Page 37 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

“What’s in it?”

Advik is asking about the paper bag Lucian handed me, but I can’t fucking move . I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

A few minutes ago, I had the strongest urge to say, “Looks like Advik has a thing for women who don’t look like one.” But the urge died a quick death when Lucian wouldn’t even meet my eyes.

And earlier, when he did—

All I saw was that blankness that comes with loss. With giving up. With surrender .

And it scared the shit out of me.

He’s gone now. Walked away quietly. Defeated.

“Rohi?” Advik says again, jolting me back.

“I... I don’t know,” I frown, staring at the bag like it might explode.

I haven’t looked inside yet. I’m scared to. Scared of what he might’ve left me with.

I limp toward the wall and lean against it, carefully peeling the paper open.

And I lose it.

Because I can’t fucking believe what I’m looking at.

My plushy slippers.

White. Star-embedded. Slightly worn at the heels. Soft and stupid and mine .

What the hell are they doing here—all the way from his apartment? Why would he bring them here ? Why now?

Why just... hand them to me and walk away?

The first sob rips out of me. Then the second.

In flat three seconds, I’m on the ground—sliding down the wall—and Advik is quick to catch me, softening the fall.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Are you okay? What the fuck is even inside this?”

I’m not listening anymore. I can barely breathe.

Through the blur, I see him pull the slippers out of the bag, holding them up with this sad, almost sympathetic smile.

When I calm down a bit, I gingerly slide my heels off with shaking fingers and tuck my feet into the soft clouds of fabric.

My slippers.

The ones I thought I’d never see again. Never wear again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What is this?

It’s not guilt. Not even shame.

It’s that stupid organ in my chest, trying to piece itself back together.

Because I’m looking at a symbol of something I once convinced myself was fake . But now?

Was it really fake?

Would he have gone through the trouble of buying me slippers just to pretend to care? Would he have learned how to cook that elaborate-ass kadhai paneer just to impress my mom for some fucking act ?

I can’t stop the rabbit hole.

Can’t stop wondering if maybe— just maybe —the relationship wasn’t the lie.

Maybe just the beginning was.

And I sit there crying on the cold floor, with another man wiping my tears.

But they keep coming.

Because they’re not his to wipe away.

??????

“No, no, no !”

Kashvi barrels into our room like a woman on a mission. “What did he do? What did the devil doooooo ?”

I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, slippers placed carefully in front of me on top of the paper bag, like they’re ancient relics. My quiet sniffles make her skid to a stop.

She narrows her eyes, scanning my face.

I’ve already showered, changed into my bedtime clothes, done my skincare—but I feel like I haven’t moved in what feels like hours. I’m still staring at those stupid slippers like they might grow fangs and bite me.

“Rohi,” she says gently, her tone shifting to serious. “What is this monstrosity doing on our bed?”

I snort. Just a tiny one. But then the dam breaks again.

She rushes forward and yanks me into a crushing hug, muttering an endless stream of curses while patting my head like I’m both a toddler and a grenade.

We lean back and she uses the hem of my t-shirt to wipe my eyes—pulling at the seam so hard she flashes herself with my tiny tits.

“Rohi, behen, bol kuchh? ” she asks softly. (Rohi, sister, say something?)

My face crumples, and I sob the next words like a deranged rom-com side character:

“Why do I s-still l-love... Lucifer?”

And then I wail . Like an actual baby. Because this is the first time I’ve actually admitted it to myself. Actually spoken the four-letter word out loud—to anyone .

She groans loudly but still clutches me tighter. “I’m going to kill the fucking bastard!”

I hiccup into her shoulder. “Can... can you check on him?”

She pulls back, eyes wide. “What the fuck? No!”

My face twists like I’ve just been stabbed in the heart. My whole body crumples into a pleading heap.

I don’t have to tell her why. Because she knows. She knows everything —from his apologies, to his alcoholism. Even the tiny confession he made in the car when we drove to the farmhouse.

“Ugh, fuck . Fine!” she groans. “I’ll go check on Lucifer . But you go to bed. And get those ugly-ass slippers off our bed.”

She starts stripping off her lehenga while huffing like she’s been personally wronged by fate. I carefully put the slippers on the floor next to me.

“They’re not ugly,” I whimper into the duvet.

“They look like two hamsters who died and came back as footwear.”

Despite everything, I let out a watery laugh.

But my head’s pounding. My eyes ache. The kind of tired that isn’t just physical—it’s in my bones, behind my ribs, weighing down every breath.

I barely register the sound of her changing. The soft ruffle of sheets. I’m already tucking myself under the duvet like a burrito of heartbreak.

The lights click off.

The door clicks shut.

And I promptly pass out.