Chapter 6: The Bitter Aftertaste of Regret

While eating in the canteen, I see the news about the casting of "Basant Ki Raat."

I poked at the rajma, the steam long gone, WhatsApp pings and TV serials swirling together in the noisy canteen. After Arjun chose his former student Priya as the new lead, the internet explodes, gossip flying about their real relationship.

WhatsApp groups buzz, memes and GIFs everywhere. A flood of shipper fans appears:

[So exciting, older teacher-student romance!]

[Handsome man, beautiful girl, classic "uncle and young girl" Bollywood pairing, I’m obsessed.]

[I just love this forbidden vibe—can’t stop, so just let it be!]

I stare at these comments, my heart clenched tight as if in a vice.

I try to laugh along with the others, but my fingers shake. "Meera, what’s wrong? You look so pale," Sneha, sitting across from me, asks with concern.

Sneha’s always quick to notice. She pushes a glass of water towards me, her brow furrowed, and nudges my arm, offering a bite of her samosa—a little gesture of comfort. I shake my head, voice trembling: "It’s nothing... I’m just a little tired."

Sneha looks even more worried.

She is my best friend. In my last life, she made her name acting in TV serials, then became a successful producer.

Her journey was never easy—juggling auditions, dodging lecherous producers, fighting for every inch of respect. She’s always been like this—clear about what she wants. But since coming back to life, I’ve only felt more and more confused...

She nudges me gently, her voice low. "Is it because of the audition?"

Her understanding stings a little. "Sigh, I know you admire Director Arjun’s films and really like him. But we’re only sophomores—it’s normal not to get a part after just one audition."

Her words are meant to comfort, but only underline my loss. I lower my head, poking at my rice with a spoon, silent.

The TV in the corner blares a saas-bahu serial, but even the over-the-top drama can’t distract me. Sneha sighs.

She leans forward, conspiratorial. "Don’t be sad. I just got invited to a few web series. Want to give them a try? They’re not as good as movies, but it’s still a chance."

Her optimism is infectious. "I’ll think about it," I say softly, but my mind is in turmoil.

Scenes from my past life replay in my mind like a film.

The sound of the pressure cooker hissing in the hostel kitchen floats in, almost drowning out my thoughts. Details I once overlooked are now painfully clear.

I remember: in my last life, I only noticed Priya after Arjun and I went public with our relationship.

Priya blocked us backstage at a press conference.

She looked me in the eye, voice trembling—"She’s only a year older than me—why can she, but I can’t?"

Arjun was silent for a long time.

The silence was heavy, as if a curtain had fallen. "It’s not an age problem... I’m the teacher, you’re the student."

His tone was weary in a way I’d never heard before.

Priya’s tears fell instantly.

They tracked down her cheeks, glinting in the harsh press lights. She turned and ran off, her back as fragile as a fallen leaf.

Later, Priya acted in many shows, but never became famous.

She drifted from one production house to another, her name lost in the credits. I heard she got involved with a company boss, and was later exposed as a mistress.

The tabloids went wild, hashtags trended, trolls had a field day. After a storm of public criticism, she committed suicide.

I remember seeing her name trend on Twitter, my thumb frozen above the screen, unable to call Arjun. The guilt tasted bitter, like burnt chai.

The news broke late at night. My phone rang off the hook, journalists calling for a statement. When the news broke, Arjun locked himself in his study and sat there for a long time, staring into space.

I tried to coax him out, but he wouldn’t budge. I thought he was just sad about losing a student.

After that, every year on Priya’s death anniversary, he would visit her grave.

I accompanied him for two or three years, until one year I had to attend a film festival overseas. I told him apologetically I couldn’t make it that time.

Arjun said, "You’re so cold."

His words stung, more than I wanted to admit. I was stunned. I barely knew Priya—accompanying him for two years was already more than enough.

I gripped my suitcase, unsure what to say. Why did Arjun say that to me, for her?

But I thought, well, he makes art films—maybe being sensitive is normal.

I told myself to let it go, that creative people are like this. Later, Arjun apologised, we made up, and he never asked me to go to the grave again.

We never discussed Priya again, as if she’d been erased from our story. So I never thought much about Priya after that.

But now, I finally understand.

The puzzle pieces fall into place with a dull thud. In Arjun’s heart, there was always a place for Priya. Now, reborn, he just wants to make up for his regrets.

He will never let go of Priya again.

Buzz.

Suddenly, my phone vibrates. It’s a text from an unfamiliar number:

[Miss Meera Sharma, we found your audition very impressive. Would you be willing to play the second female lead in "Basant Ki Raat"?]

Second female lead?

The words blink at me, taunting and hopeful at once. My fingers hover over the reply, heart pounding. Maybe this time, destiny wants me to fight for my story.