You know how they say curiosity killed the cat? Yeah. Well, I’m not a cat. I’m a 27-year-old human woman with commitment issues, seasonal acne, and an unhealthy obsession with perfectly frothy cappuccinos. And last Tuesday, curiosity didn’t kill me, but it did drag me into a complete mess that started with Bluetooth earphones and an elevator with questionable acoustics.
Let me set the scene.
I live in a semi-fancy apartment building in Andheri. Not “neighbors-own-a-yacht” fancy, but “one-wing-has-a-gym-no-one-uses” fancy. I was in the lift, headed down for my evening chai run to the local tapri, when my AirPods died mid-podcast. They just gave up on me, just like my last situationship. One second, I’m listening to a true-crime episode about a cult in Oregon, and the next, silence.
That’s when I heard them. Two people, both voices familiar, were talking just outside the lift on the floor below mine. The doors hadn’t opened yet, but apparently, the old elevator had the soundproofing of a cardboard box.
The first voice was unmistakably Neha. My best friend. Roommate. Fellow chronic overthinker. She was talking to someone. A guy. Deep voice, a little raspy. I couldn’t place it immediately until he laughed. And then it hit me like a Google Pay notification for rent.
It was Varun.
Now here’s the thing. Varun was my ex. Not a big, dramatic ex. More like a four-month detour into “let’s see where this goes” that ended when he ghosted me after Diwali. Straight up vanished like a sock in the washing machine. No closure. No explanation. Just poof.
And Neha? Well, she hated him on my behalf. Or so I thought.
I stood there, frozen, in that awkward lift limbo, halfway between two floors and a quarter-life crisis. The lift had stopped moving, God knows why, and their voices carried through the vent.
“So, she still doesn’t know?” Varun asked, sounding too casual for my comfort.
“No. And you’re not going to tell her. We agreed,” Neha said. I could almost hear her folding her arms like she does when she’s serious.
Tell me what? My brain was already doing Olympic-level gymnastics.
“She’s moved on. Or at least she thinks she has,” Neha continued. “Bringing this up now won’t help.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. “I mean, what are the odds?”
“I live here,” she snapped. “And clearly, you shouldn’t be here.”
“I wanted to check in,” Varun said. “See how she’s doing.”
At this point, the lift finally jerked into motion, as if it had remembered it had a job. Doors opened. I stepped out like I hadn’t just heard my two favorite liars plotting an emotional ambush.
Neha was facing away, but Varun saw me first. His eyes widened like a child caught stealing chocolate.
I smiled. That fake, tight-lipped kind you give when someone cuts you in line but you’re too Indian to make a scene.
“Varun,” I said, voice as calm as my rage would allow.
“Hi,” he said, scratching his beard like it would provide answers.
Neha turned slowly. Her face dropped the second she saw me.
“Hey,” she said. Casual. Too casual.
“What a small world,” I said. “Or maybe just a small building?”
They both laughed nervously. I let the silence stretch. I’ve learned that sometimes, awkwardness can be a powerful force.
“I should get going,” Varun said. “Nice seeing you both.”
He left. Not a single backward glance. Which was classic him.
I turned to Neha. “So, that was subtle.”
She opened her mouth, probably to lie, then closed it again. “Okay, you heard.”
“All of it,” I said. “The betrayal, the secrecy, the ‘don’t tell her.’ So generous of you both.”
She sighed. “Look, it’s not what you think.”
“I think my best friend was having a secret chat with my ex, whom she swore she hated, and hiding something from me. What am I missing here, Neha?”
She ran her hand through her hair, a nervous tell. “It’s complicated.”
“Of course it is. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be my life.”
“Can we go upstairs? Please?” she said, glancing around. “I’ll explain.”
We walked back to our flat in silence. The air felt thick, like something between us had shifted. She made us tea because, of course, chai was the answer. We sat on our tiny balcony, watching Mumbai’s chaos unfold in the distance.
“I didn’t lie to you,” she started. “Not exactly.”
“Start again. But this time, with the truth.”
She took a deep breath. “After he ghosted you… Varun reached out to me.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Three weeks after Diwali. He messaged me on Instagram. He said he panicked and didn’t know how to handle his feelings. That he messed up.”
“And you thought, ‘Let me not tell my best friend because…?’”
“Because I didn’t believe him. At first. I told him to stay away. But he kept checking in. Asking about you. Not in a creepy way, more like... he genuinely wanted to fix things.”
“Why not just message me?” I asked, furious.
“He said he didn’t want to reopen wounds unless he knew he had something real to offer.”
I sipped my chai, mainly to keep from saying something savage.
“And then?”
“He asked if you were seeing someone. He said he wanted to apologize, maybe try again. I told him to wait. That you weren’t ready.”
“So, you became my relationship bouncer?”
She looked sheepish. “Kind of.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “And you thought I couldn’t handle the truth?”
“I thought… you’d spiral and that you’d overthink every word. I knew you’d either let him back in too soon or shut him out without listening.”
She wasn’t entirely wrong, but still.
“Neha, I get it. You were trying to protect me. But that’s not your call to make.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
We sat in silence. My mind was racing. Half of me wanted to send Varun a string of unfiltered WhatsApp messages. The other half wanted to throw my phone off the balcony.
“So… what now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But you owe me ice cream. Full tub. Chocolate chip.”
She smiled. “Fair.”
*
Over the next few days, things were awkward. Not nuclear, just… weird. Like that in-between stage of growing out bangs.
Then, out of nowhere, Varun texted me.
“Hey. Neha said you knew. I’m sorry for disappearing, for being a coward. I’d like a chance to explain. Coffee?”
I stared at the message. Left him on read for five hours. Then I replied.
“One coffee. No flashbacks. No drama.”
We met at this artsy cafe in Bandra where the chairs don’t match and the cappuccinos are criminally expensive. He looked older. Softer around the edges. Less boy, more man.
“I panicked,” he said after the polite greetings. “I liked you more than I expected. And I thought I’d mess it up, so I pre-emptively bailed. Stupid, I know.”
I stared at him. “That’s your explanation? You liked me too much?”
He winced. “I know it sounds lame.”
“It is lame. But it’s also… weirdly honest.”
He looked hopeful. “So… any chance we could start again?”
I thought about it. I really did. But something didn’t sit right.
“I have a question,” I said. “Why, Neha?”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Why did you reach out to her? Not my sister, not a mutual friend. Her. The one person you knew I’d confide in.”
He paused. “I guess… I figured she was the gatekeeper.”
The word hit me wrong. Gatekeeper.
And then it clicked. I took out my phone, opened Instagram, and typed his handle, which was a private account. But something was off.
I clicked on my friend Anisha’s profile—she follows everyone. Scrolled through Varun’s followers.
There it was.
Neha followed him. And had been liking his photos since November.
*
“You said he reached out to you,” I said slowly, still staring at the screen.
She looked up from her laptop, blinking. “Yeah.”
“But you were already following him?”
Silence.
“You lied.”
“I didn’t…” She stopped. “Okay. Maybe it wasn’t just him reaching out. Maybe we met at that Diwali party you skipped. And we started talking.”
“You were seeing him?”
“Not seeing-seeing,” she said. “We just… talked. A lot.”
“Wow,” I said. “So, all that time you were being my emotional safety net, you were texting the guy who ghosted me?”
“It wasn’t like that. It just happened. I didn’t plan it.”
That’s when I realized. It wasn’t about protecting me. It was about not being the villain. Not on paper, at least.
“I need some air,” I said, grabbing my keys.
I left. No dramatic fight. No yelling. Just quiet disappointment that stung more than betrayal.
*
A week later, I moved out. Took my plants, my books, and my dignity.
I now live two lanes away in a smaller flat with a leaky faucet and a roommate who actually respects emotional boundaries. Her name’s Pooja. She’s a pastry chef. The fridge always smells like vanilla.
I still run into Neha sometimes. We nod. Smile. Pretend we’re okay.
As for Varun? He sent one last text.
I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wish things were different.
I never replied.
But I did write about it. Posted the whole saga (with fake names) on my blog. It got shared 3,000 times. Someone even commented, “This could be a Netflix series.”
And honestly? It could.
Because the real plot twist wasn’t overhearing something I wasn’t meant to, it was realizing that sometimes, the people you trust most write the footnotes to your heartbreak.
And girl, that’s one hell of a twist.
***
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