The apology I did not deserve

Radhika asked whether being alone in Mumbai was hard, and I handed her the answer clients expect: you get used to it. The truth was harder. I wanted to tell her that loneliness is easier than being seen accurately, but I protected the version of me that makes other people comfortable.

Then Arjun called. He said his family had done something terrible and that he was sorry. I could not speak because I was afraid every word would sound like I had accepted his apology on behalf of Pulkit’s family, or refused him, or asked him to comfort me. I wanted punishment and tenderness in the same sentence. I wanted him to reach past the paid version of me and still choose her.

He has not actually chosen me. I know that. Still, his worry unsettled something I had packed away carefully. I had spent so long feeling like a service hired to make a family look better, and then Arjun asked whether I was all right as if my feelings had a place in the room.

I took a plain selfie after work, my hair loose, with no expression arranged for anyone. I nearly deleted it. I wanted to look as though I had not just spent the evening convincing a nineteen-year-old to be brave while hiding behind a rehearsed older friend.

I did not answer Arjun’s messages. I kept thinking that if I answered, I might admit how badly I wanted to be reached. That felt more dangerous than any lie.