The cafeteria smelled like overbrewed coffee and yesterday’s bread, but to Mrunal Deshmukh, it might as well have been Paris. She stood by the corner table near the window, her heart fluttering like it was about to take flight. Rain clouds gathered outside in heavy silence, matching the anticipation building inside her chest.

She checked her reflection for the hundredth time in the glass pane. The lipstick—a soft coral—still held. The curls she’d tried taming with coconut oil were semi-behaved. Her dress, a navy blue wrap that hugged her soft curves and cinched awkwardly at her midriff, was the best she had. Not fancy. But hopeful.

Today… she dared to hope. Ten years. That’s how long she had waited. Ten years of being the supportive girlfriend. Ten years of ignored texts, weekend plans cancelled last minute, and public outings where he always sat one chair apart.

But also ten years of his warm hand on hers when no one was looking. Of stolen smiles. Of soft whispers: "You know you’re cute when you pout like that."

She’d believed him when he said looks didn’t matter. Believed him when he said she didn’t need to lose weight to be loved. Even though she tried—God, she tried. Keto, intermittent fasting, lemon water, and green tea at night. Nothing worked. Her body held onto its softness like a stubborn lover. Still, she stayed. Because love was about more than bodies, right?

And now, he'd messaged her: "Need to talk. It’s important."

There was only one logical conclusion. He was finally going to propose.

She’d imagined it all week. Not the dramatic Bollywood way—no violins, no kneeling—but maybe he'd just take her hand and say, "Let's do this forever, yeah?" She would cry. Probably ruin her mascara. But she’d say yes.

So when she saw him approaching—slouched in that old hoodie, phone still in his hand—her heart skipped a beat. She smiled. Wide. Nervous. Hopeful.

“Hey,” she breathed.

He didn’t meet her eyes. Something small cracked inside her.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Uh… we need to talk.”

She stiffened. Her smile faltered, but she nodded, still clinging to hope.

“I’ve been thinking. A lot.” He paused. “About us.”

Her grip tightened around the paper coffee cup. “Okay…”

He looked past her, anywhere but at her face. “Mrunal, you’re… sweet. You’ve always been. But I think we’re not right for each other.”

The silence was louder than the thunder outside.

“I mean, you deserve someone who gets you better. Someone who matches your… vibe.”

“My vibe?” she echoed, voice trembling. “What does that even mean?”

“I just think… We’re too different now. I’ve changed. You’ve changed.” He shrugged helplessly. “Let’s not drag this, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

But he already had. She blinked once. Twice. The coffee cup fell from her hands with a soft thud, splattering on her dress.

He took a step back. “I didn’t mean to—Mrunal, I hope we can still—”

“No,” she whispered, backing away. “Don’t.”

And just like that, he turned and walked out. No explanations. No tears. No goodbye. Just gone.

The sky cracked open the moment she stepped outside. The first raindrop landed on her cheek like the world's cruelest kiss. Then the rest came—drenching her hair, her dress, her spirit. She didn’t run. She stood there, soaked to her skin, her lipstick bleeding at the corners of her mouth.

Around her, the world moved on. No one looked. No one paused. She had always been easy to ignore. Just a soft, chubby girl in the corner. Smiling too much. Loving too hard. Always waiting.

But something inside her was no longer waiting. Something inside her had snapped.

And the girl who walked home in the rain that evening…was not the same girl who had dressed up this morning with hope in her eyes.

The rain had soaked through every inch of her skin, but she didn’t notice the cold. She walked home like a ghost in borrowed skin—her soaked dress clinging to her curves, her makeup running, and mascara streaking down her cheeks like war paint.

Mrunal Deshmukh was thirty years old. And today, the boy she had loved since she was eighteen  shattered the only dream she'd ever dared to believe in.

Later at night,

She curled up on her bed, not bothering to change out of the wet clothes. The room was dim, just the yellow glow of her study lamp casting long, lonely shadows. Her phone blinked with a new message, but she didn’t check it.

She stared at the ceiling, blinking back the tears burning her eyes.

Aarav.

The name alone made her chest ache. He had been her crush in school—the boy. Perfect hair.Perfect teeth. That crooked, casual smile. The way he leaned on his desk with half a smirk, as if he knew all the girls had their hearts in their throats. And maybe he did. He never noticed her then.

Of course he didn’t. She wasn’t the girl boys noticed. Not when there were leaner, shinier, flirtier girls around. She was the quiet one in the third row—chubby, bespectacled, with oil in her braids and awkwardness in every step.

Still, she always made sure she passed the corridor when his class ended. She memorized his timetable, just for a glimpse. Years later, when she bumped into him at a mutual friend's wedding, she had barely recognized the man in a tailored suit. But that smile—it was still crooked in the same way.

He had looked at her and said, “You were in the red salwar, right? Class 10?”

Her heart had stuttered. And from there, the texts had started. Late-night messages. Coffee catch-ups. Shared laughter. He told her she was cute. Real. Funny. And she fell—so hard, so fast, she never thought to question it.

Because it was him. The boy she had once loved in silence… now loving her back. Her parents adored him. He was charming, respectful, and well-settled. The kind of man they had prayed for.

Her mother used to tease, “When’s the wedding, beta?”

And Mrunal would smile and blush and say, “Soon.”

But soon never came.

Every time she hinted at marriage, he’d laugh and say, “We have time, no? Let’s just enjoy this phase.”

She waited. And waited. Watched everyone else get married. Watched their children arrive. Watched her own reflection age slowly, softly, tiredly.

Now at thirty, she was alone. No ring. No commitment. No explanation. Just a half-finished story and a full heart bleeding.

That night, she didn’t cry dramatically. There were no sobs, no shouting. Just a strange silence. Her room felt too quiet, like even her breath was afraid to echo. She opened her wardrobe and stared at her clothes—simple kurtas, loose jeans, and oversized T-shirts. Comfortable. Covered. Always hiding.

She had spent her entire life trying to take up less space. Trying not to be too much. Too fat. Too needy. Too emotional. Trying to make herself lovable. And yet, it hadn’t been enough.