found me. I remembered wondering if I had done something wrong, if it was my fault for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After all, in everyone’s eyes, I was the scheming, malicious bookworm.

People had always whispered about me: the girl who preferred libraries to lipstick, who never joined in the gossip or the garba. It didn’t matter that my heart was as soft as ghee—one rumour, and I was branded for life.

Until, before I died, I overheard Arjun’s phone call.

The words still rang in my ears like a temple bell: his voice, raw and honest, confessing that I was just a placeholder, that his heart was never truly mine. I had thought myself lucky to marry my childhood friend; little did I know I was just a side character in his love story.

Only then did I truly wake up.

It was as if a veil had been lifted, the truth as bitter as karela. The ache in my chest turned into steely resolve. No more being the sacrificial goat. No more letting people decide my fate.

It turned out he could actually give up his whole life for Yashi.

Even as blood pooled on the asphalt, Arjun’s voice kept echoing Yashi’s name. My heart shattered again, not from the pain of my wounds, but from the realisation that his every breath was for someone else.

And I foolishly believed that when he proposed to me and said he loved me, it was true.

I remembered the day he brought roses from the temple gate, shyly stammering through his proposal in front of Amma. My cheeks had burned, thinking this was the start of my own Bollywood romance. How naïve I had been.

Before I died, Arjun and I both lay in a pool of blood.

People gathered around, their faces blurred, someone dialling 108, another mumbling a quick prayer. The streetlights flickered overhead as I stared at the cracked pavement beneath me.

When the speeding car came, he desperately shielded me in his arms, taking the full impact on his back.

Even in his last moments, Arjun did what he’d always done—put me first in front of the world, even if his heart never belonged to me. His body curled around mine, a final shield against fate. He muttered a half-remembered Hanuman Chalisa under his breath, as if even now he could protect me with old prayers.

But at a time like that, nothing could help.

Sirens wailed in the distance, bystanders shouted, and the night air was thick with the smell of petrol and burning rubber. The world blurred at the edges, pain flooding every nerve.

The brutal collision flung me more than ten metres away.

I remember the weightlessness, the distant stars above, the sensation of my body flying like a broken kite. My dupatta fluttered loose, floating down before me.

As my consciousness faded, I vaguely saw—

Not far away, Arjun was stubbornly crawling towards me, covered in blood.

Even then, he hadn’t given up. His white kurta stained crimson, he inched across the tar, ignoring the pain that twisted his face. The determination in his eyes was as fierce as ever.

Even though the pain made his whole body tremble, he still desperately tried to reach my side.

Each movement was agony; his breaths came in ragged gasps. Yet his hand kept stretching towards me, palm scraping over broken glass and gravel.

The wounds on his ten fingers were so deep you could see the bone, and his voice shook uncontrollably.

It was the rawest I had ever seen him, the kind of pain you can't hide behind jokes or silence. His voice cracked, the syllables barely holding together.

"Naina, don’t scare me."

His voice was hoarse, trembling with unshed tears. Somewhere behind him, someone was calling for an ambulance, but he didn’t seem to hear.

"Wake up and listen to my explanation."

The desperation in his plea pierced the fog of pain. If only words could heal wounds, maybe things would have been different.

"I was wrong, Naina."

That confession hung in the air, bitter as neem. It was too late for forgiveness.

Arjun’s heartbroken voice was so noisy it made me want to retch, and I immediately spat out a mouthful of blood.

My throat burned as the metallic taste filled my mouth. I wanted to shut my ears to his pleas, but his voice kept tugging at my heart, one last time.

In the last moment of my life, I made one final effort.

I mustered whatever willpower was left, refusing to let regret be my last emotion.

I used all my remaining strength to move my fingers.

The pain was a distant echo now, my hands trembling like an old transistor on a rainy day.

Avoiding Arjun’s desperately outstretched hand, refusing to let our fingers intertwine.

A final act of defiance—no more clinging, no more begging for love that was never truly mine.

Now that you’re admitting your mistake, it’s too late.

The world faded around me, but that thought rang clear, strong as a temple bell at dawn.