Chapter 3: The Cost of Closure

A breeze blew outside the builder’s office as I gripped my phone tightly in my pocket.

The city’s evening air was sticky, thick with the smell of frying bhajiyas and kids playing cricket. My shirt clung to my back as I watched Priya and her family—so close, suddenly so far away.

They were caught up in the joy of buying a flat, but my chest felt heavy.

I stood a little apart, watching the yellow streetlamps flicker on. The distant clang of temple bells mixed with my doubts. Even the crows on the wires seemed to be silent witnesses.

The builder’s office, golden in the sunset, looked like a cage—dazzling, but trapping me inside.

For a moment, I felt trapped between duty and longing. The promise of a home felt more like handcuffs than wings.

Priya held my arm as we exited, but the moment we hit the steps, she dropped it.

Her fingers slipped away—cold, abrupt. The city noise faded, the world tilting around me.

After a few steps, her voice turned unfamiliar, distant.

Her eyes were hard, lips pressed tight. The Priya I knew was gone; this was a stranger.

"Arjun, mujhe tujhse kuch kehna hai."

She stopped, turned, voice flat. "Let’s break up."

She looked at me like she was reading out the last line of a script she’d rehearsed.

I stared, stunned, unable to process her words. The ground felt like it was slipping away.

"Flat ho gaya. Family ko explanation mil gaya."

Her words echoed, empty and final. For her, closure. For me, a sentence.

Before I could speak, Aunty’s voice cut in:

"Pehle hi kar dena chahiye tha! Priya ka kya hota tere jaise nikamme ke saath?"

Her words were sharp as glass. People nearby stared, and I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

Priya stepped forward, widening the gap between us. She straightened her dupatta, erasing every trace of our closeness. I saw only cold determination in her eyes.

"Tu apne raste, main apne."

Her words stung more than any slap. It was over—just like that.

"Wait, what do you mean?" My voice was barely a whisper, my heart pounding so loud I was sure everyone could hear.

Aunty glared, "Flat mil gaya—ab tumhari zarurat nahi hai."

Her words were ice down my back. I was just a means to an end.

"Aunty, I don’t understand..."

"Aunty mat bolo! Koi rishta nahi hai. Aaj se sab khatam. Priya se contact mat karna."

She raised her voice. A nearby chaiwala looked at me with sympathy, then quickly turned away—public humiliation in the open Mumbai air.

Rohan stepped up, arms folded, smirking. The world shrank to this cruel little circle.

"Arre, tension mat le. Tera paisa toh girlfriend ke saath rehne ka rent maan le. Mazaa aaya na, do saal?"

His words were biting, each syllable a slap.

Priya clutched the agreement. "Flat mere naam pe hai. Koi trick mat sochna."

She hugged the folder close, face hard. I had no claim, no voice.

I trembled, eyes red. "Do saal... do saal ki feelings, bas aise hi?"

My voice shook, ashamed at how small I sounded.

"Feelings?"

Priya’s lips curled. "Aise kisi ke liye feel karungi main? Control karne layak ho, isliye thi."

"Do saal ke badle flat—worth it totally."

I flinched. The honesty hurt worse than a lie.

"I don’t agree... I really like you..."

My words faded into the night. I felt foolish, exposed, like a child caught out in a lie.

Her mother rolled her eyes, pulled Priya away. "Chalo, time waste mat karo."

Rohan bumped my shoulder as they left, snapping me back to reality. I watched their backs, feeling like I’d lost not just a flat, but my future.

Their car screeched away, tail-lights disappearing into the Mumbai night. I stood frozen, dreams dissolving in exhaust fumes.

Only after the car turned the corner did I finally exhale, the air around me suddenly lighter, my heart heavy. A vendor selling roasted peanuts called out. Life moved on, indifferent.

I took out my phone, thumb trembling over the play button. Priya’s voice filled my ears—sharp, clear, proof I wasn’t crazy. “Flat mere naam pe hai, koi trick mat sochna.”

I listened twice. With each play, anger and pain surged and ebbed. After the second time, I let out a slow, shaky breath. The city’s sounds—horns, hawkers, laughter—flooded back, and resolve began to build in my chest.

I opened a folder: photos of the agreement, every signature, every clause. The law might be slow, but it was my weapon now.

Leaning on the railing, I dialled a number. The metal was cool under my palm, steadying me. I closed my eyes for a second, then spoke.

"Hello, Advocate Mehra? I want to ask about property agreement fraud..."

My voice was steadier now. The fear was gone, replaced by something like steel. The city’s lights blinked on, one by one.

I looked at my copy of the agreement—my name, Priya’s, in blue ink. Fate had joined us on paper, nothing more.

What Priya didn’t know: I’d seen the breakup coming for a long time.

My phone gallery was full of chat screenshots—two years’ worth. Each was a piece of a puzzle, a timeline of a love that had died long before I noticed. The screen glowed softly, lighting my way ahead. Mumbai’s traffic roared back to life, and I took my first step forward, determined to write my own ending—no matter what anyone said.

Somewhere in the city, another flat was lighting up for the first time. Mine would too—on my terms.