The air in the library was thick with the scent of old paper and the frantic energy of midterms. I had exactly twenty minutes before my chemistry lab, and my notebook was a desert of blank pages. I was hunched over Jas’s lab manual, my pen flying in a desperate, rhythmic scribble, when a voice broke through the silence.
"Hey! How are you?"
I looked up, ready to be annoyed by the interruption. Instead, I saw her. She sat across from me, looking like a weary angel—tired eyes, messy hair, but possessing a radiance that made the fluorescent library lights seem dim.
"Hey," I replied, trying to find my voice.
"Are you Indian?" she asked.
"Very much so," I said, leaning back and summoning every ounce of my twenty-something bravado. I pointed to the folder on the table. "And I know you are, too, because I’ve been reading your name for the last five minutes. Sandhya Chopra, right?"
At the time, I thought I was being smooth. In reality, I was just a dork with a lucky observation. But she laughed—a bright, genuine sound—and just like that, the chemistry lab didn't matter anymore.
The Mirror and the Mask
Over the next few weeks, Sandhya became the center of my world. She was my dream girl, but she was also a mystery. She’d cut my hair in her kitchen, bring me "specially cooked" meals that were frankly terrible, and spend an hour meticulously clearing the blackheads off my nose. It hurt like hell, but I would have let her do anything just to stay in her orbit.
Then came the day the mirror shattered.
"I’ve been married for four years," she said quietly.
The words felt like a physical blow. Suddenly, her sadness—the bipolar diagnosis, the late-night crying in my arms—finally had a source. She wasn't just a girl in school; she was a woman "exported" to a foreign land, married to a life she never chose.
I was at a crossroads. I didn't want to be "the other man," but I couldn't leave her to drown in her own depression. So, I built a mental wall. I started calling her "sister" to keep my heart safe. We became a strange, inseparable unit—visiting temples and Gurudwaras, clubbing until 3:00 AM, and crying on the beach. She mended my grades and my life, while I tried to be the anchor for hers.
The Mumbai Gambit
When she left for India to "take time off" from her husband, a part of my soul went with her. Seven months of silence followed. I told myself she’d forgotten me, but when I returned to Delhi for the summer, the pull was too strong.
I found her in Batra Hospital for a check-up. When she saw me, she didn't just wave; she opened her arms like a heroine in a Bollywood epic. She looked wise, young, and entirely too beautiful for my peace of mind.
The "sister" mask finally crumbled. I was falling, and I was falling hard. I decided to make my move in Mumbai. I tracked her down, staying in a gritty hotel near Versova Beach, and asked her to meet me at a Barista coffee shop.
"Sandeep, you don’t have to pity me anymore," she said, her eyes searching mine as I poured my heart out.
"Pity? I adore you. I want every second of my life to involve you."
She laughed—not a cruel laugh, but a weary one. "I’ll give you my answer when you grow up."
"Do you mean grow up, or grow older?" I challenged.
"They are the same thing," she whispered.
"They aren't," I countered. "I love you, Sandhya. And I know you're fond of me, too."
"I do love you, Sandeep," she said, her voice dropping to a devastatingly calm tone. "But I love you like I love my brother or my mother. I can’t marry you any more than I could marry them."
The Twenty-Seventh Day
I walked out of that Barista leaving a letter and a unpaid bill. I flew back to San Francisco with a heart made of lead. For twenty-six nights, I was a ghost, weeping into my pillow, terrified that some other man was currently singing "sweet nothings" into her ear.
On the twenty-seventh day, I broke. I called her.
"I'm busy," she said, her voice sounding light, distant, and entirely unaffected. "I’ll call you back."
She never did.
I’m thirty-seven now, looking back at that twenty-year-old kid with the super-active hormones and the bruised ego. I thought I was supposed to be the one breaking hearts, yet I was undone by a girl with the face of a baby and a heart I simply wasn't "grown-up" enough to understand.
I got over her eventually. But I never forgot the lesson: Sometimes the people who mend your life aren't the ones who get to stay in it.
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