Chapter 2: Betrayal’s Echo

A song isn’t much to some people.

But I wrote this one. I wrote it for him.

I wanted to play it for him when I confessed next week.

He once said: “Agar koi mere liye ek song likhe na, toh I’ll find it super romantic.”

I remembered that for years, even though I’ve never been good at composing.

Just like I never liked music, but still chose this academy for him.

Even though… I’m mute.

The tears finally spilled, burning as they rolled down my hand. I shrank back, eyes wide.

I looked at him, disbelieving: “You knew?”

He sighed, impatient: “Haan, toh? Ek song hi toh hai. Is it really worth it, Meera?”

“Today’s competition matters for her. Scholarship ka sawaal hai. She’s had a tough time, works really hard.”

“Did you have to embarrass her in front of everyone?”

“Do you want her to never show her face in college again?”

“Do you want her labelled as a ‘chor’ forever?”

His words hung in the air—“log kya kahenge?”—the old Indian threat of shame, learned since school days.

I tugged his hand, pleading: “But it’s my song. I spent a month on it.”

“Even when I had that bad flu—103 fever!—I still finished it. It was for you.”

He just waved my hand away, bored: “Fine, fine, I’ll tell her to say sorry later, okay?”

His tone was flat, as if my pain was some small inconvenience. I felt utterly alone, pressed against the corridor’s peeling wall.

“I don’t want that!” I signed, fiercely.

I grabbed his hand, pulled him back, refusing to let it end there.

He tried to cajole me, and when I wouldn’t listen, he snapped.

“Meera, bas karo! Tu khud soch—mute hai. Even if you wrote it, so what? Kaun maanege? Kaun sochega ki ek mute itna achha likh sakti hai?”

Suddenly, I let go of his hand.

When did Arjun become like this?

A memory flashed—us as kids, laughing in the park, his hand warm in mine. Now, only coldness remained.

“I believe.”