Chapter 4: Broken Trust

At the dining table, the atmosphere was tense and strange. The sound of serving spoons and clinking plates did nothing to ease the strain. Even the food tasted bland, no matter how much salt I added.

My parents tried their best to liven things up. Amma brought out her best china and the kheer she only made for special occasions. Papa kept cracking old jokes, laughing too loudly. But Arjun only ate in silence.

He barely touched the food, eyes fixed on his plate. Not even the paneer caught his attention. His posture was elegant and distant. Back straight, elbows never on the table—like he was at a business dinner instead of our home.

He had no intention of making conversation. Even when my father asked him about his job, Arjun just nodded politely, giving one-word answers. Their enthusiasm only made the awkwardness more obvious.

Every time someone spoke, the silence that followed felt twice as heavy. My sister sat with a dark expression, not saying a word. She picked at her food, lips pressed tight, eyes occasionally darting toward Arjun.

I didn't dare reach for any dishes, only took tiny bites of rice. My hands trembled, and a grain of rice stuck to my chin. I hoped no one noticed.

Finally, when the meal was over, both my parents looked visibly relieved. They exchanged tired glances, like soldiers after a long battle.

Just as Arjun was about to leave, I suddenly remembered something and called out to him. My voice was thin, uncertain. "Arjun bhaiya, wait a moment."

Everyone looked at me in surprise—including Arjun. My father’s fork clattered onto his plate. Amma froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth. His brow furrowed slightly, clearly impatient. He looked at me as if I was a mosquito buzzing in his ear.

"Just a second, okay?" I gestured with my fingers, showing a gap about a centimetre wide. I couldn’t help myself, adding a sheepish grin for good measure.

Saying that, I ran upstairs and quickly came back down holding a tin box. The box was dented and old, covered in stickers from my childhood. My heart raced as I held it out.

All eyes were on me. Even the maid peered in from the kitchen, curiosity written on her face. I opened the lid of the tin box and asked, "Arjun, is this yours?"

Inside were more than a dozen passport-size photos—some one-inch, some two-inch. Some were black-and-white, others slightly faded from years of hiding. The sight made my cheeks burn.

Clearly not official. Some of the photos had notary stamps, some had dried glue on the back—obviously pried off from somewhere. It looked like the sort of secret stash a schoolgirl would hide away, never to be found.

The Arjun in the photos looked younger, with a hint of youthfulness in his features, but already strikingly handsome. He wore school uniforms, sometimes casual T-shirts, always the same serious eyes.

Besides the photos, there were other odds and ends: toffee wrappers, empty cigarette boxes, used pen refills, crumpled exam answer sheets… Some of the toffee wrappers still smelled faintly of orange. My face burned hotter.

Arjun looked at me, his gaze sharp as a blade. His eyes bored into me, making my knees wobble. I gritted my teeth before daring to go on.

"I found this in a corner of my cupboard. I don't know who put it there. But I recognised your photos, so I thought it must be yours, right?" I forced a small laugh, but it sounded false even to my own ears.

Arjun's eyes flickered, as if searching for something. A muscle in his jaw ticked. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. Being stared at by him, I shrank back, my shoulders drooping. I wished the floor would open and swallow me whole.

He spoke: "It's not mine. Just throw it away." His voice was calm, but the words stung.

"Oh. Okay."

I tossed it into the dustbin nearby and was about to head upstairs. I wiped my palms on my nightgown, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes.

Suddenly, a dangerous glint flashed in Arjun's eyes. His gaze darkened. I felt a chill run down my spine.

"Megha, you did that on purpose, didn't you?" he called after me. His voice was sharp, accusing.

I was confused. I turned, wide-eyed. "What?"

He looked at me as if he could see right through everything, his eyes mocking, and sneered, "Nothing. Your acting is pretty good. Don't bother next time. I'm not interested in watching."

There was something cold and final in his tone. My chest ached. With that, he turned and left. His footsteps echoed in the hallway. I stared after him, biting my lip to keep from crying.