Chapter 3: Public Grief, Private Fury

[The heroine just saw the truth, arrey, please let her wake up and fight back!]

[Go out there and tear that scoundrel apart!]

But I didn’t storm onto the terrace. Instead, I turned and walked back down the stairs, step by step, feeling the heaviness in my stomach. In the bathroom, I bent over the sink, dry heaving. My reflection in the flickering tube light was ghostly, my eyes bloodshot, face haggard beyond belief. The tap let out a protesting squeak, and I splashed cold water over my wrists, just like Amma used to do when I had fever as a child. But this fever was humiliation, and the chill couldn’t touch it.

[As expected, even after knowing the truth, the heroine still chooses to swallow it in silence. So frustrating, yaar.]

[Of course, she loves him so much. She must have heard the hero say they’ll still get married when he comes back, so she’s just bottling it up.]

[I think the heroine doesn’t want to blow things up yet, she’s probably planning a big move.]

Walking out, Kunal handed me two tissues, his face awkward with concern: “Bhabhi, don’t be too sad. Bhaiya, up in heaven, definitely wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

He stood at the edge of the corridor, eyes darting everywhere but mine. I dabbed my face with the tissue, my hands shaking, and wiped my phone screen with the edge of my dupatta. I could almost hear the neighbours behind half-shut doors, straining for gossip.

I met his deliberately grave face. “Do you think Rohan could still be alive?”

I watched the twitch in his jaw, the momentary hesitation. I was testing him, and we both knew it.