Chapter 1: Viral Reels and Old Scars

I came across a street interview by a certain vlogger.

It was that dusky Mumbai hour—streetlights flickering awake, autos honking at every red, and the air thick with the smell of frying samosas from the corner stall. My phone buzzed—another of those forwarded reels my cousin Neha floods our WhatsApp group with. But this time, the caption made me pause: "What would you like to say to yourself five years ago?"

"What would you like to say to yourself five years ago?"

In the video, Meera was holding her young boyfriend's hand.

There she was, Meera, in that simple kurti she always picked—one hand nervously twisting her dupatta, the other caught in Arjun's eager grip. Behind them, the city’s traffic glimmered in the glass, but for a moment, Mumbai’s chaos felt far away.

Her voice was shy, gentle and soft.

She dropped her eyes, just like she did whenever she wasn’t sure. Her words floated out—gentle, almost like she was whispering into her old diary, not a camera. There was a tremor, but it was the kind that meant she was carrying something precious inside.

"I wish the Meera from five years ago could have met Arjun earlier."

Her words were barely louder than the background horns and bustle. She smiled, not the wild laugh I remembered, but something smaller, maybe more real. I could almost hear the rickshaw bells clanging faintly as she spoke, as if the city paused just for her confession.

The boy beside her smiled and echoed her words.

"Me too."

He squeezed her hand, looking at her like she was his whole world—no shame in his tone. I recognised that confidence; I’d been that boy once, too. Passersby glanced their way, some grinning, others not caring. On the screen, digital hearts floated up in the comments.

People online gushed about how sweet they were, sending their blessings one after another.

Comments rolled in—half English, half romanised Hindi. “Kya mast jodi hai, re!” “Rab ne bana di jodi,” someone typed. Aunties left long blessings, a teenager wrote, “#CoupleGoals for real.” The city seemed to be rooting for them, not knowing the storm behind those smiles.

No one knew that five years ago was the day Meera and I got married.

Even she herself had forgotten.

Until a week later.

That vlogger posted another street interview video.

In the footage, I looked straight at the camera and said seriously,

There I was—old jeans, scruffy stubble, monsoon wind messing up my hair. I stared into the lens, like I was speaking to the whole city, or maybe just to her.

"Kabir, bhai, agar ho sake toh Meera se shaadi mat kar. Baad mein pachtayega."

This time, Meera saw it.

I wondered if her hands shook when she played the video. Maybe she paused halfway, maybe she held her breath. But this time, the city wasn’t on her side. Only the truth was.