Chapter 6: The Price of Letting Go
After that day, I felt something had changed between me and Rohan. It was subtle at first—an awkward pause in conversation, a hesitation before reaching for my hand. We both pretended nothing was wrong, but the air felt heavy, charged with things unsaid.
But neither of us brought up Ananya. Her name became a silent guest at every dinner, hovering between us like a third person. We tiptoed around her presence, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.
He didn’t try to explain anything to me either. He avoided my eyes when I asked about his day, changed the subject when I mentioned the past. It was as if silence was safer than honesty.
He became more and more generous to me, taking me to various auctions. As long as I looked at something, someone would soon deliver it to me—a Sabyasachi clutch, a Fabindia kurta, a copy of Gitanjali with a handwritten note. Suddenly, I was drowning in gifts, each more extravagant than the last. It felt less like love and more like compensation.
I forget who said it—maybe Zoya, maybe one of the other girls. “Rohan bhai is always generous. After a breakup, you can walk away with half your wishlist ticked off. He settles things in cash, not emotions.”
It was almost a running joke—how he’d buy his way out of heartbreak, offering consolation prizes to every girl who tried to love him. For Rohan, love was a ledger, and he always balanced the books.
The night before his birthday, someone delivered two property papers to me. I sat fidgeting with my dupatta, my henna-stained fingers clutching the heavy envelope, heart pounding. The documents were thick, stamped with official seals, my name in bold. A bungalow in Gurgaon, a car. My hands shook as I opened them.
When I received them, my fingertips were cold. I called him with trembling hands, nearly dropping my phone.
He answered quickly, his voice warm. “Hello, Meera? What’s up?”
I pretended nothing was wrong and asked: “It’s your birthday, giving me such big gifts, don’t you think it’s a loss?” I tried to sound casual, even playful. “Yeh sab zaroori tha? Feels like a lottery, not a birthday.”
“Arrey, kya loss? Tu pasand hai mujhe, toh thoda pamper kar diya. Bas.” His tone was light, a Delhi boy’s easy swagger masking something deeper.
I clenched my palm, nails digging into my skin. “These things are too expensive, almost like a shagun for marriage.”
He was silent for a long time. I pressed my lips together, tears slipping down my cheeks. Finally, he spoke, voice low: “Meera. Don’t overthink. Sleep early, I’ll pick you up tomorrow night.”
Should I believe him? I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if love was supposed to feel like this—heavy, uncertain, bought and sold in pieces. He did all this because he liked me, not because he wanted to break up. But even as I repeated it to myself, I knew I was lying.