Chapter 1 - Ananya
Fridays have a rhythm of their own. The office feels lighter, like everyone is already halfway into their weekend, even though the deadlines don’t exactly agree. My screen stares back at me with endless rows of numbers, and the coffee on my desk has already turned cold.
“Don’t you just love how Fridays come gift-wrapped with deadlines?” Tara groans as she slides into the chair across from me, loud enough for half the floor to hear.
I smirk. “You’re only saying that because your report is still a blank page.”
“True,” she admits shamelessly, pulling her chair closer. “So—weekend plans? And don’t tell me you’re going to stay home, binge-watch something depressing, and call it self-care.”
I pause, hands resting on the keyboard. “Actually, no. I thought I’d step out. Maybe try that new café in Indiranagar. Keep myself… busy. But not the kind of busy that ends with me scrolling until two in the morning.”
Tara’s eyebrows shoot up. “Finally. Took you long enough. It’s been months.”
I laugh, but it feels a little shaky. She’s right though. My Fridays used to look so different—dinners, movies, random late-night drives that never needed a destination. Weekends were planned for two. Now, it’s just me staring at the empty spaces where someone else’s plans used to fit.
“I’m learning,” I say quietly, more to myself than to her. “To make plans that don’t circle back to him.”
Tara reaches out, squeezes my hand once before pulling back. “Good. And if you need company at that café, you know where to find me.”
There’s a brief silence between us, the kind that isn’t awkward but comfortable, like the pause between chapters. And naturally, the next topic we land on is books—it always is with us.
“So,” Tara says, leaning back with her arms crossed, “what’s your current read?”
I grin. “Psychological thrillers. That’s my era right now. The darker, the twistier, the better. I like the kind of books that mess with your head until you can’t stop thinking about them even after you’re done.”
Tara makes a face. “See, that’s where we’re different. I can’t deal with all that darkness before bed. I’ve officially entered my romance era. Give me meet-cutes, heartbreaks, slow burns, all of it. My current one has this grumpy guy who falls for a sunshine-y girl—it’s cliché, but it’s working.”
I shake my head with a laugh. “Classic Tara. Always chasing butterflies while I’m out here looking for shadows.”
“Balance,” she says smugly. “That’s why we’re best friends.”
I can’t argue with that. She brings the soft edges to my sharp corners. Maybe that’s what I need right now—someone reminding me that even though my world feels messy, there are still stories with happy endings out there.
The office hums on around us—emails, keyboards, muffled laughter—but for the first time in a while, Friday feels like mine.
By the time I step into my apartment, the warmth from Tara’s chatter has already faded. The door clicks shut behind me, and the silence presses in—loud, heavy, unrelenting.
I drop my bag on the couch, kick off my shoes, and stand in the middle of the living room, staring at the empty space that feels so much bigger than it used to. Too big for just me.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
For the longest time, I thought I had it all figured out. With Rohit, everything felt certain, safe, permanent. He was the one I planned my weekends around, the one I pictured sitting across from me in this very space, years down the line. He made me believe I was the one.
Until that evening.
We were sitting together, and I had picked up his phone just to order food. A normal thing, something I’d done a hundred times before. Only this time, the screen lit up with a notification I wasn’t meant to see.
It was from Naina.
Her message popped up like a slap in the face: “Last night was the best night ever. Can’t wait to see you again. We should meet more often ;)”
My breath had caught in my throat. The words blurred for a moment, but the meaning was sharp, cutting, undeniable. Flirty. Intimate. Not the kind of thing you ever expect to see another woman texting your boyfriend.
And suddenly, a lot of things made sense—the late nights at the ad agency, the constant mentions of “work dinners,” the way his phone was always face down. Rohit worked with models all the time, and I had trusted him completely. Trusted him more than I trusted my own instincts.
When I confronted him, his reaction was ice-cold. A smirk. A laugh. “You’re overreacting, Ananya. It’s just a joke. She’s being playful, that’s all.”
Gaslighting 101. And the worst part? For a terrifying second, I actually wondered if he was right. If I was the problem.
But you can’t unsee a message like that. Once the truth flashes before your eyes, it keeps replaying, over and over, until the person you thought you knew looks like a stranger.
I sink onto my bed, staring at the stillness of my room, at how painfully quiet it is.
This is what I live with now—the silence, the empty weekends, the ache of betrayal. But maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will sting a little less.
