Chapter Fourteen: Perfume and Pretending
684 Words
Pakhi’s POV
The mirror had always been honest with her — more than most people.
Pakhi sat in front of it that morning, letting her fingers carefully trace the soft outline of her kohl-lined eyes. There was a gentleness to her features — the kind that wasn't showy but lingered. Her almond-shaped eyes carried quiet stories, often unread. Her skin, the color of warm honey, glowed not with highlighter but with a kind of calm resilience.
Her black hair, parted neatly in the center, was tied into a soft low bun with a few strands framing her face, almost rebelliously. Her lips were tinted rose, a subtle contrast to the cream-beige kurta her mother had picked out for her. It had delicate embroidery around the neckline — hand-done by her grandmother years ago. Her gold jhumkas swayed lightly as she moved.
She didn’t feel beautiful.
But she looked it.
She looked like someone who had learned how to dress up heartbreak with poise.
"You’re looking lovely, beta," her mother said from the doorway, her voice coated in cautious hope.
Pakhi smiled. Tired, polite. “Thanks, Maa.”
She knew this wasn’t just about a meeting. It was about possibilities — ones her parents were clinging to, even when she couldn’t.
And so, she went.
The café in old Ahmedabad was a curated kind of modern. Wood-paneled walls, soft jazz playing in the background, air smelling faintly of roasted hazelnut and new paper menus. It was the kind of place you could fall in love with someone, theoretically.
Pakhi arrived five minutes early, as always.
She sat by the window, her dupatta folded neatly, hands resting on her lap. She didn’t scroll her phone. She just watched — watched the city blur past in the glass, watched the way people smiled without hesitation.
She used to be one of them.
When Arjun walked in, he had the kind of energy that didn’t dominate the room, but filled it gently. Tall, clean-shaven, wearing a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to look relaxed — he smiled when he saw her.
“Pakhi?”
She nodded, rising, extending her hand. “Hi.”
He was warm. Effortlessly conversational. He talked about work, about Delhi traffic, about his dislike for pineapple on pizza. He asked about her job, genuinely impressed by the scale of clients she handled.
There were no awkward silences. But there were no sparks either.
Still, she listened. She responded. She even laughed when he joked about how marriage meetings feel like interviews with better lighting.
But part of her stayed withdrawn, tucked somewhere deep — somewhere where a voice still whispered:
This isn’t him.
Not the voice that stayed up with her during lonely nights.
Not the one that said "I understand" when she didn’t even speak.
Not the one she missed without having ever seen.
She stirred her coffee slowly.
“So… do you believe in arranged love?” Arjun asked with a curious smile.
Pakhi tilted her head. “I believe love is too complicated to be arranged.”
He laughed, but her tone wasn’t a joke.
And in that moment, she knew — even if she said yes to him, she would always feel like a guest in someone else’s story.
Later that evening, as she reached home, her mother waited with quiet hope.
“He liked you,” her mother said, handing her a glass of water.
Pakhi nodded. She wasn’t surprised.
“And you?”
She sat down. Took a breath.
“He’s… nice.”
It was all she could say. Not out of cruelty. Just honesty.
Because nice didn’t light you up at midnight.
Nice didn’t make your heart pause at a message.
Nice didn’t burn the way unspoken love did.
That night, before sleeping, she stared at her phone screen one last time.
Still blank.
Still no message.
Still no name.
She turned it over. Pressed it against her chest. And closed her eyes.
Maybe this was how letting go began.
Not with a loud goodbye —
But with a quiet hello to someone else.
- Writer
