I look around. They do need me. They have to wrap this up, the bill needs to be closed, the accounts need to be settled with the decorators, and the social media team needs to be briefed about what needs to be done with the content that’s been shot today.
‘I will work from home,’ I lie.
Kunal sighs. He knows it’s done. He knows when to stop pushing. I want to stay too; he knows that, but I can’t. Now that I know what I did, I won’t be here mentally anyway. Despite what Raghav likes to think of me—which is very little these days, zilch—my sense of obligation and friendship, the deep, ingrained bond of our shared tragedy, is stronger than anything else. Stronger even than the slightest possibility of a future. It’s a gravitational pull I can’t escape. It’s my fate. He and I are tied together. I can never leave. Even if I want to, I can’t leave.
‘I have to go,’ I say to Kunal, my voice tight. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He looks at me, and I see the understanding in his eyes, but also a disappointment. It’s the look of a guy who knows he’s lost a battle he never had a chance of winning. I tell him that every day. And yet, he keeps fighting.
‘I get it,’ he says quietly. ‘Let me drop you to the cab.’
On the way to the parking lot where a Swift Dzire waits for me, we don’t speak. It’s only when I put my bag in that he says, ‘But Aditi... you can’t keep setting yourself on fire to keep himwarm.’
I chuckle sadly. ‘Now that’s a metaphor. How long have you been thinking about it?’
He’s irritated. ‘You can’t deflect this, Aditi. At some point, you have to choose yourself.’
I nod. ‘I will when it’s time. Right now, it’s not.’
I get into the cab and rush home, my heart pounding with a mix of guilt and resentment. I burst into the apartment, ready for a crisis, ready to find him in the depths of despair. I’m already trying to figure the menu I’m going to order. Would we watch a movie together? Rerun ofPitchers? OrBrooklyn Nine-Nine? OrStudent of the Year?
But . . .
He’s just sitting on the sofa in the dark, a glass of vodka and Red Bull in his hand, staring at the highlights of an old Wimbledon final. There’s a glow from the phone beside him too—the only lights in the room. He looks calm.
‘You’re back early,’ he says without looking away from thescreen.
‘I came back,’ I say. ‘For you . . .’
He finally turns, an eyebrow raised in mild, infuriating surprise. ‘For me? Why would you come back for me?’
‘What do you mean?’ I say, the words emerging harsher than I thought they would. ‘Today’s the anniversary... when you guys...’
He takes a slow sip of his drink. ‘Yes, it is. And I was handling it. Why would you come back for that?’
And something inside me snaps. ‘Because I felt guilty!’
‘Oh, please.’
‘What please?!’
‘Stop pretending you care any more,’ he says.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Did I ask you to come back?’ he asks, his voice unnervingly calm. ‘Did I call you and beg you to leave your party? No. Whydid—’
‘Because—’
‘Don’t fucking interrupt me. You came back because you felt guilty about not pretending hard enough. That’s on you. Don’t put it on me.’
Argh.
My eyes dart to the phone. ‘Of course, you don’t need me now. Because you have that stupid chatbot.’
He turns to me, eyes red. ‘Please go back to your party.’
He starts to get up and leave.
