The name is finally on paper

I wrote Vikram A. down so carefully that it looked almost respectable. He isn’t respectable. He is a name on a clipboard now, something I can point to when my hands shake tomorrow morning. I liked that tiny bit of power more than I want to admit.

For days, I kept imagining Niharika’s voice breaking at the confession. Tonight it did, and I still felt no satisfaction. That frightened me. I wanted vindication to be warm, immediate, worth what it cost me. Instead I sat with a timestamp and thought about how betrayal can hide inside ordinary work while you smile and thank the person again.

I replied to Sonam about chai, which means I admitted that I want to be asked about something other than the case. I want to talk about silly things, eat something that isn’t reheated dal and rice, and let someone else choose the table. I will probably turn the conversation toward the women’s cell anyway. I make every safe place useful.

Tomorrow I rehearsed entering with my arms steady and my face composed. In the café photo, I looked like someone who laughed easily and belonged in the sunlight. I hated how much I wanted that picture to be true. I have been building so many versions of myself that I sometimes cannot find the tired one underneath.

I called my brother to ask about roka dates because hearing normal Jaipur details makes my life feel briefly manageable. Mum will ask eventually. I will buy another day of cover, but I am running out of patience with my own lies.