‘We’re going,’ he says, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. ‘To Bali.’
I wipe drool off my mouth. ‘What? Why? What changed your mind?’
His eyes finally meet mine, but they’re unreadable. Guarded.
‘Is it something you read?’ I ask, my mind immediately going to the diaries. ‘In her diary?’
A long pause hangs between us.
‘No,’ he says, but the denial is too quick. ‘Let’s just... go.’
And before I can say anything else, he closes the door, leaving me alone with a decision I don’t understand.
23
Raghav
The suitcase doesn’t shut.
It’s not that I’ve overpacked. I’ve just packed badly.
I look at the chaos of half-folded clothes and a hostile tangle of wires. I don’t pack like this. I’m a ninja at organization. Tucked between a pair of jeans and a shirt Megha bought me two birthdays ago are a bunch of diaries. When Megha used to tell me that sometimes she writes her feeling out, I had assumed she meant on loose pieces of paper, thrown away. Not these bound memories. Not these feelings. Dated.
Every day for the last many years.
I don’t know if I have space for any more feelings. I only skimmed them . . . the rest . . . it was too painful . . .
The zip catches on the corner of a pair of shorts I have packed. It angers me so much that I have fucking tears in my eyes. This is when it happens—these fucking annoying childish tears. Not for the big things, never for the big things. It’s always the small, stupid injustices. The stuck zip. The warm water in the car. The protein shaker I forget to wash... the fact that she’s gone and my suitcase won’t close.
Across the room, Aditi is rolling her socks with a clinical, almost robotic efficiency. There’s a strange change in her in the last few days. She seems more collected. Which doesn’t take a lot. She’s placed her things in three neat piles—clothes, toiletries, tech. I wonder where she’s put her grief. Where has she folded that and organized it?
She looks up, her eyes catching mine. ‘You want help?’
‘No, I’m good,’ I say, pulling the zip.
We haven’t talked much this morning. I don’t know what to say to her. How will I explain to her why I want to go? So I just keep talking to her about the things that need to be done. Pack. Cab. Passport. Airbnb.
An hour later, we are done.
Outside, the Uber’s already waiting. The app says it’s a blue Wagon R.
‘Should I cancel and book a big one?’ I ask sarcastically.
‘Why?’ she asks, her tone already defensive. ‘Because you think I want to show off now that I have money?’
‘Well, you have it, don’t you?’ I say, the jab landing before I can stop it.
‘Don’t,’ she says, her voice suddenly fragile. ‘It still hurts.’
I apologize instantly. Sometimes we have to do this. Poke and needle and figure out what parts still hurt, what can be joked about, figure out where the limits are. I do a final, frantic check: passports, wallet, phone. The holy trinity of modern travel.
‘Are you sure you have them?’ I ask her.
‘I do.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure, sure. You’re sure?’
