Chapter 3: Falling In

Not long after that, we got together. It was all so ordinary, so simple, I almost didn’t notice when we went from friends to something more. One day he was dropping me home after class, the next we were holding hands at the Saturday market, laughing at the same silly street magician.

When Fatima found out, she raised her eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared into her hair. “Arey, you serious? Rohan Malhotra? Yaar, dangerous territory. But the gifts must be amazing, na?”

“Just enjoy it while it lasts,” she advised, squeezing my hand.

There was a lump in my throat, but I smiled anyway. “Haan, let’s see how long this one lasts.”

Everyone is naive at some point. At that age, you believe in the goodness of people, in the power of your own affection to change even the most stubborn heart.

We’d sit in tiny cafes, hands touching under the table, and I’d imagine introducing him to my parents—him struggling to fold his hands in a proper namaste, my mother sizing him up over chai and samosas. My mother always said: 'Don’t give your heart to a boy who can’t even fold his hands for you in front of elders.' I wondered if Rohan ever could.

But later, I realised that’s not enough. Love isn’t always enough—especially when the shadows of the past are longer than the distance between us.

Take that bet, for example. Rohan never dated a girl for more than half a month. Everyone around him knew the rules except me. I walked straight into the game, blindfolded by my own optimism.

His friends, those rich Delhi boys—why did they bet on a month? I used to think it was just a joke, bored boys with too much time. Now I know better. Much later, I found out the extra half month was because I looked a bit like his first love.

When I finally saw Ananya’s photo, the resemblance was uncanny—the same long hair, the stubborn chin. For a moment, I almost laughed at the irony. My face was why the bet lasted longer, why he lingered, even if just a bit.