Chapter 3: The Breaking Point

Arjun approved half a day’s leave for Priya, letting her go home. His voice was gentle, almost fatherly. I watched him write the note, pressing the pen hard, brow furrowed. Priya left with a bright wave, her dupatta fluttering.

All afternoon, I sat in Arjun’s office, staring at the half-empty cup of chai Priya had left. The office was quiet except for the tap-tap of distant keyboards and the whirr of a printer. The lipstick mark on the cup glowed in the afternoon light. I wondered what jokes, what secrets, they shared when I wasn’t here.

After work, in Arjun’s car, I noticed a little white rabbit hanging from the rearview mirror—its ears bouncing with every pothole. Not Arjun’s style. I didn’t ask. The answer was obvious. The scent of jasmine lingered, the world outside a blur of rickshaws and vada pav stalls.

"Toh Priya bhi graduate ho gayi," I said, voice brittle.

Arjun gripped the wheel, eyes on the road. "Haan. Last year graduate hui. Resume bheja, company mein kami thi, kaam accha karti hai, isliye rakh liya."

He sounded defensive, ticking off points like in a board meeting. I wanted to reach for his hand, but mine fell limp in my lap. The neon lights of the city smeared past, red and gold.

I leaned my head against the window, watching Mumbai race by. The glass was cool. I tried to remember feeling safe, but those memories felt as distant as Nashik summer holidays—sweet, unreachable.

Even if he tried to give me security now, I knew happiness was beyond me. The emptiness inside was like a diya in a storm—flickering, barely holding on.

After seeing Arjun’s smile in his office, I started watching him more. At dinner, I noted how he checked his phone, how he hummed old film songs while shaving, how he hesitated before entering our room. He took care of me—my tea, my medicine, the fan—but it was all duty, not love.

Before, we’d stay up late arguing about films, sharing filter coffee and dal soup, laughing about my crazy shoots. Now, there was only gentle silence. I had become a shadow in my own home.

On our anniversary, I cooked dal soup, bought roses, and ordered his favourite cake. I called him, voice too bright: "Arjun, aaj maine sab kuch tayaar kiya hai—gulab, cake, dal soup, coffee. Jaldi aa jana, haan?"

He hesitated: "Urgent kaam hai, overtime karna padega. Lekin midnight se pehle aa jaunga. Tumhare liye gift bhi hai. Intezaar karna, Meera."

I forced a smile. After hanging up, I sat alone in candlelight, roses and cake untouched. The city was noisy, but my flat was silent. I waited, tracing the icing with my finger, hoping something would change.

Eventually, I packed up the dal soup, cake, and roses, and left. Maybe going to him would break the darkness.

I drove to his office parking lot, clutching the bag, roses pricking my palm. I saw him rush from the lift and speed away in his car. My heart thudded. I followed, traffic blurring, the city alive outside but my car a tomb.

He didn’t head home. He took a flyover, away from our flat. The hope inside me sputtered. Still, I pressed the accelerator, following. My hands shook, a reckless thought flashing—what if I just crashed into him? End it all?

At a yellow light, a truck thundered by. For a split second, I considered running the red. The world shrank to the sound of my breath and the pounding of my heart. Then: "Arrey yaar, marna hai toh akela maro! Dusre ko kyu le doob rahe ho?" someone shouted from another car. I jolted back, slamming the brakes. Cold sweat drenched me. I wasn’t ready to die—not yet.

I followed Arjun to a residential complex. He rushed inside, phone pressed to his ear: "Bas, pahunch gaya."

The lift was broken, so I climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last. On the thirteenth floor, I heard his voice: "Hold on, main abhi hospital le jaata hoon."

Peeking through the railings, I saw Arjun carrying Priya, her face twisted in pain. He rushed past, not seeing me. The motion-sensor lights blinked out behind them, leaving me in darkness, hugging my knees.

At midnight, my phone alarm rang. "Happy anniversary, Meera," I whispered to myself, the words swallowed by the shadows.