Chapter 1: Two Pink Lines and a Lie

The bathroom tiles felt icy beneath my feet as I sat waiting, the little plastic stick clenched in my sweaty hand. My heart thudded louder than the running tap, and just as the second pink line appeared, my phone buzzed with a WhatsApp notification from Kabir’s phone on the sink.

My hands trembled as I picked up his phone, the code he’d shared with careless trust sliding easily under my thumb. The chat banner read “Bandra Bros”—I’d seen it flash before, always with those silly memes and endless banter. Today, curiosity won over caution.

As I opened the group chat, a message leapt out at me: 'Kabir, Sneha is coming back soon—that’s your real sweetheart. What are you going to do about the old woman?'

The word 'old woman' hit me like a slap. Instinctively, my hand went to my neck, fingers searching for my mangalsutra—a gesture born of habit, even though I wasn’t wearing one. I felt exposed, the sting of being called 'aunty' echoing a memory: the time a shopkeeper had called out, 'Aunty, aapko bill chahiye?' in front of college girls, and the shame had burned deep.

I scrolled further, my eyes skimming cruel lines: 'Oye Kabir, Sneha toh aa rahi hai, yaar! Woh toh asli waali hai teri. Aur woh aunty ka kya karega?' The words dripped with casual cruelty, the kind that only young Indian boys think is harmless.

'Kabir has already trained the old woman like a pet. What else can he do? Hurry up and have a breakup fling.'

Kabir hadn’t replied yet. Another message popped up, the words almost sneering: 'Don’t tell me you’re actually attached to her?'

I held my breath, reading line by line, praying he’d defend me—just once. Then, his reply blinked onto the screen: 'Arey yaar, she’s just aunty material, na. Practice ke liye hai bas. Kaun seriously lega?'

My stomach clenched, and my throat closed. 'Aunty material.' Not even my name. Not even a little dignity.

Another friend chimed in: 'If it wasn’t for Sneha being so cautious and not letting me touch her without a condom, I’d be with her instead.'

The chat log grew filthier with every scroll. I felt myself shrinking, becoming smaller with each keystroke, reduced to a dirty secret, an object of ridicule.

'Brother Kabir never uses one? That’s something.'

'Of course. Brother Kabir picked an aunty because she’s clean and easy, not because of her age, right?'

'Knowing Kabir doesn’t like protection, she just takes the pill herself. By the way, how many pills has she taken this year?'

Kabir, usually so loud, simply typed a number.

'99.'

The group went wild. My hands shook so hard the phone nearly slipped from my grasp. Ninety-nine. Like I was a number on some disgusting scoreboard.

'Arrey, Brother Kabir is a legend, even trained the aunty like a pet.'

'Please, Kabir bhai, teach us how to get someone so easy and free?'

'Brother Kabir, hurry up and do it a few more times. That aunty’s figure is top-notch. Otherwise, when Sneha comes back, there’ll be nothing left to enjoy.'

Each message was a fresh slap. I felt naked and exposed, reduced to a punchline for boys who would never dare say these things to my face.

Clutching the phone, my whole body trembled. I knew every word, but together they became something cruel, something I couldn’t recognize. My breath came in short gasps. This wasn’t just betrayal—it was humiliation. My world with Kabir crumbled into smoke and mirrors.

I took pictures of the conversations, my fingers numb. I put the phone back, legs giving way as I collapsed onto the old brown sofa—where Kabir and I had watched reruns of 'Friends.' How naive I’d been. I pressed my forehead to my knees, hugging myself tight, while the ceiling fan’s whirr grew louder than ever. In the background, the TV played an overdramatic Indian serial—its heroine crying, just like me.

Is this the Kabir I know? When he was chasing me, I’d told him about our age gap. Six years younger, I said, and I couldn’t risk my heart again.

Back then, my best friend had stolen my fiancé, and everyone was waiting to laugh at me—a leftover woman past her prime.

The taunts from building aunties and family WhatsApp groups echoed: 'Arrey beta, ab toh shaadi kar lo. Umar nikal jayegi, fir kaun dekh lega?' After Neha stole Rohan, my ex-fiancé, humiliation became my shadow—sideways glances in the colony lift, cruel jokes about 'expired goods.'

But Kabir had been relentless. He’d check in constantly, bring me chai from the tapri, leave little notes in my tiffin. He joined his father’s real estate firm and made me his assistant—just to see me every day. The office gossip—'Must be sleeping with the boss’s son'—felt like a secret adventure with him.

His sincerity broke down my walls. I told myself, 'Maybe this is how new love starts—messy and misunderstood.' Even my skeptical mother softened when she saw Kabir fussing over me at Sunday lunches.

He hated protection, so I took the pill. He wanted excitement, so I tried every position.

I remember sitting on the cold bathroom floor, clutching the pill packet, telling myself it was no big deal. 'Please, didi, don’t make a fuss, na. I feel closer to you this way.' I convinced myself it was modern love. Compromise was normal.

I used to worry about an accidental pregnancy, but Kabir always promised, 'Arey, ho gaya toh shaadi kar lenge.' At thirty-two, I thought he’d give me a home.

Sometimes, I’d dream of a quiet wedding in a temple, fairy lights in a Powai flat, morning chai on the balcony. Kabir’s promises became my talismans.

But it was all just because he couldn’t touch his real sweetheart. I was just practice, just release.

Every moment replayed in my mind—every whispered 'I love you.' Was it all a lie? Was I only the rehearsal before the real show?

The two pink lines on the pregnancy test stared up at me, mocking. In my silent 2BHK, the city’s chaos felt distant. Was this my fate? The woman everyone forgot, everyone used, everyone pitied?

'Why are there two lines? Are you pregnant?'

I jolted, not realizing Kabir had finished showering and snatched the test from my hand.

His hair dripped, towel slung around his hips. For a second, he looked like the boy who’d begged me to play carrom at midnight.

My heart trembled. I forced myself to stay calm, snatched the test back, and threw it in the dustbin.

'Just a flu test. I wasn’t feeling well today and bought it to check.'

My voice was steady, but inside I was shaking. I turned away so he wouldn’t see my tears.

He didn’t push further. Instead, he bit my earlobe playfully, trying to tease me.

'I bought a few new lace stockings, didi, try them on.'

He hugged me from behind, hands sliding down my legs. His touch, once electric, now made my skin crawl. I forced a smile, desperate for him not to notice how stiff I’d become. 'Aunty for practice.' The words echoed, relentless.

'I love your long legs so much. I wish I could just stay wrapped around you forever.'

I used to think this was love. Now, I saw it for what it was—performance.

I remembered the hours at the salon, the yoga stretches, the young women’s pitying glances. All for him.

I pushed him away coldly.

'I’m on my period. It’s not convenient.'

Kabir pouted, eyes wide and pleading. 'But didi, just a little bit…' he whined, his childish sing-song grating now.

'Then didi, just put on the stockings first. I’ll take care of myself today, and after your period, you can make it up to me, okay?'

Make it up? Like the group chat said—one last fancy breakup fling?

Was that all I was? The last fling before he returned to Sneha, the real love?

To please him, I’d never stopped beauty treatments, never missed yoga. Every rupee at the parlour, every skipped spoon of ghee, every sleepless night worrying about wrinkles—all a joke for his friends. The shame settled deep in my bones.

I’m a woman, not some cheap thing. I am not your practice ground, not your joke, not your backup plan. I am Ritika Sharma—thirty-two, heartbroken, but not broken.

Tears finally spilled. Kabir panicked.

'Didi, I was just joking. I love your soul more than your body.'

He scrambled to wipe my tears, hands clumsy, voice full of concern. 'Accha baba, don’t cry, na. What happened? I was only joking! I love you for your mind, really.'

His justifications echoed: 'We’re just passionate, that’s all. You don’t understand, didi, real love is wild.' I’d clung to those words, terrified of sinking.

But is this love? Why would he never use protection if he cared?

He gently wiped my tears, eyes full of pain. 'Sorry na, I hate seeing you cry. Please, forgive me. I’ll do anything.'

'It’s all my fault. I’ll punish myself by kneeling on the remote, okay?'

He actually knelt on the remote, as if pain could undo betrayal. 'Wife, I was wrong. Please forgive me, okay?'

Watching his earnest act, I felt a bitter amusement. Only in our houses do people punish themselves with remotes, as if pain can erase betrayal.

I got up, closed the bedroom door, and after much thought, messaged my best friend in Pune. The WhatsApp ping sounded sharp in the silence, and for a second, I remembered Richa and me tying rakhi to her brother in our old colony, our hands stained with Holi colours, laughter echoing in the courtyard. Richa’s presence, even through a screen, felt warm and real.

'I’ll come find you in three days. I agree to the partner thing.'

Her reply came instantly: 'Come, Ritika. This city isn’t worth your tears. We’ll figure it out together.'

I turned off the phone, curled up in the quilt, and cried my heart out.

In the darkness, I sobbed into my pillow, muffling the sound so the neighbours wouldn’t hear. Somewhere, a stray dog barked, and the ceiling fan groaned as the power flickered.

Kabir, if only I just wanted to sleep with you too. But I’m too greedy. I want both sex and love. If I can’t have them, I’d rather give them all up.

A cold, hard resolve settled over me. I was done settling for scraps. No man—no society—would decide my worth again.