GIRLFRIEND
I was kneeling on the floor, wiping the water with a torn cloth like a tragic background character in my own life story.
He was on the other side of the kitchen, silently mopping with another piece of cloth.
“You don’t even have a mop. Stupid you,” I muttered just loud enough for him to hear.
He shot me a glare sharp enough to slice vegetables. Then went back to cleaning.
“It’ll dry within half an hour. Don’t worry,” I added helpfully, crawling forward like a depressed house lizard.
Never in my life have I done this kind of work. Not properly. Not like this.
But because I was the reason for this aquatic disaster, here I was.
Scrubbing.
Squeezing.
Losing bits of my imaginary dignity with every wipe.
I squeezed the cloth over the bucket, water dripping in sad little streams, and stretched it toward him.
He took it without a word and walked outside to hang it up.
For a moment, the kitchen was quiet.
I stood up, washed my hands, and dried them on my dress.
Then I went and sat in the corner of the floor with my phone.
Again.
Scrolling.
Scrolling.
Nothing interesting.
Just a glowing screen and my own reflection staring back at me like, is this my life now?
In a few minutes, he would go back into his room.
Close the door.
Lock it.
And disappear.
That’s what he does.
He exists in the same house but somehow feels miles away.
I hate that.
I hate that he talks only when necessary.
I hate that the door shuts like a reminder.
I hate that I’m stuck here with just this phone and too much silence.
The house suddenly felt bigger than it was.
And quieter than it should be.
When he came back, I prepared myself for the familiar sound of a door closing.
But it never came.
Instead, he chose a quiet corner of the hall and sat down, phone in hand, back resting against the wall like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t planning to disappear this time.
A small, unnoticed smile curved on my lips. I lowered my gaze to my own phone, pretending to be busy with nothing important at all.
And then—
I looked at him.
Not by accident. Not in irritation.
But deliberately.
This was the first time I was truly noticing him.
His spectacles rested lightly on his nose, giving his sharp features a strange softness. They didn’t make him look older. They made him look thoughtful. Like someone who carries silence carefully.
His hair was thick and dark, but when the light touched his skin, a quiet brown shimmer appeared—almost warm, almost golden. Not entirely black. Not entirely brown. A shade that felt like evening sunlight slipping through closed curtains.
There were small pimples scattered across his cheeks, imperfect and human. They didn’t ruin his face. They made it real.
And near his temple, a tiny mole.
A small mark.
A detail easy to miss.
But once noticed, impossible to ignore.
He looked like someone who would look good even in an Aadhaar card photograph.
I chuckled to myself. He really did look like a nerd. In a world full of gym boys and football boys, there he was with his specs and calm face, looking like he’d correct your grammar instead of flexing his biceps. And still… attractive. Annoyingly attractive.
I sighed. But was he single? Before marrying me. I mean before I practically bulldozed my way into his life and forced him into this compromise. Was he in a relationship back then? Was there someone else? The thought slipped in quietly and refused to leave.
I shifted where I was sitting and looked at him again. Should I call him?
His name almost came out.
But I stopped midway.
I had never called him by his actual name. Not once. It was always sarcasm. Always some dramatic title. Always something to hide behind.
I sighed softly. “Mister Justice Saviour,” I called.
He looked up from his phone.
Straight at me.
And my heart did that thing.
Don’t ask me what thing. It just did. A sudden jump. A tiny skip. Like it tripped over nothing.
No boy had ever held eye contact with me like that. Either they avoided it or I did. I was always the one looking away first.
But now he was looking at me. Calm. Direct. Not intimidated.
And for some strange reason, my chest felt tight. Not uncomfortable. Just… aware.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” I asked.
He glared at me for a second. “That’s none—”
“That’s none of your business,” I mocked in a deeper version of his voice, cutting him off.
His jaw tightened.
“I know it’s none of my business,” I continued casually, “I was just curious.”
“If I say I have, are you going to marry me to her?” he asked dryly.
“That’s not my job, dude. After one year, after divorcing me, you can marry whoever you want. Just don’t forget to send me an invitation card. I like good food.”
He shook his head slowly like he regretted breathing the same air as me.
I smirked. “Now answer properly. Have you ever had a boyfriend or a girlfriend?”
“Boyfriend?” he repeated, eyebrows pulling together.
“Oh yeah, in case you are gay,” I said casually, shrugging.
“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped.
I blinked. “Why are you overreacting? Relax. It was just a question.”
He kept staring at me, expression unreadable.
“When someone calls girls lesbians, we don’t burst into flames,” I said. “But when someone calls boys gay, suddenly it’s World War Three. You know why?”
Silence. As usual.
I leaned back slightly, folding my arms. “Because it’s embarrassing to love a man.” I smirked.
He scoffed.
“Whatever. Now say,” I insisted, refusing to let the topic die peacefully.
“I don’t share my personal life with strangers,” he replied.
“I’m not a stranger. Legally your wife and illegally your roommate,” I said proudly.
He let out a long, exhausted sigh. “What do you want now?”
“Tell me your love story,” I said, sitting up straighter like I was about to hear a bedtime tale.
There was a small pause before he spoke. “I had a girlfriend while I was working in your hospital.”
My jaw dropped dramatically. “How many love stories are happening in my hospital?” I gasped.
He rolled his eyes.
“Okay fine. What happened then? Who was she? A poor nurse like me or a janitor?” I asked, clearly trying to provoke him.
“A doctor,” he replied flatly.
I nodded slowly. “Of course. Doctor level romance.”
“So for how many years?”
“Two years.”
My eyes widened. “Two years? That’s practically a government-approved relationship. I can’t believe someone tolerated your justice-saving personality for that long.”
He didn’t react to that.
“So what happened?” I asked, this time my voice slightly quieter though I didn’t mean it to be.
I looked away for a second, pretending not to care. He was staring at his phone, but I could see his jaw tighten faintly.
“She cheated on me,” he said.
There was a small silence.
I tried. I really did try.
But the laughter slipped out before I could stop it.
It burst out of me suddenly. Loud. Uncontrolled.
“Oh my god— I’m sorry—” I said between breaths, but I was still laughing. “I just— I don’t know why—”
I wiped at my eyes dramatically. “Justice Saviour got cheated on? That’s ironic.”
The laughter slowly faded when I noticed he wasn’t reacting.
He wasn’t angry.
He wasn’t defending himself.
He wasn’t even looking at me anymore.
He was just… quiet.
And suddenly, the joke didn’t feel that funny anymore.
“Why? I mean… how?” I asked, this time not mocking.
He locked his phone and set it aside. That itself felt serious. Then he looked at me properly before speaking.
“First she said she needed to focus on her career. Told me not to distract her,” he said calmly. “So I gave her space. I thought that’s what supportive people do.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“After her job was settled, I went back to her. Then she said she needed to focus on her family. So again, I didn’t disturb her for a few days.”
His voice wasn’t angry. That made it worse somehow.
“And when I went back after that, she said I wasn’t spending enough time with her. Said I was emotionally unavailable. Then she broke up with me.”
He paused for a second.
“Later I found out she was already in a relationship with another guy. All those reasons were just… excuses.”
It was the first time I’d heard him speak this much without sarcasm or irritation. No cutting remarks. No defensive tone. Just straight words.
I didn’t joke this time.
But a small giggle escaped me anyway. I couldn’t help it. Not because it was funny. Just because the logic was ridiculous.
“She said she needed time… but then broke up because you weren’t spending time with her?” I chuckled softly. “That’s advanced level cheating.”
He nodded once.
“That’s all? Only one relationship?” I asked.
He nodded again.
“Okay.” I said it casually, but something inside me felt… surprised.
“Just because I told you all this doesn’t mean I’m going to start treating you well,” he added immediately, like he needed to rebuild his ego.
I smirked. “What can I expect from a poor ass like you?”
The words came out playfully. Carelessly.
He didn’t yell back.
“That’s what she told,” he said.
The smile on my face faded.
I looked at him properly this time. “What?”
“She told me I wasn’t rich enough to maintain a girlfriend,” he said, voice steady. Too steady.
For a second, I didn’t know what to say.
I had been joking. Throwing words like darts without checking where they land.
But this one had already landed before.
And it had left a mark.
“That’s true. Why have a girlfriend when you have no money?” I said lightly, like it was just another careless line thrown into the air.
He looked at me. Not angry. Not loud. Just steady.
“So I deserve love only when I have a good bank balance?” he asked.
I opened my mouth, but nothing clever came out.
“Fine,” he continued quietly. “What can I expect from a rich ass like you?”
There was no smirk this time. No sarcasm.
Just something raw underneath.
Then he leaned back against the wall and let out a small breath.
“If I am born again, I should be born rich,” he said. “Being born like me is useless. Love and all that belong only to rich people. People like us shouldn’t even dream of such things.”
I stared at him.
For the first time since this conversation started, I didn’t have a joke ready.