"Good evening," the waiter chirps with the flair of a theatre kid and the grin of someone who definitely writes poetry on napkins. “Would you care to hear our specials today? One of them might change your life.”
I blink, the only thing changing my life tonight is a salad and a breakup.
"It's December 8th," I remind myself quietly.
Four years. Four years, and still no ring. No plans, no promises, just the gnawing ache of pretending.
Across the table, Rish — the supposed love of my life and proven love of his own reflection, is pretending to read the menu...and sneakily ogling at the waitress with the subtlety of a sock.
"Just a salad," I say, not even bothering to look up. I want this dinner over with. It's ceremonial at this point — the final scene in a badly reviewed play.
Rish’s lips curl. “Babeee, you're finally eating healthy. You really should lose a few pounds around the waist.”
My left eye twitches. I tighten my grip on the fork, and imagine flinging it directly into his smug forehead. But no, I nod sweetly, tucking that rage where I’ve kept everything else he’s said for the last 48 months.
I glance down at my watch to avoid stabbing him.
9:13.
Weird — it's been 9:13 for a while now. I tap the face, nothing. Just a malfunctioning watch, no big deal.
The rest of the dinner drags. Rish talks about crypto, about the waitress's soft curls (“I mean, good for her, right?”), and about the price of foie gras in Paris as if he’s ever been there.
When the bill arrives, he pats his pockets with a sigh.
“We're going Dutch, eh Jia?”
“Of course, darling.”
Of course we’re splitting the bill when I've eaten less than a third of what he has. It’s fine. It's the last time.
We step into the crisp night air. Rish is running his tongue along his molars like he just flossed with foie gras. I look away.
There's a man on the pavement playing a battered flute with the same three notes on loop- shrill, off-key and apparently intended to summon pigeons or demons or both.
Rish throws an arm around me like nothing’s changed.
“So, babee,” he drawls, his voice like sugar. “How was the anniversary dinner?”
Now. I have to say it now.
“It’s not working out anymore.”
He hums. “The foie gras wasn’t that bad.”
“The relationship, Rish. We’re done.”
He lets out a dry chuckle. “Is it the time of the month again?"
I face him squarely. “No. This is me sober, sane, and four years late.”
His jaw clenches. “Alright, alright. You’re tired. Let’s talk at home, I’ll make you that weird ginger tea you like, the one I pretended to enjoy for two years.”
I don’t budge. “You’re not coming home.”
He laughs. “What, now you’re kicking me out of my own apartment?”
“Your name isn’t on the lease. You know that."
That shut him.
Then, slowly, he switches tactics. “Okay, look, remember how you used to line your fries in size order before eating them? How you tap twice on your mug before every sip? You think anyone else is gonna be able to deal with that brand of adorable psychosis?”
I blink.
“Jia,” he says softer, “you mean the world to me.”
I open my mouth, but before I can reply—
He adds, “This isn’t about that Snapchat thing, is it?”
I freeze. “What Snapchat thing?”
He fumbles. “N-Nothing.”
“Give me your phone.”
“No.”
I take a step back. “Right. So… there we are.”
“Don’t do this,” he snaps. “You’re just being hormonal and dramatic. As usual.”
His voice is louder now causing people to glance.
Just then, a beggar boy, maybe nine, tugs at Rish’s shirt, small hands, oversized eyes.
“Please, saab… a coin?”
Rish jerks his arm away like he’s been burned. “God—get off me,”
The boy stares up at him, calm, unblinking. Then backs away into the shadow of the flute man, who hits a sour note and keeps going.
I raise my hand. A yellow taxi halts with a squeal.
“Jia,” Rish tries again, voice cracking. “We’ve built a life. You’re not just gonna walk away because I flirted with a waitress and forgot your—”
I shut the door.
He’s still talking, still flailing, as the cab pulls away.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t look back.
~
My phone rings, snapping me out of my manuscript haze. I’ve written exactly 426 words about a woman discovering her lover's severed finger in a blender, so obviously, I’m in peak mental health.
It’s been two weeks since I moved to Mumbai, three since I peeled Rish off my life like a scab. He left behind a cat, two Tupperwares, and a voice message where he genuinely cried over losing the PlayStation. Also, he had nicknamed the cat after a vulgar synonym for 'cat', so it's absolutely my cat now.
And Mumbai? She’s been good to me. The vada pav? Spiritual. The men? Tanned, sculpted, and emotionally distant—perfect. The city that never sleeps? Neither do I, but that’s mostly because of the construction outside my window and maybe, maybe, the thing I don’t let myself think about.
The bliss shatters with a message from Ma.
“You should see this.”
Just a link, no emojis, no heart. That’s never a good sign.
I tap.
NEWS: “27-Year-Old Man Dies in Freak Shower Accident”
He’d slipped, apparently. The hand shower cord wrapped perfectly around his neck like a noose, body found slumped and pale-blue against cold bathroom tiles. Door locked from the inside, no forced entry, no bruises. Just… strangled by his own chrome-plated convenience.
I scroll. Then stop.
Rish Malhotra.
My blood freezes.
But it’s the last paragraph that gets me.
“Investigators are puzzled by a single letter traced in blood on the mirror: ‘J’. Cause of death still under investigation.”
The phone slips from my fingers. Hits the floor with a clatter. I’m sweating, my scalp prickles, my stomach turns.
No. No, not again.
Another ping.
Ma again.
“About time.”
It’s past midnight, my laptop balances on my thighs and the cat—(still not calling her by that lewd, frat-boy nickname Rish gave her)—is curled up at my foot, purring like she knows something I don’t.
I’m supposed to be writing, but instead, my Chrome tabs read like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream:
• Freak deaths in India
• Spontaneous bathroom accidents
• Can curses kill?
I shut the lid.
Enough.
My feet feel heavy as I drag myself to the bathroom.
I splash water on my face, twice, maybe thrice, it doesn’t help. The image is still there, seared behind my eyelids: Rish. purple-lipped, rope of chrome snaked around his neck, eyes bulging.
No. No way it’s happening again.
I raise my head at the mirror.
My reflection blinks back, pale, wild-eyed.
Something’s...off.
A small trail of condensation curls upward on the mirror, slow and deliberate—like breath.
Except I didn’t breathe.
I freeze, watch it evaporate.
Nothing now..Just fog. Just nerves. Just whatever.
I reach behind the mirror, tug open the medicine cabinet. Tucked snugly between expired birth control and travel-size Volini tube is my old black journal—dog-eared, tired, and quietly judging me.
I flip to the last entry.
Ryan. 23. Died in a sauna. Body boiled. No witnesses. No suspects.
Initials traced in condensation: J.
I shut it. The journal needs to be updated
Back in the bedroom, I collapse on my bed and exhale slowly.
“Screw it,” I mutter aloud. “I’ve mourned worse. He was a walking red flag with moral compass of a meme account."
I need a distraction.
I grab my phone.
Tinder? Sure. What’s another bad decision?
I swipe past gym bros, men holding fish, men holding guns, men holding babies.
And then—
Ravi. 24. Medical Intern.
Charming smile. Charming bio. Too charming.
'Fluent in sarcasm, CPR, and bad decisions.'
I smirk, swipe right.
It’s a match.
Ping.
Ravi: “You look like trouble.”
I raise an eyebrow.
If only he knew.
Me: Depends who’s asking.
Ravi: Someone who knows how to handle it.
Me: That’s what the last guy said. He’s dead now.
Typing bubble. Stops.
Typing again.
Ravi: Dark. I like it.
I get up again, this time not to flee from some vision, but to pace. The energy is twitchy, restless.
I walk past the bathroom and hesitate.
The mirror is still fogged.
Back on the bed, the screen lights up again.
Ravi: You free tomorrow? Coffee? Or do you only do mysterious online banter at 1 a.m.?
My fingers hover.
Me: Coffee’s cursed. Pick something else.
Ravi: Okay... Tea? Drinks? Human sacrifice?
Me: Bold of you to assume I haven’t already checked that box this week.
Ravi: Well, I’m free Friday. But maybe avoid saunas in the meantime? Just in case.
Me: …
I blink.
Too specific.
I scroll back up.
I didn’t mention that...did I?
Ping.
Ravi: Joking, obviously. Those sauna stories are wild. News rabbit hole stuff. Creepy, right?
I don’t reply.
Another ping.
Ravi: Hey, I’m just messing around. Didn’t mean to freak you out.
I turn the phone over.
Let it sit face-down, let Ravi stew.
From the hallway, the light in the bathroom flickers.
Twice.
Then goes out.
Later in the week, I’m sitting across from Ravi.
He’s still in his scrubs, having come straight from his hospital shift, smelling faintly of Dettol and exhaustion. But somehow, he’s still got that stupidly charming grin, dimples so deep you could hide secrets in them.
"Oh so you're saying I'm lucky because you're on a date with me" I laugh.
He shrugs, mock serious "Statistically, yes. I've only killed one patient this week."
He’s funny.
Like, actually funny.
Not “I’ll pretend to laugh so he doesn’t feel bad” funny.
Not “copied-that-joke-off-a-Reddit-thread-from-2017” funny.
Just...him.
He offers me fries, bowing deeply.
I snort, take one. Pause.
They're arranged by size—tiny to tall, perfectly lined.
My hand hovers mid-air. I glance up.
He’s still smiling. “Cute, no?”
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly. “Adorable.”
Coincidence.
It’s just a coincidence.
The waiter appears out of nowhere, like he was summoned.
“Would you care to hear our specials today?” he asks... his voice far too familiar. “One of them might change your life.”
My spine stiffens. Ice in my lungs.
Oh no. Oh no no no. Not again.
Not this one.
I want to keep him.
Ravi leans forward, concerned. “You alright?”
I blink. “Yeah, I’m good.”
The lie sounds like it’s been strangled on the way out.
I glance at my watch.
9:13.
I look again.
Still 9:13.
Of course.
The rest of dinner blurs; I nod at punchlines, smile at the right times, try to drown the clawing fear with Coke and ketchup.
But every time I laugh, it feels like I’m lying to a priest.
He walks me out of the restaurant. It's cooler outside, humid in that sticky Mumbai way, but the night air feels... still. Like it's listening.
There’s just one man across the road.
A flute seller.
Same loop, same off-note melody.
The hairs on my arm rise.
Ravi doesn’t notice. He’s saying something about a patient who thought he was pregnant.
Then the beggar appears.
A boy. Maybe nine, maybe forty. With that ageless, sunburnt look.
“Saab… something for food?” he says.
Ravi’s already reaching into his pocket, looking for spare change.
But the boy’s not looking at him.
His eyes are on me.
And he smiles. Slow. Knowing. Almost sympathetic.
Shit.
I’m screwed.
React
