Chapter 2: Torn Apart by Izzat

When I opened the door, Priya was squatting at the entry, polishing my formal shoes.

She wore her old green salwar kameez, hair neatly tied in a bun. The faint scent of naphthalene mixed with Vim bar soap lingered in the shoe cupboard. Even after all these years, she kept my shoes shining, as if every scuff could be scrubbed away by faith alone.

She looked up as I entered and automatically reached to help me take my shoes off—a habit from years of “Rohit, don’t dirty the floor, I just mopped!” But today, her hands hesitated, frozen mid-air, caught between routine and shock.

Her eyes widened as she saw Neha behind me. The world seemed to pause—the distant scooter honk, the neighbour’s mixer grinding chutney, the fan’s slow whirl—everything faded. Priya’s hands trembled, forehead creasing as she registered Neha’s presence.

Her gaze lingered on our interlocked hands. No words. Just a tightening of lips, a set jaw—the first crack in her mask.

My heart hammered in my chest, legs weak. I braced for the worst—visions of Priya smashing a photo frame, slapping me, or locking herself in the bathroom flashed through my mind. Muscles tensed. But all that came were two silent tears, gliding down her cheeks.

She clenched the edge of her dupatta, knuckles white. She bit her lower lip, eyes shining under the dim hallway light. She blinked rapidly, as if holding back a flood.

For the first time, Priya looked fragile—like a child who’s just broken her favourite toy.

Arrey yaar…

I almost muttered it aloud, wishing for a rewind button. But what’s done is done.

I breathed a small sigh of relief—no drama, no scene for the mohalla. Not yet. But the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

A memory crashed into me—Priya’s tears the night I tried to end it all after my second business failed. She chased me down the stairwell, her dupatta flying, voice echoing. She gripped my shirt, sobbing, refusing to let go. Later, as she dabbed Dettol on my bruises, she’d said, “Tu pagal hai, Rohit. Bas mujhe tu chahiye.” That memory stung now, sharp and raw.

"Priya didi, I really didn’t want to disturb you…" Neha’s voice, tentative and small, broke the silence. She stepped forward, wringing her dupatta. “But I’m pregnant, and Rohit bhaiya doesn’t feel comfortable letting me live alone…”

Her tone—half apology, half plea—made her seem even younger. My guilt twisted, but I kept my face blank.

Neha’s words snapped me back to the present. I blinked, then gripped her hand, bypassed Priya, and led her straight into the living room.

Every footstep echoed on the marble floor. Priya’s gaze burned my back. Every step felt like a fresh betrayal, but I kept going, focusing on Neha’s trembling hand in mine.