Chapter 3: Statuses, Sleuthing, and Sleepless Nights

Two months ago, she went to a class reunion and posted a group photo on her WhatsApp Status. That guy was right there.

I remembered because her best friend commented, asking if the guy next to her was the old class heartthrob, and said he was still so handsome. He might be the heartthrob, but I was the one she called every night, right?

My girlfriend replied with a hand-over-mouth giggling emoji.

Her best friend replied again, "But you’ve gotten even prettier. I bet he regrets it now, huh?"

I asked her about it back then. She said the guy chased her in school but she turned him down. Then she added, "He’s about to get married now, so don’t overthink it."

In those dozen or so photos, the way those two acted around each other was clearly off.

I just sat there, feeling all kinds of things, chain-smoking half a pack. Ashtray overflowing, the faint smell of agarbatti from the pooja room mixing with the bitter scent of tobacco, my mind spinning. Every sound from the street—the neighbour’s scooter, a vegetable seller’s distant call—seemed to mock my helplessness.

That night, I called her again—no answer.

Close to ten, she video-called me. But she was in the hotel lobby, not her room.

She said she went to see a show at Koregaon Park, didn’t hear her phone, and now she was exhausted and about to sleep. She said a few rushed words and hung up, saying she was getting in the lift.

Her voice had that fake brightness, the kind you use when talking to relatives you don’t like at Diwali. The hotel lobby behind her looked swanky, people in Western formals, faint lounge music. But her eyes darted sideways—something not right.

I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my back, the blue glow of my phone screen painting shadows on the ceiling, every WhatsApp ping making me jump. I scrolled through her Status and Instagram, searching for clues.

And I actually found something: she had liked a suspicious Instagram post—a close-up of a wine glass.

The time? The day of her class reunion, April 20th.

That Instagram account had a few daily posts, nothing special. But there was a woman always replying in the comments. I dug deeper, and after a quick look, I was sure it was my girlfriend’s alt account.

Because on April 20th, that account posted an update identical to what she posted on her Status that day.

"Do you still remember the dreams of your youth? Like a flower that never withers."

What made my blood pound was that last night, this account posted:

"Turn off the main light and I can be bolder. Leave a small light on and you can see me more clearly. You belong only to me, and I belong only to you."

There’s no way to describe how I felt reading that…

A sick heaviness, like losing your wallet on a crowded local train—panic, disbelief, anger, and finally that numbness settling somewhere deep inside your chest.

She hummed an old Lata song in the kitchen, and I wondered how many lies could fit between two cups of chai.