Chapter 3: Kabir and the Farewell Party

Of course, I wasn’t foolish enough to argue with the comments.

After all, what’s the point? No one wins an argument with log kya kahenge. I just looked at Arjun, a little puzzled. "Anything else?"

He frowned, his pale forehead beaded with sweat.

Even the way he wiped his brow seemed practiced, as if he didn’t want to seem too vulnerable. His gaze was deep, tinged with a bit of displeasure.

Arjun was undeniably good-looking.

Extremely good-looking, in fact.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t have chased after him so persistently.

Nine confessions—the last one was after the board exams.

I said, "Now that studying isn’t an issue, can you give me a chance?"

I smiled, eyes curved, full of hope.

But he shook his head firmly. "We’re not suitable."

The first eight times, the excuse was not to interfere with studying. The ninth time, it was something else.

In my last life, I also planned to give up.

But then, a string of comments appeared before my eyes.

I listened to them and looked back.

Sure enough, I saw his cool eyes brimming with emotion.

They said the hero was just too proud, thinking he wasn’t worthy of me.

So, I chased him all the way to the city where he went to college, living as poorly as he did.

Roti-sabzi in steel tiffin, 2BHK shared with three girls, adjusting to Mumbai rains and local train crushes. Until the tenth confession, when he finally agreed.

"I’m planning to go study in Mumbai."

Arjun’s voice snapped me back to the present.

When I looked again, only his back remained.

His shoulders seemed broader, as if already carrying the burden of new dreams. I watched him go, dust rising under his chappals on the gravel path.

[Oh my god, the hero took the initiative!]

[He wants the heroine to go to Mumbai with him, right?]

[The heroine must be thrilled—he finally gave her a chance.]

[He’s secretly giving her a chance, so stubborn but so sweet!]

I pursed my lips and handed the box directly to the security guard at the gate.

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, but said nothing—he’d seen enough drama from our family to fill a daily soap. "Please take care of this for me."

With that, I left without looking back.

My slippers slapped the red-oxide tiles, heart lighter but oddly hollow. "Tch, what a shame."

Kabir’s voice floated over from next door.

He leaned lazily against the verandah pillar.

Wearing a faded India cricket T-shirt, swinging one leg, he looked like every boy-next-door you see in our TV ads. When I glanced his way, he grinned.

"Don’t take it to heart. It’s just a guy—are you really that sad?"

He was trying to sound casual, but the concern in his voice was unmistakable. Suddenly, I remembered Kabir didn’t live long in my previous life.

He died at thirty.

That means he only has nine years left.

My throat tightened. Kabir, the friend who’d always been the first to arrive at Holi with a plate of gujiya, who never forgot my birthday. I felt a little sorry for him.

"Take care of your health."

He looked at me, baffled.

I almost reached out to ruffle his hair, but stopped. Boys hate that.