The main number is not mine

The main number is not mine anymore. That's the sentence that hasn't left. Not the deeper neckline line — I can hear that line when I want to and I have been hearing it when I don't. But the part that sits is that my mother has this number. Ritu's office has this number. Adi has this number. Heena's circle. And now Dhruv Khanna has rehearsed an apology into it and asked me to dress for a room in a colour my own collarbone was already wearing in July.

I keep thinking about the marigold dupatta. I posted it. I pressed send. And now someone I have never met has quoted it back at me like a catalogue reference. He didn't say you. He said your July mehfil photos. Plural. Someone has been scrolling. I have been scrolling. I posted the scrolling.

I told him the dress code was whatever I decided in the room with the lock he promised. That was the right line. I knew it was the right line while my hand was turning white on the counter. Kabir filed it under dress-code coercion, verbal. I am a woman who keeps a folder on her phone labelled farmhouse clause and today I added a voice memo to it. Yesterday I wrote that. Today I added the memo. The folder is heavier and I am the one carrying it.

The door alarm is on the floor beside my bed. It rolled out of the tote at 2:14 and I have not put it back in. I keep looking at it in the dark. It is a plastic thing with a logo on it. It does not actually do anything. I know this. I sleep next to it anyway.

Closer to yes. The yes where I stop posting the colour. ~~No that's not it.~~ What's the yes I am getting closer to? I think I will recognise it by its shape after it has already happened.