Chapter 4: Roadside Realisations

3.

After the dinner, everyone disappeared. I was left alone by the roadside. The restaurant was tucked away in a remote corner of Kaveripur—easy to reach, hard to get home from.

Rohan refused to drive me back and even stopped anyone else from offering a ride.

The night breeze stung my eyes, and the flickering streetlights seemed to mock my loneliness. I wrapped my shawl tighter, feeling exposed under the gaze of strangers and old friends alike.

As I waited, Insta comments danced before my eyes:

[The girl is so silly. If she’d just said a couple of soft words, the guy would’ve kicked the childhood sweetheart aside and rushed to take her home.]

[The guy is just stubborn, still mad about the bar. If the girl had called again, he would’ve gone home. He waited at the bar all night, nearly died of anger. It was the girl’s fault—she should coax him.]

[The guy has actually been wandering nearby, knowing the place is remote, afraid the girl might get into trouble. He still loves her.]

[Help, so annoyed at this girl. Why can’t she just give in? Is it so hard to apologise?]

I pulled out my phone, thinking of calling Rohan. If I called, he’d come. But I hesitated, then put the phone away.

I crouched down by the curb, the dust clinging to my kurta. Hidden in the shadow of a closed paan shop, I checked my Paytm balance, biting my lip. Did I have enough for the auto home? Would I have to haggle with the driver if I was short? The thought made my loneliness feel even heavier—small, everyday worries piling on top of heartbreak.

I couldn’t help it and started to cry, knees hugged to my chest. The moon hung above, silent and indifferent. It felt childish, but I didn’t care if anyone saw. My throat ached with words left unsaid.

Rohan was always like this—using cold wars to force me to give in, again and again. I used to think it was just his personality. But I’d seen him coax Priya in a gentle voice more than once. He had patience and tenderness, just not for me.

Every time he got angry, he’d throw around the word "break up" to provoke me. Because I always gave in. But this time, he guessed wrong.

I walked for nearly an hour before finally flagging down an auto. Even though my feet ached and my eyes were swollen, I never called Rohan.

The auto driver, an uncle with a thick moustache, noticed my red eyes but didn’t pry. Instead, he turned up the radio, letting an old Kishore Kumar song fill the silence. As we rattled through the city’s empty streets, he finally offered, "Beta, heartbreak hota hai, par zindagi rukti nahi." His unsolicited wisdom made me smile for a second. I promised myself, no more giving in. Not this time.