I also realized that Vikram genuinely believed Greesha was my past and Rohi was my future. But one look at Rohi—and I knew she belonged to someoneelse’sfuture.
Not mine. Because my future wasn’t anyone. My future had been dead for a year.
That same night, her ex-boyfriend showed up near the bar we were at.
I didn’t need to ask questions.
One look at the way she looked at him—howhelooked ather—and I knew.
I stepped back immediately.
I didn’t confront it. Didn’t push. I just... let her decide.
Let her drive our interactions. Let her decide what she wanted. I stopped initiating, stopped leading. Let her chase whatever illusion she thought we had.
Because I didn’t have the energy to do it anymore.
Did I feel attraction? Sure. Rohi’s always been beautiful, magnetic. But attraction isn’t connection.
And connection isn’t love.
What I carried—what Istillcarry—is the weight of a mourning that refuses to loosen its ghostly grip.
I’ve been grieving for months, and still... it’s not enough. It never will be.
My body itches to keep searching for her. Because I refuse to address the result staring at me. My fingers still twitch toward my inbox every night, toward that PDF file with her name on it. Herdeathon it.
That line of finality.
So no—I wasn’t a lover.
I wasn’t just a celibate ghost waiting on a miracle.
Instead of resurrecting the woman I loved, I became something else:
A brother.
A brother-in-law.
A warm body for someone else’s comfort.
A placeholder.
Because that’s all I was capable of.
Rohi needed something. Maybe a distraction. Maybe validation. Maybe just someone who wouldn’t break her more than her ex had.
And I?
I was already broken.
Detached.Done.
And if the subtle pressure from Ishika hadn’t been enough, Vikram gave me a direct order—softened as brotherly advice.
“Just be there for her, Viko. She’s hurting. You know her.”
So I did what I always do.
