Chapter 2: Cold Wars and Old Friends

1.

Another day, another quarrel with Rohan. This time, he accused me of being too controlling.

"What’s wrong with me having a drink outside? Why do you have to make a fuss about everything?" Rohan’s voice was heavy with impatience, sharp even over the phone.

It was already eleven thirty at night.

"Your stomach isn’t good. You know you can’t handle much."

But Rohan didn’t care. I could hear his friends in the background, voices teasing:

"Arrey Rohan, how old are you? Still getting called home like a schoolboy."

"Just leave her, yaar. Don’t be such a joru ka ghulam! Don’t make your wife mad—go home and do uthak-baithak in front of your wife, haha!"

Their laughter made Rohan bristle with embarrassment. He grew angry and abruptly hung up on me.

When I tried calling back, he rejected it straight away.

I almost called again, but Insta comments flashed before my eyes:

[So funny, the guy’s being egged on by his bros to fight with his girlfriend again.]

[He clearly likes being called home, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.]

[Now he’s swiping his phone so much his fingers are smoking, just waiting for the girl to call a third time.]

I froze. Were these comments about me? The girl—me. The guy—Rohan. It fit. Rohan was always awkward with these cold wars, but if I reached out first, he’d act like he was being generous by accepting my apology. Always on the third try, always pretending to be reserved.

Even my own mind echoed with those Insta comments, like my life had become a Colors TV serial—everyone watching, waiting for the next twist. I could almost hear a dramatic background score as I stared at my phone, torn between my pride and worry. In the kitchen, the pressure cooker hissed, as if impatient for me to make a move.

But my attention stuck to the first line—those friends who kept egging Rohan on.

Pressing my lips tight, I dialled another number:

"Why do you always ask Rohan out drinking? Don’t you know someone’s waiting for him at home?"

There was a pause, then a cold reply:

"When did I ever ask Rohan to drink?"

Kabir. Rohan’s childhood best friend—and my arch-nemesis. He’d always looked down on me, never giving me a kind word.

But this time, my anger burned hotter than our old rivalry:

"If not you, then who? You know about his stomach problems. Why keep dragging him to bars?"

Kabir let out a short, exasperated laugh:

"I just got home from a business trip. Haven’t been to any bar, thank you very much."

He sent a photo. In it, he looked freshly showered, hair still wet, a plain white towel slung over his shoulder:

"Also, I set a curfew for myself—home before ten, every night."

He was clearly hinting at something:

"I’m not like others. If I had a partner, I’d listen to everything she says."

His message was so casual, but that photo! I rolled my eyes, feeling my cheeks go warm. Who sends a towel selfie at midnight? Still, I couldn’t help noticing the unruffled confidence in his words. Typical Kabir—like the world’s rules were made just for him.