The screenshot sits open and I cannot close it

Someone in Karjat knows my name. Not the stage name, not the Meera who hosts in BKC — my real last name, attached to a laughing emoji. 'Bhai ne bheja, dekh lo.' My stomach drops every time I read it. Forward to family WhatsApp with one tap. That's all it takes now. One tap from a stranger in Karjat and my mother sees a clip she was never supposed to see.

I told Heena we file tomorrow. Section 67, read-aloud to Imran. She typed it into her laptop while I sat at her dining table eating vada pav from the auto stop. My left wrist hurt through the bandage. The inspector's red stamp looked like a wound on the page. Suresh stood next to me in that room and I felt nothing — not relief, not hatred, just the flat tiredness of having to share oxygen with someone who cost me eight months of silence.

I called him later to confirm he'd show. He asked if the complaint could stop family WhatsApp. I didn't have a clean answer. The law is a maze and I am navigating it alone with Heena's Wi-Fi and Priya's tagging instinct.

Sonam texted about chai. Friday. I said yes. I want to sit across from someone who doesn't know about the clip and eat something warm. I want to pretend I am the version of myself in Heena's candid photo — relaxed, caught off guard, not bracing. I secretly took that photo of Heena without asking. I don't know why. Maybe because she looked like someone who hadn't been chased in a while.

My self-defense kit is at the top of my bag now. Everything I own has become strategic.