Chapter 2: Breaking Points

The words in the chat box were typed and deleted, deleted and typed, but I still couldn’t decide what to say.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Should I beg? Curse her? Pretend I don’t care? In the end, I just stared at the blinking cursor, my heart pounding louder than the pressure cooker in the kitchen.

I wanted to ask her what was going on, if she was really a rich heiress, what her scene was with Kabir Malhotra.

Even though it was all over trending, I kept hoping she’d explain—maybe in person, maybe say it was all a misunderstanding. That she lied, but had her reasons.

Like some hero in a movie, I imagined her running to me, crying, saying sorry, asking for forgiveness. But life isn’t filmy, yaar.

But then, while I was still hesitating, she messaged first.

Just three words: "Let’s break up."

I stared at the screen, stunned. My hands typed before my mind caught up: "Why?"

"Had enough fun."

"Oh. What about the stuff you left at my place?"

"Just throw it out, it’s not worth anything anyway."

A few lines, and that was it. Years of memories, gone like yesterday’s samosa—cold and forgotten.

2.

It was Rohan who dragged me out for drinks.

He landed at my door, unshaven, in his “I Survived Engineering” tee: “Bas ho gaya, Arjun. Aaj raat, tu aur main, daaru-shaaru. Warna main pagal ho jaunga.”

He said it was rare for me to get dumped, and after three years of my PDA, I owed him at least one night of drama.

We landed at some basement bar in Hazratganj—neon tubes, sticky floors, the air thick with cigarette smoke and Old Monk. A waiter in a faded “Kingfisher” tee wiped down the table with a red rag, glancing at us like he’d seen a hundred heartbroken boys before. IT guys played antakshari in one corner, louder with every round.

Rohan clinked his glass to mine: "Chill, bhai. Ananya’s a beauty, you got to sleep with her—no loss! With your salary, you couldn’t afford a girl like her anyway. Take it as a blessing."

I downed my drink, frowning. "Don’t talk about her like that."

He grinned, "Arre, thik hai, thik hai, cheers."

He was trying, in his own dumb way. But some wounds don’t need namak.

Music was blaring—probably “Tip Tip Barsa Paani.” A couple slow-danced in the corner, giggling as if the world was theirs.

Rohan kept telling me to drink, but his capacity was zero. After a few pegs, he was slurring, reciting shayari—badly. “Pee ke hum tum...umm...yaar, line bhool gaya.” I just shook my head and poured him another.

I still had office tomorrow.

The office WhatsApp group buzzed—client’s messages, deadlines. Working people can’t afford to get fully drunk.

After dropping Rohan home, I caught an auto.

The ride was bumpy, driver playing Kumar Sanu on Radio City. Lucknow never sleeps—chai wallas at 1 a.m., street dogs fighting over scraps, couples walking like nothing else matters.

Honestly, I wanted to cry, but I held it in.

The auto wallah probably thought I was drunk. Truth is, I was just empty.

I also wanted to message her, but I held that in too.

My phone kept buzzing. I put it on silent and watched the city fly past—old bungalows, closed paan shops.

Mostly, I just felt like a fool.

All those big dreams, all my “one day I’ll make it” speeches—here I was, dumped and left behind.

I’d actually been saving to buy a flat with her name on it.

Spent nights on MagicBricks, dreaming of a 2BHK with a balcony, us drinking chai every evening. Stupid, right?

She always said her family was poor, that she never felt secure.

She’d sniff and say, “Arjun, I just want a place of my own. No one can throw me out.”

But for three years—were all those moments fake?

Every Sunday, I’d cook Maggi for breakfast, she’d sit on the kitchen slab, swinging her legs, humming old Hindi songs. The hiss of the pressure cooker, the cheap masala smell, her laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles. All fake?

She said "had enough fun," and that was it?

It stung more than I wanted to admit. My pride, my love, my plans—all thrown out like last week’s Times of India.

I leaned my head on the auto window, the potholes knocking some sense into me.

Finally got home.

Aslam Bhai, the building watchman, was dozing. He opened one eye and grunted as I walked in.

A gust of wind made me dizzier, so I just sat by the roadside, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

My head buzzed, city lights blurry. Distant train whistle, dogs barking, the faint sizzle of someone frying bhajiyas.

Then someone blocked the streetlight.

I looked up—it was Ananya.

First I thought I was seeing things. But she was really there, looking unreal—pure black saree, hair in waves, jewellery shining. She looked like she belonged on Page 3, not in my dusty colony. Passersby stared.

She looked down at me. "Why are you so pathetic? Itni himmat nahi hai ki mujhe chhod de?"

Her words cut deeper than any fight. The way she said it—cold, final—it was like a switch flipped.

I was stunned, tongue-tied.

My throat went dry. I thought of laughing it off, but my lips wouldn’t move.

Her gaze was like a stranger’s.

No trace of the girl who’d fought me for the last kaju katli.

I’d never seen her like this.

She used to always smile, and when our eyes met, she’d come hug me, tease: "Bhaiya, did you love me a little more today?"

She’d hug me from behind, chin on my shoulder, big puppy eyes: “Bol na, did you?”

I’d say no, she’d tickle me till I said yes.

She was relentless—even after fights, she’d make me laugh, poking my ribs or making faces till I melted.

Now, all those memories just hurt. Like pressing a bruise, telling yourself it doesn’t hurt.

I took a deep breath, tried to keep it together:

"Why, really?"

My voice cracked, but I kept my chin up.

She didn’t answer—just waved her hand, summoning her driver. That dismissive gesture—I’d seen it at restaurants, but never at me.

An Audi SUV pulled up. Its headlights made everything look unreal. I blinked, steadying myself.

The car door opened. Out came a girl with wild red hair—Ritika.

"Arrey, abhi bhi pehchaanta hai apni Maasi ko?"

It took me a second to place her—Ritika, my first student, back in my Lucknow University tuition days. Her red hair was famous, even then.

"Wah, yaad hai! I thought you’d forgotten."

She laughed too loudly, showing off.

Ritika looped her arm around Ananya. Their body language screamed old money—confident, entitled, like the world was theirs.

Her grinning face was just as I remembered.

Ritika was my first student—rich, mischievous, never cared for rules. First lesson, she behaved. Second, she tried bribing me, then snuck out to party. I didn’t take her money, but called her mom. Next thing, Ritika got slapped and grounded. She hated me for that—started a fight at campus, made a scene. But I was just doing my job.

After that, she stopped coming. I thought she forgot me.

Never expected to see her again like this.

Ritika watched my face and smirked: "This is my sister, you know? She dated you just to get back at me."

Sister—not by blood, but by the secret ties of the rich.

Ananya frowned, as if she wanted to say something, but said nothing. Her eyes flickered—guilt, or just irritation? I couldn’t tell.

But suddenly, everything made sense. The secrets, the hesitation—now it all fit.

I almost laughed.

"So now you’ve had your revenge, are we even?"

Ritika froze. Then she nodded. "I guess... I guess so. But aren’t you angry?"

I shook my head, smiling. "Kya bura manna? Bet thi, ho gayi."

The words tasted bitter, but I kept up the smile. I wouldn’t let them see me break.

"If that’s all, I’ll go. Ladies, enjoy."

I saluted, half-mocking, and turned away. My pride was all I had.

As I climbed the stairs, their laughter echoed behind me, sharp as broken glass. I promised myself—I wouldn’t look back.