The music was a pulse, a heartbeat she could drown in. It vibrated through her bones, the bass rattling her chest as neon lights flickered around her, painting the crowd in shades of crimson, indigo, and jade. Bodies pressed in, moving like waves in a storm, each one lost in their own chaos.

She stumbled against the bar, her fingers slipping against the wet countertop as she reached for another glass.

Three months ago, she wouldn't have known what whiskey burned on the way down, wouldn't have recognized the bitter bite of tequila or the smoky whisper of rum but now, they were her closest companions, each sip a step further away from the life she used to know.

She didn't know how many shots it had been but enough to forget his name yet not enough to forget his voice.

A life that felt more like a distant, mocking thought now. She downed another shot, hissing as the fire spread through her veins, replacing the pain in her chest with something sharper, something that numbed.

"Another," she mumbled to the bartender, her voice rough, nearly drowned by the thundering beat.

He gave her a hesitant glance, the kind people gave when they sensed something shattered but didn't know how to fix it. She held his gaze, daring him to refuse and he relented, sliding the glass toward her. She knocked it back without a second thought.

Stumbling off the barstool, she felt the world tilt slightly but it was a relief. Being unsteady on her feet meant she wasn't steady in her grief.

She pushed her way into the crowd, bodies tangling, sweat and perfume clinging to the air like desperate whispers.

She didn't know the names of the men who spun her around, their hands at her waist, their breath hot against her ear as they leaned in close.

She laughed, throwing her head back, her hair catching the flashing lights. She was losing herself here, in this chaos, in this reckless need to forget.

He would've hated this. He would've dragged her out by the wrist, muttering under his breath about the stench of cheap liquor and regret. She squeezed her eyes shut, the image of his disapproving frown cutting through the haze of alcohol. She swayed in place, her breath hitching.

It felt better this way, drowning in noise and flashing lights than in the deafening silence of her own mind.

A guy leaned in, his hands too familiar, his breath too close, and she let it happen, let herself pretend that the warmth of his touch could fill the void, even if just for a song.

But then he whispered something, something that might've been sweet in a different lifetime, and she pulled away, the illusion shattering like glass.

She stumbled back, pressing her palms to her temples as if she could force his memory out, as if she could unsee the ghost of a love she'd never truly let go.

She turned, shoving her way back toward the bar, her pulse a frantic beat against her ribs. Her reflection caught in the polished surface behind the liquor bottles – eyes too bright, mascara smudged, lips parted as if caught mid-scream – and she felt a surge of anger. At him, at herself, at the version of her that had once thought forever was a promise and not a lie.

She grabbed the nearest glass, downed it in a single, furious gulp, and closed her eyes, swaying as the room spun around her.

No, this wasn't her. But it hurt less this way. It hurt so much less and that's when Anushka saw her.

She stepped into the club with a smile, clutching the cream envelope with gold foiling — some invitation. The surprise on her face quickly melted into something heavier when she spotted her. There. Alone. Broken. Not just sad — unrecognizable.

Anushka's heels clicked faster as she pushed through the crowd, reaching her best friend with widening eyes and a heart that was already breaking.

"Kritika?" she whispered, gently shaking her shoulder.

Kritika blinked, slow and drunk. She turned, and something like a smirk stretched her lips. "Anuuuu," she drawled. "Tu aayi?"

("You came?")

Anushka sat down beside her, her eyes scanning the table — the shots, the crushed lime wedges, the smeared tissues. Then her gaze fell back to Kritika's face.

"Tu toh aisi nahi thi na..." she said, softly. The music around them still thundered, but here — in this little broken bubble — there was only her voice and Kritika's unraveling silence.

("You weren't like this.")

Kritika's smile didn't falter. But her eyes... they cracked. "Main toh aisi hi hoon, Anu," she whispered. "Main toh kar hi rahi hoon khud ko barbaad."

("I like this now, anu,"

"I am ruining myself.")

Her voice shook, but it was still laced with that bitter, dry humor grief teaches you.

Anushka shook her head slowly, voice heavier now. "Kritika nahi... you were never the girl who went to clubs to process grief."

("Kritika no..")

For a moment, Kritika was quiet. Too quiet.  And then she sat up a little, brushing her damp hair back, voice low but sharp — like a poem whispered too late. " I've known grief longer than I ever knew his name. I met it when I was seven, in the way my mother smiled like breathing was a burden she couldn't carry anymore." She whispered .

"At ten, it was the silence that settled between prayers and punishment, and by nineteen, it lived inside me—sharp, familiar, and always hungry. So no, his absence won't destroy me. It won't even stir the dust in my lungs." She continued as she took a deep breath.

"I've walked out of places more hollow than this, left behind versions of myself I'll never see again. I've grieved people still breathing, loved men who left with pieces of me and never looked back. He is just another name that didn't stay." She closed her eyes now, trying to forget where she is.

"And that's fine. I'll ache, I'll scream into a pillow no one will ever see, and then I'll wake up tomorrow—raw, cracked, maybe still bleeding—but alive. And that has always been enough. It has to be."  And then, she laughed — the kind of laugh that makes your stomach hurt, not because it's funny... but because it's honest.

She picked up the last shot glass on the table, raised it to her lips. "Mandir mein sheesh bhi jhukaya," she murmured, closing her eyes.  "Gurudware mein matha bhi teka.  Phir bhi nahi mila vo..."

("I have kneeled at every holy place for him yet he was not in my fate")

She downed the drink. The glass hit the table with a hollow thunk. Anushka stared at her for a long second, the wedding invite still crushed in her fist. Her throat burned.

"Socho... itna galat insaan chuna hoga tumne," she whispered.

("Think, how wrong he would have been for you" )

Kritika turned to her, smiled — broken, brave. "I prayed everyday he would change." And then she leaned back against the sofa again, eyes fluttering shut as the music thudded on and the crowd danced like nothing was falling apart just two feet away.

"I prayed everyday you'd realise your worth." Anushka reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Kritika's ear. The girl who once said pain made her stronger now looked like she didn't want to be strong anymore.

Not tonight.

Anushka was still sitting there, her palm resting against Kritika's thigh, trying to steady the storm that lived inside her friend.

The club thumped on. The world moved. But inside their booth, everything felt suspended — like the pause before a downpour.

And that's when they heard a voice.

"Um... hey?" They turned, slow and slightly disoriented, to find a boy—maybe 18 at most—awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, cheeks red, voice cracking slightly in the loud music. He had a drink in one hand, and nerves in the other.

"I... I don't know if this is weird," he said, stepping closer, "but... are you the YouTuber... @TheBetterMaya?"

Silence.

The kind of silence that doesn't come from a lack of sound —but from a soul freezing mid-memory.

Kritika didn't respond. Not right away. Her lips parted, breath hitched. And something shifted in her eyes—like a wall collapsing under the weight of a thousand buried moments.

Anushka blinked. "What did you just say?"

The boy repeated it. A little softer. "@TheBetterMaya? That's you, right? I... I watched all your videos back in lockdown.  you—didn't you used to make videos? With Lian?"

And that's when Kritika started falling.

Not physically.

Spiritually.

Backwards. Into time. Into the game where it all began.

Every molecule in her body went tight, as if her soul had been snapped awake by an old, unwelcome ringtone.

Like a wound that looked healed until someone said the wrong name and it split open again.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

Anushka turned to the boy, brows furrowed. "Lian?"

A pause.

And then, almost apologetically, he added, "You guys were great together. You had this...chemistry. Everyone shipped you two back then."

That was the blow.

The final one.

Kritika blinked. Once. Twice. But the weight behind her eyes wouldn't go away.

Her throat tightened. The world around her blurred, not from alcohol—but from memory.

From grief.

Not the kind that comes from death—but the kind that comes when the living vanish too.

Lian. Not Akaay. Not the boy who undid her now but the boy who started it all. The camera. The laughter. The slow, invisible bond of shared trauma between two creators who made healing look poetic—even when it was anything but. That series. Those nights.

That winter when she thought maybe—just maybe—life could be something beautiful. Back when she was still posting under the alias. Back when her screen lit up with comments, not silence. Back when he commented anonymously — long before she knew his name.

Back when love didn't arrive with fireworks, but with shared playlists and late-night edits.

Back when they were strangers pretending not to fall. Her mind reeled. The thumbnails. The voiceovers. The anonymous DMs that turned into confessions. The banter, the sarcasm, the screenshotted proof that someone out there got her. She blinked fast, but the tears still lined her lashes.

Anushka looked at her — confusion flickering into concern. "Kritika?" But she wasn't here anymore. She was seventeen again,streaming gaming videos. She was in her bedroom, with fairy lights and too much hope.

She was watching the comment section blow up And then... seeing his name. Not Akaay Malhotra. Not the hacker. Not the boy with secret Just a username.@liangamingyt calling her Jaan. They didn't know it then.

But that was the beginning. Not of a game. But Of the game.

Kritika stood up too fast — the alcohol, the memory, the voice of the boy colliding like waves.

"I need air," she whispered.

Anushka reached for her. "Kritika, wait—" But she was already walking. No — running. Through the crowd, past the laughter, out into the night. The rain from the past had dried up. But the sky still smelled of storms.

And for the first time in months... Kritika remembered not how it ended— but exactly how it began.