Three rooms I'm not in

Three rooms. My name in three rooms I am not standing in. Ritu called at eleven to warn me the Delhi builder — Dhruv — had asked her for an August mehfil quote under a different company name. He had already booked the Lonavala farmhouse through a third-party planner in Kalyan. He was pricing me against Niharika's undercut. My own brief was in his forwarded email. My own brief. I wrote it. He used it like a ruler.

At four I sat with the fixer in the Bandra cafe back corner. The junior beside him slid a sealed envelope under my hand hard enough to scrape my palm. Paper-cut violence — the cafe could not see it. Inside: a four-by-six print of the second farmhouse clip, the pulled-dupatta one, and a sticky note — Level 2. 4 p.m. Thursday. Or this goes wider. I held a napkin to the cut. I am the woman who does not bleed onto the tablecloth.

Home. Toast one-handed, the sticky note beside the print. I texted Kabir about the model release I signed in 2024. I have a folder on my phone now called backup that I never wanted to need. I stood very still at the counter. The print is face-down but I know what is on it. I know what my collarbone looks like from the angle they chose. If I moved I would pick it up and do something I cannot take back — tear it, or call my mum in Jaipur and pretend I wanted her dal recipe. I did not want her dal recipe. I wanted her to say beta, come home.

The wrapper from Suresh's vada pav stall is still in my tote strap. Cheap plastic. The only thing in my bag that has not asked me for a fee.

Kabir said this is now a case. I ate two samosas in his lobby and they were warm. He is the only person today who fed me without using my hunger against me. I think I am a little in love with Kabir and I am going to mock myself for writing that sentence for the rest of the week.

Lying in bed. Level 2. 4 p.m. Thursday. Or this goes wider. Thursday is in three days. My name is being spoken in three rooms I am not in. Yesterday I was the woman standing very still by the kitchen counter with an alarm in plastic. Today same woman, different wound. I will get up tomorrow and post the photographs and make the moment bigger than the stumble. I will ~~hate~~ love that I know how.