Only six months.
I remember that night . . .
the night we fought in Bali . . .
over what she saw on my phone . . .
I remember the ugly things we said, the words that bubbled out of us like acid, burnt everything that we had between us, how she walked away, and this guy, this fucking guy, approached her.
‘Hey? You okay?’ Kunal had asked, just inside my earshot. ‘You look a bit... sad.’
She had turned to this random ass guy in the middle of the resort lobby and said, ‘No, I’m okay.’
Okay?
Look how easily she’s forgetting Aman, a voice in my head hisses like it had hissed in that resort in Bali.Look how everything was a lie.
I shut it down. What’s the point of saying all this? I know where it’s going to go. If I know something, it’s that neither of us can win in any conversation with the other. We only end upbruising each other. We know what hurts. The cruellest cuts come from those who once knew how to heal you.
‘You can still come to the event,’ she says. ‘I can keep a slot for you.’
‘And find love?’ I say. ‘No, thanks.’
‘There will be—’
I cut her. ‘I don’t care who there will be, Aditi. None of them will be Megha.’
‘Of course I know that—’
‘But you have fun, okay? Don’t forget to have fun. That’s the entire point of it, is it not?’ I say, referencing to the one time I went to her event. To see herjob.
Kunal and she were helming the event where thirty desperate people who couldn’t be authentic or interesting on dating apps were blaming the apps and now trying to be authentic and interesting in real life and failing miserably. Dating apps don’t suck. People do. She kept asking people to shake off the nervousness and have fun.
‘It’s work, Raghav.’
‘Is that why the dress...’ I pause, for I’m slipping down that slippery slope again. ‘I get it. You guys are the poster people for love, Kunal and you, right?’
And there I see it. The defensive anger. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asks.
‘C’mon, you’re not naive,’ I say. ‘You know, people are supposed to look at you two anchoring the event and think, wow, perfect love. They met offline, right? Look at them, we can also do it.’
‘It’s work,’ she insists. ‘And I don’t love him—’
‘Sure, it is love,’ I mutter.
‘We are just testing waters.’
‘The way you checked yourself in the mirror a bunch of times? Makes me question it,’ I say. ‘But who am I to say anything?’
That gets her. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘Wow? Now you’re angry,’ I say.
‘Are you a neighbourhood aunty, Raghav?’ she yells. ‘After saying everything, you’re saying “who am I to say anything?” Just say it! You want to, you know that! Just fucking say it!’
The accusation hangs in the air, ugly and toxic.
‘I’m thinking about what Aman would think,’ I say, grinding my teeth, surprised that she’s not thinking what Aman would think.
