I saw her with some other guy I had never seen before.

She was across the street, walking out of the Big Mall with some shopping bags dangling from her hand. She seemed so happy until our eyes met. Then, as if I were the Greek mythology character Medusa, she stood frozen, staring at me. The guy she was with had to yank her to break my spell. She faked a smile at him and pretended as if nothing had happened. He never saw me. But I could see her grabbing his arm and hurrying to get away from my sight.

I was in a small tea shop opposite the Big Mall. I had become a regular customer there over the past couple of weeks. I liked the tea, and it was cheap too. It was not a fancy place where you could hang out with friends, spend time, and split bills. It was a place for passersby who had unfortunately missed their meals and needed to eat somewhere without worrying too much about overspending.

I had shared a table with two labourers from a nearby construction site. Their clothes were muddy and dirty from work. They wore construction boots half-covered with cement dust. They were already at the table before me, but when I took the seat opposite them, they immediately apologized for their appearance and asked me not to mind them.

“It’s the work that gets us dirty. Please don’t feel disgusted,” one of them said.
“It’s okay. I really don’t mind,” I replied.

Then they carried on with their everyday conversation. I didn’t want to make them feel like I was eavesdropping, so I diverted my attention by looking outside.

My cup of tea arrived before their plate of channa and aloo. I also asked for a cigarette. Immediately, they asked for one too. They had been holding back until then, thinking the smoke might bother me. How considerate of them. I lit my Surya, and they smoked Pilot. I could never smoke Pilot. It makes my head spin. It feels like smoking a burning tyre. As I thought of cigarettes, I recalled how she didn’t like it when I smoked.

I started smoking when I was in school and nearly got expelled because of it. I smoked with senior guys in high school. I smoked with my juniors when I got to college. I met her when I was almost halfway through college. She knew I smoked, and she was okay with it. It didn’t bother her for almost a year into our relationship. But suddenly, four months before we broke up, she asked me to give up smoking.

I was surprised. I said I wouldn’t be able to quit cigarettes I had been smoking since I was fourteen. It wasn’t something I did for fun anymore; it had become a necessity. She didn’t even try to understand. She said I was making excuses and wasn’t concerned about my own health.

I loved her enough to at least give it a try. I cut off ties with all my smoker friends, so all I had now was her. I started drinking a lot of water. Whenever an urge surfaced, I did push-ups. My whole body begged for nicotine, but I kept telling myself I wasn’t a quitter.

I couldn’t concentrate on my studies. I couldn’t sleep properly at night. Even my digestion faltered, and I couldn’t poop properly. I became easily irritated and annoyed by everything.

I stayed away from cigarettes for thirty-four days straight. I had never lived without cigarettes for that long in the past eleven years. I was genuinely impressed with my willpower.

One day, we had an argument. It was over something petty. She said I never bought her flowers. So the next day, I bought her flowers with the money I had saved by not smoking cigarettes. Problem solved, right?

No.

She threw the flowers away. She said she didn’t want them anymore. I was confused. She said I should have bought her flowers on my own, without her asking. Now that she had to ask, she didn’t need them anymore because she felt I bought them only because she asked. And I was even more confused.

I asked her, “What can I do now to make it up to you?” I was sorry, but I wanted to fix it. She replied that I should have bought her the flowers before she asked.

And I lost it. How could I do that now? What did she think of me? a time traveller? And even if I could travel through time, did she really think I’d waste that power fixing this stupid mistake? I’d do something noble. Something greater. Maybe stop Hitler’s parents from having him.

“But I’m a man,” I told myself. I composed myself, calmed down, and asked her, “Hey, is there any chance you’re on your period?”

That did it. I almost got punched in the face. That was the last thing I should have asked. Now even time travel couldn’t fix it.

I smoked nineteen cigarettes that day. I relapsed hard. Later, I found out she actually was on her period.

We didn’t talk for a week. Then she texted me and asked to meet. I immediately bought a bouquet of flowers and showed up earlier than she had mentioned. She loved coming to this place; she called it her favorite café. She was the one who had brought me there for the very first time. And like she had said, they served the best momos in town. It was a little expensive, though.

She arrived ten minutes late and smiled at me as she entered. I handed her the flowers, and she was delighted this time. I had already ordered two plates of chicken momos (my feeble attempt to impress her).

She started asking me questions I loved answering. What was I up to? How much did I miss her? Had I learned my lesson? I told her everything except the fact that I had started smoking again. In fact, while I was with her, I felt a strong urge to smoke, but I showed great self-control.

I asked her how she had spent her week. She said she missed me and was happy to see me again. The food arrived, and we continued our conversation while munching on our momos.

Suddenly, I felt our conversation taking a different route. A downward one. I knew exactly where it was heading. She put her fork down, stared straight into my eyes, and asked, “If you missed me so much, why didn’t you make any effort to get in touch with me? Why was I the one who had to text you to meet?”

For context, she hadn’t texted me; she had merely replied to a message I sent three days ago. I had tried calling and texting her for the first four days of that week. She left me on seen and neither answered nor called back.

I replied calmly, “I tried. But then I got angry.”
“What were you angry about?”

My mind went blank. That happens a lot, especially when I feel like I’m being interrogated. I think of answers and also try to find the best way to phrase them so I offend her the least. I calculate her reactions to every possibility. And while doing all that, I forgot I had taken more than a few seconds to respond that gave her enough time to jump in.

“You were angry at me for asking you to buy me flowers.”
“Not exactly,” I murmured.
“That’s exactly the reason. I can’t even ask to be loved, to be cared for, to feel like I’ve a loving boyfriend,” she said, raising her voice.

My mind started racing. Think. Think. Think. Say something. Anything. I noticed people at other tables turning toward us. What were they looking at? Why couldn’t they mind their own business? What were they thinking of me?

“Why don’t you answer me?” she snapped.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said.

She paused briefly, staring at me. “All you ever do is say sorry. Like your sorry will fix everything.”

She stood up and stormed out.

I looked around at the gawking eyes. I covered my face and wanted to scream. I am such a loser, I thought. I could really use a cigarette right now. I called the waiter and asked for one. He pulled out a Shikhar Ice from his pocket and gave me a look full of pity.

I lit the cigarette and took a long drag. As I exhaled, I felt the heaviness in my heart slowly release into the clouds of smoke. I looked out the window and saw her scooter parked outside. Then I looked back at the table and saw the bouquet of flowers I had bought for her. I saw the purse she had left behind.

I tried to react quickly. I had to throw away the cigarette. I had to get rid of the smell. I had to freshen my mouth.

But it was too late.

She was standing there, staring at me, watching me do the one thing she hated the most.

After that day, we went through a couple more cycles of patch-ups and break-ups. No matter how hard I tried to quit, I relapsed harder each time. Eventually, I admitted what I had been avoiding, that I would never be able to quit. She said she couldn’t be with someone like that.

And that was it. We were done.

Now, as I watched her with some other guy just three months after the end of our long one-year-and-four-month relationship, I felt a deep sense of guilt. I should have tried harder. I should have tried to be a better boyfriend.

She grabbed his arm and hurried to get away from my sight. But he stopped, and what I saw made me chuckle.

He pulled out a vape from his jacket, shoved it between his lips, and blew out a heavy cloud of smoke. He took a few more drags before putting it back. I looked at her as she tried her best not to look in my direction. He got on his bike, and she sat behind him with the bags.

It was never about the cigarettes.

As they rode off, she glanced back at me one last time. At that exact moment, I was kissing the love of my life, taking in everything she had to offer until my lungs filled and my brain tingled. Then I let the smoke out as slowly as possible. She watched me until the bike disappeared around the turn.

I had never been so satisfied with anything before.