Chapter 1: Group Chat Scars

Kabir posted a video in our WhatsApp group—me stepping out, wrapped only in a bath towel.

My phone screen flashed alive, cracked tempered glass spidering over the display. The group name—'Kaveripur Legends'—sat below a pixelated photo of Shah Rukh Khan in DDLJ, his arms open wide. As I tried to untangle my wet hair, my battered Reliance Jio SIM jostled in its slot and the phone vibrated again, insistent. Within seconds, the screen lit up with laughing emojis and snide comments. Though I’d grown used to the boys’ nonsense, this time the humiliation tasted metallic, sharp in my throat. The old ceiling fan whirred overhead, barely moving the sticky Mumbai air, but suddenly I was shivering.

All the rich boys who had ever chased me were in that group, and among them, Kabir always stood out.

From the very first day he’d walked into Kaveripur Public School, his white shirt perfectly pressed, Bata shoes gleaming as if he’d never stepped into a puddle, everyone whispered about him. It wasn’t just the Kapoor surname or his sharp looks—it was the way he moved, like he belonged on the cover of a glitzy Delhi magazine. Yet, despite all his swagger, Kabir had a way of making himself the centre of every story, as if the world’s drama was just a backdrop for his entrance.

[As expected from Rohan! So, what does the unattainable beauty taste like? Let us have a taste too.]

[Arrey Rohan, you’ve gone full filmy hero, seducing the class topper just to get revenge for your childhood dost.]

[Wah, kya baat hai—telling the topper she has cancer before board exams. No wonder she’s always crying these days.]

[Break up with her right after the exams.]

The taunts came in quick bursts, sharp elbows in a Mumbai local. After the emojis and comments, my hands fumbled with the towel, trying to silence the phone, but it slipped and clattered to the floor. My thumb hovered helplessly above the screen. The group’s laughter—so virtual, yet so real—stung more than I’d expected.

I heard Kabir lazily send a voice note, his tone nothing like the pitiful act he put on in front of me.

His drawl oozed arrogance, with that detached humour rich Delhi boys use for those they think are beneath them. I could imagine him, sprawled on his king-size bed, AC humming, one arm flung behind his head, barely bothering to press the record button. "Arre yaar, chill maar. Meera toh seedhi hai, sab set ho jayega."

I had been taking leave after leave to accompany him at the hospital, and my grades had suffered.

Even now, I remembered those endless hospital corridors, the sharp scent of Dettol stinging my nose, Kabir clutching my hand with that practiced air of tragedy. How could I have fallen for it? Every time my phone rang, it was the school calling about missed assignments. My mother’s framed photo on the table seemed to glare at me in silent reproach. I tapped my pen restlessly, pretending not to see her accusing eyes.

Kabir lay weakly on the bed, showing me a forged cancer diagnosis, his eyes full of fake tenderness.

He would cough softly, like a supporting actor in a Bollywood melodrama, voice trembling just enough to be convincing. "Meera, I’m sorry," he’d whisper, brushing a strand of hair from my face with trembling fingers. The hospital’s fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows, making the whole scene more tragic than it deserved.

"Meera, I’m sorry. I’m the one dragging you down. Don’t spend any more money on my treatment."

He knew I had already spent everything I had on his so-called illness.

He would look away, letting out a well-practiced sigh, eyes fixed on the window as if waiting for the end. The doctors—complicit or just careless—never questioned the bills piling up. I’d sold my mother’s gold earrings at the tiny jeweller’s in Kaveripur Market; the jeweller’s paan-stained teeth flashed as he counted out the cash, his fingers clinking gold bangles on the counter. The uncomfortable silence lingered as I signed the receipt, the pen trembling in my grip. I told myself, "It’s just money. He needs me."

Kabir was waiting for me to give up on him, but he didn’t expect me to come up with another three lakh rupees to save his life.

I’d gone to the moneylender near the bus stop—the one with red paan stains on his lips, never smiling, his ledgers fat with other people’s dreams. He handed over the cash after I pressed my thumb to the stamp paper. The smell of paan and old currency clung to me all day. Kabir was shocked—he never imagined I’d go this far. His mask slipped for a second, then he smiled, thanking me as if he’d done me a favour.

The group chat exploded again: [Shameless. Besides that face, what does he have? Why would Meera fall for him?]

[Meera even sold her flat for him. That was her mother’s only inheritance.]

[Cheap fellow. Arjun, did you tell Meera the truth or not?]

[Shit. Idiot. You sent this to the wrong group—Kabir is in here. Delete it, quick!]

Each ping was a slap, my cheeks burning as their words tumbled out, harsh and unfiltered. The group, usually full of exam memes and cricket banter, was now a battleground for my dignity. I could imagine Arjun, usually so full of himself, fumbling his phone in panic as he tried to delete his message. The hush that followed was heavier than any scolding I’d ever received from a teacher.

One by one, the messages were deleted, my phone heating up in my palm. Kabir’s face on the hospital bed went ashen. My thumb hovered over the 'Leave Group' button, but I couldn’t bring myself to press it.

Even through the screen, his mask had cracked. He wasn’t acting anymore. For the first time, he looked small—just another boy caught in his own web of lies. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell rang, the sound almost mocking. I sat perfectly still, my phone buzzing with deleted messages, as if erasing them could erase what had happened.