The Geometry of Regret

The co-worker stared at Shravu, his voice trembling. "What… what are you doing?"

Shravu didn’t blink. His gaze remained fixed on the monitor, his eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fury. The co-worker took a hasty step back, mumbling a hurried "sorry" before turning his back, his own face pale with unease.

Ring. Ring.

The phone on the desk broke the silence. Shravu glanced at it. Mom.

He didn't react. He just watched the screen light up, his expression a mask of hollow indifference. The phone stopped. Then, it started again. He picked it up and held it to his ear, saying nothing.

"Are you there?" his mother’s voice came through. "How much did you save in the bank?"

"About fifty thousand," he replied, his voice devoid of life.

"Good. We need that money."

Silence.

"Did they give you a bonus?" she pressed. "You worked so much overtime, surely they paid you extra."

Shravu stared at the wall, his jaw tight.

"Shravu? Did they?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Good. Use that for the household expenses. Send it over."

"Okay," he said, his voice a ghost of himself.

"And don't plan anything for the evening. We need to go buy supplies for the house." The line went dead.

Shravu sat frozen. A sudden, jagged laugh escaped him—a sound that held more agony than a scream ever could. In the heart of the bustling office, no one noticed. No one cared. He was just a body in a chair, a gear in the machine.

Miles away, Akhi’s life was a different kind of burden. She was surrounded by friends, laughter, and the warmth of her institute social circle. For a moment, she was happy, her face bright as they joked around.

Then, a friend called out, "Akhi! You left your notes at my place."

The mention of the notes pulled her back to earth. Her smile faltered.

"Aren't you coming with us?" her friend asked as they made plans for the evening.

"I can't," Akhi said, her voice tight. "I have my part-time job. I’m already late. If I'm any later, the owner will lose her mind."

"Why do you work so hard? Your parents are taking care of everything, aren't they?"

Akhi forced a smile. "I just like having my own money." She hurried away, jumping on the first bus she saw. As she stood in the aisle, swaying with the movement of the bus, she looked out at the city lights. When did my life become this? she wondered. The sudden financial crisis, the tiny grocery store where I stand behind the counter like a servant—when did I lose the girl who had dreams? She never told her friends. They wouldn't understand.

At 3:30 PM, she reached the shop. The owner, a woman her mother knew, was already scowling. "You’re late."

"Extra classes," Akhi lied.

"Don't give me that," the owner snapped. "Just say you were gossiping with friends."

Akhi took the harsh tone in silence, tucking her pride away. "I’m sorry."

"I have errands to run. Watch the shop." And with that, the woman left, leaving Akhi alone to watch the world drift past the glass door.

Across the city, Shravu sat on his bike, weighed down by heavy shopping bags. He was bone-tired. As he waited for his mother to finish her errands, the distant chatter of a group of people eating Panipuri drifted to him.

His heart hitched. He saw a girl laughing, holding a Pani puri to her lips, and it hit him like a physical blow—the memory of Akhi.

The weight of his own cruelty crushed him. Why did I say those things? Why did I call her just to hurt her? Why is my life like this?

Guilt, sharp and cold, gnawed at him. He needed to apologize. One sorry. That’s all it would take to bridge the gap. He took a shaky breath and dialed her number.

Engaged.

He stared at the phone. She’s probably still angry. Or busy. And why would she pick up for someone like me? He leaned his head against the handlebars, a broken man.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. A name flashed on the screen: Akhi.

His heart leaped, but the timing was cruel. His mother appeared, dropping more bags into his arms. "Let's go."

"Oh, damn it," he hissed, silencing the phone and stuffing it into his pocket.

Akhi stood by her shop, staring at her screen. Why call if you aren’t going to answer? She felt foolish, humiliated.

"Closing time," the owner said, returning. "Close up. The streets aren't safe this late. If something happens to you, your mother will blame me."

"I'm sorry, Akka. I won't be late again."

"Who were you calling?" the owner asked, eyeing her. "A boyfriend?"

"No," Akhi muttered. "Just someone who’s impossible to understand."

Walking home, Akhi poured her heart out to the shop owner, treating her like an older sister. "I just wanted to spend time with him, and he ruined it."

As she reached her gate, her phone buzzed again. Her eyes widened. She ducked into the shadows, her voice a hurried whisper. "Hello?"

"Akhi? Is it really you?"

"Yes," she said, her guard up. "What do you want?"

"I... I’m sorry," he stammered.

"Is that why you called?"

"I want to treat you to something. Let me buy you food."

"Are you trying to bribe me?"

"No, Akhi, it’s not like that—"

"Meet me at the place I told you," she interrupted.

"Why?"

"Because if you want to say something, look me in the eye and say it."

She hung up, her pulse racing. For the first time in weeks, a genuine, secret smile touched her lips.

The Next Day.

The office was a blur of noise. Shravu sat at his desk, his hands flying across the keyboard. "I have to finish this. I have to go."

His co-worker tapped his shoulder. "Hey, there’s a bug in your code."

Shravu checked. It was true. A stupid mistake born of a distracted mind. He fixed it in silence, his stomach churning with nerves.

Meanwhile, Akhi paced the floor of the institute, checking her phone every thirty seconds.

"What’s wrong?" her friend Hema asked.

"I’m meeting Shravu," Akhi said.

"After what he said to you? You're going back to him?"

"He’s saying sorry," Akhi said, her voice resolute.

"And you’ll just forgive him?"

"I don't know," Akhi said, smiling faintly. "But I have to hear it."

At 5:00 PM, Akhi approached her shop owner. She pleaded, offered to work two weeks of extra shifts, even a month, until the owner finally threw her hands up. "Fine! Go. But if that boy hurts you, call me immediately."

Akhi sprinted to the location she’d sent him. When she saw his bike pull up, her heart hammered.

Shravu stepped off, looking at her with eyes full of apology. "Hi, Akhi."

"Shravu," she said, her voice stern.

"I am so sorry, Akhi. I didn't mean any of it."

"Enough," she said. "You’re a jerk, you know that?"

"I know," he whispered. "I don't know how to talk to people."

"It’s all your fault," she said, though the edge in her voice was softening. "So today, you do exactly what I say."

"Anything."

She took his hand. It was trembling. He’s as nervous as I am, she realized, and she held on tighter.

They walked through the city, the air thick with the scent of ozone and cooling earth. They didn't speak of their destination, but they walked toward the old cake shop where everything had shattered.

"Why are you working that part-time job?" Shravu asked, his voice low.

"Money. Family responsibilities," she replied. "Everyone has a cross to bear, Shravu. You weren't the only one suffering."

Shravu looked at her, his face softening. "You’re right. I was so self-absorbed, I didn't see you. I blamed everyone but myself."

"You promised to do as I say," she reminded him. "We are going to take public transport. No bike. You are going to take care of me, and you are going to bring me back safely."

"You still don't trust me?"

"I trust you to hold my hand," she said, and she squeezed his fingers.

As they sat on the bus, the conversation turned deep. Shravu spoke of his frustration—of the unfair expectations placed on men, the way his passion for design was mocked as 'childish doodles.'

"I felt like I was drowning," he admitted.

Akhi looked at him, her eyes shining. "You aren't drowning anymore. If you want to learn, learn online. Don't tell me you have no options. You have a brain, and you have time. Believe in yourself, Shravu. Because I believe in you."

Shravu looked at her, and for the first time in years, the tension in his shoulders vanished. He looked out the window as the bus lurched forward, feeling a strange, quiet peace settle over him. I’m not alone, he thought. For the first time, I’m really not alone.