Page 22 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

“Are you sure?” He asks.

It’s become a ritual by now. Every time I get a personal package at my building’s concierge, I already know what it is.

Food.

Spinach ravioli. Eggplant parmesan. Gnocchi ripieni. Kadhai- fucking -paneer.

It’s not daily, but it’s scheduled now. For the past two weeks, like clockwork, I’ve been receiving freshly cooked homemade meals every Monday, Thursday, and Saturday.

I don’t know who told Lucian that I hadn’t been eating properly that first week after our breakup —and I use that term very loosely—but there’s definitely a rat in the United Rohi Alliance.

And I’m 99% sure it’s Liam.

Which is why, more often than not, it’s his burden to collect the deliveries before they even make it to me.

“It’s chicken biryani this time,” Liam announces with a shit-eating grin, waving the box in my face.

We’re in my building’s concierge area. And he looks annoyingly comfortable in my territory.

I groan and swat his hand away. “Do whatever you want with it. Throw it. Eat it. I don’t care. I’m getting late for bed.”

“It’s eight p.m.,” he deadpans.

“I have a date. With Netflix.”

I turn to walk away, but the rat trails behind like a shadow.

“Oh, c’mon, Barista girl. He imported saffron from India just to get it right. I swear it’s delicious.”

I whirl around and jab a finger into his chest. “How would you know?”

“Uh... I... shit .”

If I squint any harder, I might need prescription daggers. He frickin’ cooks with him. Bastard.

I start toward the elevator again. All I want is my bed, my blanket, and the ability to sleep without dreaming.

“Tell you what,” Liam says, jogging to catch up. “I’ll eat half of it with you.”

“Traitors don’t get invited up,” I mutter.

He just laughs, completely unfazed, and follows me all the way to my couch like he owns the place.

And just like that, I end up tasting the food Lucian made for me.

For the first fucking time.

At least his cooking skills aren’t fake.

I know Liam and the rest of the crew aren’t thrilled with Lucian. And I stopped hanging out with them.

At some point, Liam tried to tell me that Lucian’s been “working on himself”—whatever that means—but I shut it down before he could finish the sentence. I didn’t want to hear anything about Lucian’s life.

Thankfully, Liam got the message. He hasn’t brought him up since.

Which is equal parts good and bad.

Bad because—how do you extricate yourself from a life you’ve been entangled in for months?

When your routines, your decisions, even your fucking shower times were intertwined with another person?

The loss is real. Even if the relationship wasn’t.

After Liam leaves, I pack up the leftover biryani and head to bed, trying my best not to think about him when—

Tunn-tunn!

Fucking fuck. Right on schedule.

I’m almost relieved that he doesn’t send anything personal anymore. It’s always a job posting. A networking event. A contact he thinks might help me. Which is why I haven’t blocked him. It just seemed childish considering he doesn’t bother me with fake platitudes.

Except for that one message—sent a week after everything imploded.

Yes, imploded . That’s the better word.

Lucian: When you’ve done the unforgivable, how do you even begin to apologize?

But I owe you more than my cowardice. And you deserve an apology.

I’m so fucking sorry for what I did. I’m not proud of who I’ve become.

One day, I hope, you’re able to stand the sight of me so I can explain.

Until then, please know that I miss you every day. Please take care.

Ugh.

I don’t have the energy to trust those words anymore.

They sound sincere. But then again—didn’t everything about him sound sincere?

I tap on the new message. It’s the same impersonal format as always:

Lucian: Here’s a networking event I thought you might be interested in. [link] For your convenience, Lucian Vale will not be attending. Reply STOP to opt-out or YES to meet with me.

Cheeky fucking asshat.

I never respond with STOP. Probably because... he keeps sending good shit.

I even attended one of the events he sent me. Although, Kash doesn’t appreciate his daily messages.

I talk to her every day.

Every damn day.

Our calls are mostly me trying not to cry while she’s actively searching for hitmen on incognito mode.

A few days ago, I’d told her I was fine. My daily mantra. That therapy was helping. That I hadn’t cried in a week.

She didn’t believe me.

“Should I come?” she’d asked, her voice thick with worry from across the country. “I swear I’ll hop on the next flight. Just say the word.”

I had smiled at the ceiling. The kind of smile that feels like a stitch unraveling. I barely smile anymore. And it’s only Kashvi that it does happen with.

“No, Kash. I’m okay. Honestly. If you fly over, I’ll just feel guilty for making you suffer through my bullshit.”

“ Your bullshit?” she scoffed. “This wasn’t your bullshit. It’s Lucifer’s bullshit. A steaming pile of it. With garnish.”

I had chuckled at that. First almost-laugh in days. Even if it had the emotional stamina of a dying plant.

“Still,” I’d muttered. “You’ve got work. And a life. I’ll manage.”

“Let me know when you’re not managing ,” she’d said, steel beneath her concern. “Or I’ll send Liam over to drag you to the airport with a one-way ticket to Vancouver.”

Honestly? I believe she would.

I love that about her.

And maybe she’s right. Because I’m not really managing.

I’m just... functioning . Barely.

My last semester is wrapping up. A blur of final papers, group projects, and the nauseating silence of a routine no longer punctuated by good morning kisses or random texts.

My stupid self is still looking up with anticipation every time the café doors open in the mornings.

I need to move the fuck on.

Thankfully, two job offers came through—one from a publishing startup here in Toronto, and another from a boutique consulting firm in Vancouver.

Kash, predictably, is team Vancouver.

She won’t say it out loud, but I know she thinks this city’s too poisoned for me now.

Too haunted .

I haven’t decided yet.

Mostly because I’m going to India in a month. Six weeks of heat, mangoes, relatives I’ll pretend to remember, and a big fat wedding for my cousin, Ishika.

Six weeks of distraction.

Six weeks of pretending this never happened.

And yet...

Nothing feels real anymore.

Or safe.

Therapy’s been helping, yes—but in the way a fan helps in a wildfire. It gives me small moments of peace before the panic scorches its way back in. The uncertainty... the not knowing... it’s eating me alive.

A total of three nights have ended with unrelenting panic attacks since the implosion. The kind that has a phantom hand gripping your lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

I don’t even know what I want from him anymore.

Answers?

Justice?

Some magical do-over where none of it ever happened?

Lucian’s message is still sitting in my inbox. Mocking. Infuriating .

Every time I reread it, my thumbs twitch.

I’ve typed YES.

Deleted it.

Typed STOP.

Deleted that too.

But today?

Today, I just want it to end. I don’t want the random food deliveries. I don’t want Liam to keep joining me for morning coffees. I don’t want Kashvi to keep wondering when I’ll finally snap.

I want to say what I need to say. And hear whatever rotten perspective he’s carrying.

I take a breath.

Then type:

Me: YES.

Me: Tomorrow. My place. 4PM.

I hit send before I can change my mind.

Then I turn off my phone. Pull my blanket over my head. And try to sleep.

Not to forget.

Just to gather strength.

Because tomorrow, I bury this chapter.

One way or another.