ONE
Aarohi
My palms are slick.
I wipe them down the sides of my cargo pants for the third time in a minute. Doesn’t help. The sweat just soaks in. My laptop screen goes blurry—not from a glitch, not even from tears. Just... the panic. It floods everything. My fingers hover above the keys, twitching like they want to run.
Don’t look up.
Don’t. Look. Up.
But I do.
And there it is again. That voice. That fucking voice from a year ago, unearthed like a body I forgot to bury properly.
“If you wanted to fuck a woman, you could’ve found one who actually looked like one.”
The shame crawls up my spine like it never left. Like it was waiting in the corners of my mind, patient and cruel.
God, my body.
It’s always been a problem, hasn’t it?
Too skinny.
Too flat.
Too... boyish.
I eat like I’m training for a marathon, and nothing sticks. Not weight, not muscle, not curves. I’ve had people tell me I’m lucky. I’ve had relatives call me “anorexic” and “a skeleton” to my facelike they’re commenting on the weather. I used to laugh. Pretend it didn’t sting.
I worked hard for a decade, only to gain a measly 7 kilograms.
I drowned the taunting voices of ex-boyfriends, vicious Indian aunties, and clueless family members. I was good.
Fuck, I was doing so well.
Until him.
Until that night.
When a stranger looked at me with disgust, and ripped open everything I’d ever hated about myself. When I was standing in someone else’s apartment, naked and shaking and trying not to cry while his voice carved itself into my bones.
Lucian.
Fuck.
“Aarohi?” Katie nudges me lightly. “You good?”
I nod too fast. “Yeah. Just zoned out.”
Zoned out. Right. Try slowly spiraling into a hole of shame.
I force myself to look up, and—
He’s still here.
I was half hoping I was imagining this ridiculous coincidence.
