Abi
It's strange how life gives you a little sparkle just when you've stopped asking for one.
By the eigth week in Pune, something inside me had quietly started to change. It wasn't anything dramatic. I didn't suddenly turn into a social butterfly or start giving TED Talks in the hostel kitchen. But I laughed more. I said yes to coffee runs at midnight. It was different from the place in my hometown, not checking my surrounding for safety, and being cautious of the people around us. It was a place where almost all the people were in the same profession, same age group and all were from PG away from their homes. So, i was able to become a carefree version of myself, of course, still keeping my safety in check.
I wore jeans without constantly checking if my tummy showed. Confidence doesn't knock. It tiptoes in through tiny moments.
It was in the way Varsha saved a seat for me every day at lunch even when I was late. It was in how Khavya dragged me into mirror selfies with the caption "My baddie besties." It was in the random karaoke nights, the way my name got called for every song in the playlists, and how the girls shouted "Abiiiiii" every time I walked in like I was some sitcom character with a laugh track.
I had friends. Actual, honest friends. The kind who didn't need a backstory to love you. They hyped me up when I wore my red kurti. They giggled when I told them about how I once broke a school desk trying to hide chips from my teacher. They liked me. Platonically. Wildly. Warmly.
One night, lying on the shared mattress, Varu( Varsha) whispered, "You're glowing these days, da. Got a crush or what?"
I laughed. Then I didn't.
Because maybe… yes. I still did. So I told them.
Everything. Palur summers. Dora sketches. The jasmine flowers. Grandma's last wish. That horrible sentence — "She's like my sister." I didn't even realize I was crying until Khavya wiped my cheek with her kurti sleeve and whispered, "You loved him, Abi. You still do."
And I nodded. Because it was true.
They didn't say "move on" or "he's not worth it." They just listened. That's sometimes the kindest thing someone can do.
Later that week, during one of our coffee breaks, Varu said casually, "Let's stalk this mystery man. What's his Insta?"
I hesitated. It wasn't like i didnt know his ID, but just to avoid getting more hurt, i never followed him. But curiosity is a sneaky thing. So I typed his name. There he was — profile private, but the DP was him at the beach, looking older, sharper.
And then I found it. The tag.
A girl. Pretty. Elegant. Her feed was a pastel moodboard of sunsets, journals, and romantic captions. And in one post from a year ago, he was there — holding her hand, looking at her like she was the only thing that existed.
"Mine," the caption read. I froze.
It was old. Maybe they'd broken up. Maybe it didn't mean anything. But that one photo shattered every illusion I had carefully rebuilt in Pune.
He had loved someone. Just not me.
I wanted to delete the app. Throw my phone into the garbage chute. But instead, I just stared. Quiet. Still.
Varu touched my hand. "Abi… you're allowed to feel bad."
And I did. Not because I wanted him anymore. But because I realized how deeply I had clung to a love that only lived in my head.
That night, I lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, replaying his cold words. "She's like my sister."
And then, quietly, I whispered to the dark, "But I never saw you like a brother."
No one heard me. But maybe that was okay. Because I had said it. Finally.
Tomorrow, I'd go camping with the girls. I'd climb a stupid hill and complain about the mosquitoes. I'd take a blurry photo at the top and laugh too loudly.
But tonight, I allowed myself to grieve a little. Not for him.
For the girl who loved silently. Who held on for too long.
And maybe — just maybe — for the girl who was slowly letting go.