The air in the apartment was thick now, like it remembered every lie ever told inside it. I could almost hear the hum of her heartbeat when she moved around, quiet and skittish, every step weighed down by what she wasn't saying.
In the beginning, I thought rage would keep me alive. Turns out it's something colder that does the job—observation. Watching someone who once looked at you with warmth start to fold in on themselves, like a paper house set on fire.
That morning she skipped breakfast. Just poured coffee, hands trembling so badly she spilled some on the counter. She didn't even notice."Going somewhere?" I asked, voice neutral."Work.""On a Saturday?"She froze for half a second before nodding too fast. "Yeah, presentation prep. You know how it is."
I smiled and looked back at my newspaper. "Sure. Work."I didn't stop her. She needed to think she still had room to run. People always show you who they really are when they think they still have choices.
An hour later I tracked her phone location. Old habits. She wasn't at the office. She was at the hotel near the highway—the same one from the video.I didn't need to go there. I just sent one line to both of them from my newest anonymous account:
"Still haven't learned, huh?"
Then I waited.Sometimes silence hits harder than shouting.
By the time she came back that evening, she looked hollow. Her makeup couldn't hide the dark crescents under her eyes. She went straight to the shower, stayed in there for nearly forty minutes. I could hear muffled sobs under the sound of water.
When she came out, she tried a smile, fragile as glass."You home early," she said."Yeah," I said. "Didn't feel like staying late."We stood there, facing each other like strangers sharing an elevator.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. "Dhruve… if—if someone ever tried to hurt you, you'd tell me, right?""Always," I said, meeting her eyes. "Would you tell me if someone tried to hurt you?"Her gaze wavered. "Of course."
We both knew it was a lie.
That night her lover called six times. She ignored every call but one. I could hear the whisper through the thin walls:"They know, Arjun. I think he knows. I can't do this anymore."A pause, his voice low and angry:"You're the one who messed up. Don't blame me."Then a sound—her sharp breath, a soft sob."Fuck you," she hissed, and hung up.
I lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The cracks up there looked like maps, each one leading to a part of my old life that no longer existed. I should've felt something—pity, sadness, maybe even satisfaction.Instead, I felt nothing. Just a steady hum of clarity.
At 2 a.m., I sent one final message for the night, this time only to her:
"He's blaming you now. Maybe he should. Maybe you deserve each other."
Then I turned my phone off and slept soundly for the first time in weeks.