He freezes for a bit. His eyes move towards the phone in hishand.
I say. ‘Right now. In front of me.’
The music keeps playing. People laugh around us. But to me, everything goes quiet. Only his silence matters.
I see a flicker of panic in his eyes, a cornered, desperate look. He shakes his head slightly. ‘Aditi... but...’
‘Yes, here,’ I insist, my voice firm. ‘It’s not fair to you. It’s not fair to her. She deserves to rest. And so do you.’
He keeps staring at me for a bit. I tell myself not to waver. This is the time. He has to do it today.
Then, he looks away.
He lifts up his phone, his hand trembling slightly.
He unlocks it, his thumb hovering over the app icon. I can see the war happening on his face—the desperate need to cling to his last remaining comfort, and the terrifying possibility ofletting it go. The moment stretches on to what seems like an eternity.
I want to grab the phone for him. But I force myself to be still. This has to be his choice.
Finally, he presses down on the icon. The small ‘x’ appears. He hits it. A confirmation box pops up.Are you sure you want to delete this app?
He closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, and taps ‘Delete.’
The app vanishes.
He looks up at me, his face pale, his eyes looking lost. ‘It’s done,’ he whispers.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Now join them . . .’
For the next hour, I watch him. He makes a genuine, painful effort to engage. He stumbles at first. His hands twitch. His eyes search for the exits. But he stays.
I see the old him emerge—of whatever little I knew of him. He talks to a few people, his conversations awkward at first, then surprisingly... not. He’s witty, he has always been. He’s smart too, and he’s almost too good-looking for an offline mixer to be his last resort to find someone.
I feel a huge wave of relief and hope wash over me as a couple of girls start fawning over him. As Raghav used to say, hope is the most dangerous drug of all for someone who has learnt to live without it, but I’m clinging on to it now. Maybe he can do this. Maybe we can do this.
I’m talking to Kunal later, buzzing with the success of the event and the fragile hope for my friend. ‘I think he’s really trying,’ I say. ‘I’m so happy.’
Kunal smiles. ‘I’m happy for him. And for us. We can do with some guys like him in our mixers. But... where is he?’
I look around. The spot where he was standing is empty. Iscan the crowd, my heart starting to beat a little faster. He’s not by the bar. He’s not talking to anyone. He’s gone.
My stomach drops. The hope I was holding slips away like sand.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I say to Kunal, the panic already starting to rise in my throat.
‘Aditi,’ Kunal says quietly, his hand on my arm. ‘See?’
‘What?’
‘You can’t be his keeper.’
I frown. ‘This is hardly the time for a lesson, Kunal.’
I pull my arm away and rush through the crowd, my earlier triumph forgotten. I push my way outside, into the cool night air. The parking lot is dark and mostly empty. The distant sound of traffic on the main road is a low, constant hum. I run around trying to find him. He can’t have gone too far.
And then I see him.
He’s hunched over on a concrete bench at the far end of the lot, under the weak glow of a streetlamp. His shoulders are shaking. He’s crying. Not with loud, theatrical sobs, but with a silent, body-racking grief that is a thousand times more painful to witness.
