Page 20 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

It’s strange, the way devastation moves through the body.

It doesn’t arrive with fanfare. Doesn’t claw or scream. It just... settles. Quietly. Deeply. In your throat. In your gut. In the joints that once moved without thought.

Like a faint throb of numbness that gives you a false sense of strength.

I told Kashvi everything.

I didn’t mean to.

When I texted her— Do you have 8 minutes? —while sitting in that grimy park, I just needed a lifeline. Something to anchor me through the rising panic.

But once the words started, they refused to stop.

I told her everything. The whole sordid story. The disaster of a night. A carefully curated betrayal disguised as affection. A lie dressed up to feel like safety.

She didn’t interrupt. Not once.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t .

I’d already spent my tears—on the long walk home, in the silence of the park bench, in the bathroom where I washed my face and stared at the stranger in the mirror.

But Kashvi cried. Loudly. Angrily .

“That fucking piece of rotting shit,” she’d hissed. “With his I’m so broken bullshit. You were healing. You were— yaar , Rohi, you were getting better.”

I was.

And now I’m not.

We hung up a few minutes ago. Said she needed to go “breathe before committing an actual felony.” She told me to sleep. I didn’t argue, just nodded and said I’ll try. I was lying though.

Sleep isn’t going to bless me anytime soon. And I have no plans to try.

The apartment’s empty now. Charlotte’s away visiting her parents, so it’s just me, curled up in my bed, replaying everything in agonizing detail. Not the night itself—but the softness leading up to it.

The moments that made it so easy to believe. He was good— too good with his pretense.

How could I have been so blind? I was cautious, wasn’t I? So when the hell did I drop my walls?

Probably when he gave me his stupid Ivey hoodie and yanked my Rotman one like he was claiming territory.

Or maybe it was the chhole . I hadn’t made it for him.

He texted last-minute, asking if I could bring over whatever food I’d made for myself.

The spice almost killed him. He downed half a jug of water, his face bright red, eyes watering—and still went for seconds.

“Burns so good,” he’d rasped, cheeks flushed, smile wide despite the tears in his eyes.

And that’s how they get you, isn’t it? Through the little things.

Not the grand gestures.

It’s the damn borrowed hoodies.

The sleepy mumblings.

The random nose boops.

The fucking— shit —the wrist kisses.

The neck kisses.

The stupid ankle kisses when he was thrusting into me like he wasn’t just chasing his release, but building something—one orgasm at a time.

Oh God! Was I even there during those times? Was he imagining someone else? Someone with a better body.

Someone with curves.

Someone with boobs that didn’t almost disappear when lying down.

Someone like her .

I don’t want to cry again. God!

My phone chimes. Not the dreaded tunn-tunn! —just a sharp, impersonal ting! from Messages.

A small part of me deflates.

So I don’t even merit a drunk ranting? A desperate text?

Shit. I hate that I’m disappointed.

Get a grip.

I finally pick up the phone and glance at the screen.

Liam: What’s your buzzer code?

The fuck?

I jolt upright and toss the blanket off me, thumbing out a reply as I walk to the living room.

Me: Go away!

A few minutes pass and I almost feel like he’s left. But then—

Liam: Never mind, I got it. Buzz me in.

Ting!

Liam: And no.

I groan softly, rubbing my eyes.

Fucking Kash.

The knock is soft, but persistent.

I open the door slowly, one arm still cradling the blanket around me like armor. Liam stands there, hoodie on, looking like he ran through a wind tunnel of regret and secondhand shame.

His gaze skims over me—just once—and then he steps in silently.

We don’t say much. I let him in. He kicks his shoes off and sits on the edge of the couch, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to relax here. Like I might shatter at any second and he doesn’t want to be the reason.

He wouldn’t be. His best friend would.

He’s tapping on his phone when I join him on the couch.

“I’m here,” he says into his phone. “No, all good.”

He spares me a scared glance and a small smile. “She seems... okay. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Go to sleep, babe.”

He waits for Kashvi to respond, and his ears turn red. His smile is almost... reverent.

“You want tea or something?” I ask, when they’ve hung up.

He croaks, “My barista girl... you just relax. Do you want tea? I can make it.”

That earns a laugh from me. A real one. It’s small, quick, but it escapes before I can stop it.

“I doubt you’re as good as I am. Or Kash.”

He chuckles too, but it dies quickly. The room feels heavy again.

“You didn’t have to come here,” I say quietly, curling the blanket tighter. “I’m fine . All cried out.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

When he does, his voice is hoarse. “He knows he fucked up.”

I groan, head falling back against the couch cushion. “Don’t. Please . I don’t want to talk about him. Or Tim. Or tonight. Or anything real .”

“Got it.”

He grabs the remote and fires up Netflix. Scrolls aimlessly. “Wanna watch The Office ?”

My heart drops like a stone into my stomach. The Office . That is— was —our thing. It was our wind-down show, our default after hard days.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “Something else,” I murmur.

Liam doesn’t ask. He just scrolls and clicks on some other sitcom—something loud, absurd, and emotionally void.

We sit in silence. I’m curled into the corner of the couch, cocooned in my blanket, while Liam occasionally glances at me like he’s bracing for something.

My eyes stay on the screen, but I don’t see any of it. The words are muffled. The laughter, distant. I’m here, but not really.

Eventually, after two consecutive episodes—Liam switches off the TV.

The silence that follows is sharper than before. I know he’s about to say something. I can feel it building in the air.

And I’m dreading it. Like if he utters one wrong word, I’ll explode.

“Vee told me—well, ordered me—to be her stand-in. So. Do you... want a hug?”

I freeze.

The dam breaks instantly. What the hell?

I start cursing myself for getting triggered. Not by any wrong words—but the right ones. Fuck.

A sob punches its way out of my chest so hard I curl forward, the blanket clutched like a lifeline. I don’t even know why that’s the thing that does it.

I sob like I’ve been holding it back for years. Like grief and shame and disappointment all got tangled up and refused to wait any longer.

Liam shifts next to me, silent still, just wraps his arms around me as I break—messy, breathless, raw.

I hate this.

I hate him .

I hate that it’s hurting this much.

But I hate myself more.

For falling for a game. An illusion.

“No, you didn’t. It wasn’t an illusion.”

Shit.

I must’ve said it out loud in my hysteria.

After what feels like hours, I finally calm down. My throat is raw, my limbs heavy. All while Liam’s been mumbling soft reassurances—comforting noises, but they feel like lies so I don’t let them in.

“Listen...” he starts, tentative. “I’m not saying this to confuse you, okay? But... it wasn’t all a lie.”

I shove him, lightly—but his annoyingly massive frame doesn’t budge. “How the hell would you know?”

“Because... he told me. Because I picked him up from a park. And when I say picked him up—I mean it literally . He was lying on the ground. Covered in mud.”

The park.

My park?

Shit. Did he see me?

My breath catches. “When was this? Where?”

Liam’s face doesn’t answer fast enough.

“Wait, I don’t want to hear it,” I mutter, shaking my head.

But the second the words leave my mouth, I hear it—the bitterness in them. The defensive coldness. The exact kind of thing he used to say. Lucian, with his carefully placed emotional blindfolds.

And I realize I don’t want to be like that. Avoiding difficult conversations. Avoiding the information. Whether they’re truths or lies.

At the very least—information is power.

“Fuck... no. I do want to hear it.” I straighten a little. “Which park?”

He sighs. “You know which park, Barista girl.”

I groan, pressing my fingers to my temples. “So you were with him.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Silence.

It grates at me. This quiet. This weird, incomplete confession that feels like being dragged up a hill with no idea when we’ll hit the peak.

“Liam...” I say flatly. “I said I want to hear it. Are you gonna make me interrogate you or will you just—talk?”

His eyes widen. “Shit. Sorry. Yeah. I just... didn’t know how much you wanted to know.”

I stare at him blankly.

“Okay, okay,” he holds up his hands, “I’ll start from the beginning.”

And he does. He tells me everything.

How Tim confessed to Liam on text—because apparently he’d been blocked by Lucian again . He told him he lied—said I knew he wasn’t single when I absolutely didn’t. How lying to Lucian was a last ditch effort—but a mistake nonetheless.

How Lucian had called Liam at two in the morning, asking to be picked up like a kid who’d gotten in trouble and didn’t know how to face the world.

And how, when Liam found him, Lucian was lying on the ground. In the park. Mud-streaked. Disoriented. Almost unresponsive.

“Alcohol,” I mutter bitterly.

Liam nods. “And shame. I think mostly shame.”

He walks me through the rest—how Lucian broke down while explaining what he’d done. How everything spiraled out of control. How it was never really about revenge, not at the end.

By the time Liam finishes, he’s breathing hard—like recounting it all just drained him. Like he’s reliving it too.

“So, no,” he says finally, quiet but firm. “It wasn’t an illusion. I don’t think.”

I nod numbly.

“Barista girl...” he says gently, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I’m sorry. I’m not proud to call him my friend right now.

I don’t like this version of him. But I swear to you—this isn’t who he’s always been.

The Lucian... the one he was with you? That’s the one I knew a long time ago.

But I know he wasn’t himself for a good year before you. After... Tim.”

I scoff. “Convenient excuse.”

“I’m not saying it to defend him,” he says. “I’m saying it because I want you to know where the lies started and ended. So that when you put yourself back together, you’re not confused.”

I blink. Hard.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

When something breaks you—it’s not just the pain you have to carry.

It’s the confusion. The uncertainty.

The not knowing which parts were real, and which ones were just vindictive manipulation.

And I’m so tired of trying to make sense of it all.

But I fully believe Liam. I believe that he trusts his friend to have said all that in truth.

What I don’t believe anymore—what I have a hard time understanding —is whether or not Lucian just created another victim of his deceit in Liam.