Nikil's POV
Five years.
That's how long I've carried this anger without knowing where to put it.
"Mahi, I didn't cheat."
When I finally said it, my voice didn't shake. It was calm—too calm for something that had destroyed me.
"It was Khusi," I told her. "She planned it. Every message. Every moment that made it look like I chose someone else."
The truth burned more than the lie ever did.
Because the real pain wasn't Khusi's betrayal.
It was Mahi believing it.
She didn't ask me.
She didn't fight with me.
She just… decided who I was.
That's what made me furious even now.
Not heartbreak—anger.
Anger that the woman who knew me best thought I was capable of cheating. Anger that she walked away while I was still standing there, loyal, confused, and begging for one conversation.
I haven't moved on since.
My phone buzzed. Ramesh.
"Bhai, enough," he said. "Five years. You've tried everything. New people, bars, nights out. Just let it go now."
I laughed—dry, hollow. "Let go of what? The only truth I ever cared about?"
"You're stuck," he said gently.
"No," I snapped. "I'm loyal. Even now."
I remembered those nights—the clubs, the loud music, girls smiling at me, leaning closer, asking my name like it mattered. Any other guy would've moved on.
I couldn't.
Because every time I thought I liked someone, I thought of Mahi.
Every time someone touched my hand, I remembered how Mahi used to pull mine closer when she was scared.
When I wasn't interested, it was because of her. When I was interested, it still ended with her.
"You need to move on," Ramesh said quietly.
"I can't," I replied. "Because she didn't leave my heart. She just left my life."
Khusi ruined my relationship. But doubt ruined me.
And the worst part?
After five years, after all the truth, after all the anger.
And now that the truth is out, people think it should be easier.
It's not.
Because I hate being around Mahi.
I hate the way my chest tightens when she enters a room.
I hate that my mind still reaches for her before it reaches for sense.
I hate that after five years of anger, silence, and distance—
my heart still reacts like nothing ever ended.
Being near her reminds me of everything I lost without doing anything wrong.
I hate that I can't look at her without remembering the girl who once trusted me completely.
I hate that I still notice the smallest things—
the way she pauses before speaking,
the way her eyes avoid mine like she's scared of what she'll find there.
I hate myself most for this one truth:
That even now, after everything—
I still love her.
And that love is exactly why I keep my distance.
Because loving her didn't hurt as much as realizing
she didn't believe me when it mattered.
And that's a pain
I don't know how to forgive.
The call with Ramesh ended, but the noise in my head didn't.
I stared at my phone, screen dark for a second—then it lit up.
Notification.
Mahi.
My thumb hovered before I even read it, like my body still remembered her before my mind could stop it.
"Thank you for today.
Everything you did after I had a panic attack—
it was very professional help.
Thank you for everything."...
Professional.
The word hit harder than any accusation ever had.
I laughed under my breath, anger flooding in so fast it scared me.
"Wow," I muttered. "She's moved on."
Five years ago, she couldn't even hear me out.
And today—today I was just professional help.
See?
No emotions.
No past.
No us.
Just distance wrapped in polite sentences.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"I hate her," I said aloud, my voice shaking with something that wasn't hate at all.
"I just hate her."
Because if she can thank me like a stranger—
if she can reduce everything I was to her into professionalism—
then maybe she really did move on.
And the truth burned more than the lie ever did:
I don't hate her because she left.
I hate her because I still love her—
and she doesn't need me anymore.
And that
is the one thing
I never learned how to survive.
Five Years Ago:(
I remember that night too clearly.
Back then, I didn't know it would become the reason everything broke.
It was a party—loud music, too many people, too much noise. I hadn't even wanted to go. Mahi had exams, stress, life. I told myself I'd just stay for a bit and leave.
Khushi found me there.
She didn't come smiling. She came quiet. Almost broken.
"You know Mahi is too good," she said, standing beside me, not looking at my face. "She deserves someone better. Someone… whole."
I frowned. "What are you even saying?"
She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that sounds like pain. "You don't see it, do you? You're always trying so hard. You're scared you'll disappoint her."
That was the first hook.
She kept talking—slow, careful, like she already knew where to press.
"She's strong. Confident. You're still figuring yourself out," Khushi said. "Sometimes love isn't enough."
I told her to stop. I swear I did.
But she stayed close. Too close. The music was loud, the lights were low, and my phone kept buzzing in my pocket—Mahi's name lighting up the screen. I didn't answer. I should have.
Khushi leaned in. "I'm not worthy like her," she whispered. "But at least I see you."
That sentence still makes me angry.
Because now I see it clearly—it wasn't insecurity.
It was strategy.
She touched my arm like she needed support. I pulled away, but she followed, leading me outside, away from everyone. Away from witnesses.
"I just need you to listen," she said.
And in that moment—confused, tired, overwhelmed—
she kissed me.
It was brief. It meant nothing to me.
But it meant everything to the plan.
I pushed her away immediately. I remember saying her name sharply. I remember walking back inside, my chest tight, my head spinning.
I left soon after.
What I didn't know was that the damage was already done.
Now—five years later—I finally see the whole picture.
The timing.
The words she chose.
The way she made sure someone saw us leave together.
The way the story reached Mahi before I did.
Khushi didn't steal me.
She framed me.
She knew exactly how to make it look real without it being real. She knew one doubt was enough. She knew Mahi trusted her.
And Mahi trusted the silence more than she trusted me.
That night wasn't a mistake.
It was a setup.
And realizing that now doesn't heal anything—it just makes the anger heavier.
Because I lost the only person I loved
not because I cheated,
but because someone else planned it better than I defended myself.
And that's the truth
I've been living with
for five years.