Chapter 5: Eight Years Later

Eight years have passed, and I still can’t forget that day.

The memory sits like a stone in my chest, refusing to budge. Even after so long, the pain remains raw, like a wound that never really healed.

I sat up in bed and checked my phone—it was only four in the morning.

Sleep had become a stranger to me; most nights, I’d wake up before dawn, lost in a fog of memories. I scrolled through my phone aimlessly, watching old photos flicker across the screen.

Facing the empty room, I softly called out, aggrieved, "Papa, Ma..."

The words hung in the air, fragile and desperate. Sometimes I said them just to remind myself that I once had a family.

As always, there was no answer.

Only the buzz of the ceiling fan and the distant hum of early morning traffic outside.

I lowered my head.

I pressed my palm to my chest, willing the ache to go away, but it never did.

For eight years...

They never once came to see me.

Not even in dreams, not in the flickering shadows at night, not as ghosts or gentle whispers. It was as if they had vanished from this world entirely.

In my dreams, there was only Arjun, the mocking smile on his lips, eyes full of scorn, laughing as he asked, "Neha, do you have any pride?"

That dream—always the same. Arjun’s voice echoing in the darkness, his smile twisted and cruel, his words slicing deeper than any knife.

Every time I shouted back that I did, the dream would end.

I’d wake up gasping, heart racing, tears wetting my pillow, wishing for a different ending.

Unable to sleep, I got up to pack my things.

I moved about the tiny room in silence, folding clothes with mechanical precision. The suitcase felt heavier with every shirt I added, as if the past itself was weighing it down.

After numbly handling my parents’ last rites back then, I left that place.

The rituals—lighting the pyre, offering garlands, listening to the pandit chant mantras—blurred together in a haze of grief. The neighbours whispered behind their hands, some with pity, some with suspicion. I ignored them all, burying my pain in chores.

I went to a new city, working and studying at the same time.

The city was loud, merciless. I took up odd jobs—waitressing, data entry, even tutoring snotty children in English. Nights were spent poring over borrowed textbooks, eyes stinging from fatigue.

Juggling both was exhausting.

Some days, my body ached so much I wanted to give up, but the thought of Ma and Papa—what they’d want—kept me going.

But I didn’t dare let myself stop. If I did, I’d just break down and cry.

There were nights I pressed my face into the pillow, biting back sobs, refusing to let the pain win.

I went to the hospital; the doctor said I had moderate depression and needed someone to help me move on from that day.

The doctor, a gentle lady with kind eyes, spoke softly. "You need support, Neha. Try talking to someone—maybe a friend, a counsellor." But the truth was, I had no one.

But there was no such person.

Everyone had their own troubles; I was just another face in the city crowd. I stopped expecting anyone to understand.

After eight years away, I’ve wanted more and more to go back—to see the river my parents jumped into.

The image haunted me—dark, swirling water, the bridge at dusk. I wanted answers, closure, maybe even forgiveness.

I want to jump in myself and ask them why they were so cruel.

My anger simmered beneath the grief. How could they leave me alone? Why didn’t they let me try, fight, beg?

I’m really tired...

The weight of years pressed down on me, sapping my strength. I longed for relief, even if it meant the end.

Since I’m going back anyway, I might as well see those old classmates from before.

A strange curiosity tugged at me—what had become of them? Did they ever think of me?

So when the class prefect asked if I’d come to the reunion, I was the first to say yes.

My fingers hovered over the phone, then I typed, "I’ll come." The words felt both heavy and liberating.

I hadn’t spoken in the group chat for eight years. The WhatsApp group was still called “Batch 2010 Legends”—full of old memes, wedding invites, and forwarded good morning messages. I’d deleted all my classmates—including Arjun.

As I scrolled through the old group messages, I saw Arjun’s display picture—a new car, a pretty girl in sunglasses beside him. My heart twisted, but I forced myself to look away.