Honestly, I just wanted to get home, to wash the day off of me and begin my new social media strategy. I typed out a message and hit reply: ‘Almost home, catch up tomorrow.’

I locked my phone and put it in my bag, clutching it to my chest. I stared at the crowd in front of me. I allowed myself to reflect on the confrontation that had happened a few hours earlier.

‘You are never available, Jhanvi! How am I supposed to have a relationship with a woman who can’t even talk about how she feels?’

‘Perhaps I am, but seeing my boyfriend kissing another woman doesn’t exactly inspire me to be emotionally available,’ I shouted back. His first public betrayal had forced me to
guard my heart; I had chosen what to share with him and what not to share with him after that, keeping him away from anything that revolved around my social media life. I attended gatherings without him and only included him in pictures where we were alone. Behind the scenes, though, I truly felt our relationship was better than it ever was. Puneet seemed attentive to my needs and keenly participated in any conversation we had.

When I had first confronted him earlier that day, he tried to deny any wrongdoing. Showing him the picture threw him into a rage. He had shouted and accused me of following him. I did not say much; instead, I had stood and listened to his poor excuses. I had already formulated my questions in my head, and I was waiting for an opening to ask them. When he told me that it was my fault, I snapped. He snapped back, telling me this was the most passion I had ever shown in our entire relationship. Wounded, I retreated to his bedroom, grabbing the few items of clothing I kept in his top drawer. He punched the wall as I made my way to the door, spitting at me that I was so uninvolved I didn’t even realise he had been fooling around for months now. Slamming the door behind me, I vowed I wouldn’t forgive him this time; wouldn’t beg him for his affection.

Thinking back to my teenage years, I wondered if my detachment from my parents affected my relationships with men. My parents love me, I know this, but I learned that they did not understand me. Rather than argue my point and cause conflict, I locked my emotions away. I craved their affection, wished that I could reach out and hug my mother and ask her about all the emotions that were being caused by male affection. My mother often made me a cup of tea when I was at my lowest; we would sit in the kitchen together, my mom giving me a knowing look, but there was never any acknowledgement of anyone’s feelings.

When I left school, my parents wanted me to go to college. With my budding social media career, I decided I would attend, but only for the parties and photo opportunities. I failed twice and was forced to drop out in the second year. My father was bitterly disappointed, I saw it in his eyes, but again, no words were spoken. By the time I dropped out of college, my online presence was making me enough money to survive; not enough to live extravagantly, but enough to pack my bags and move from our home in Delhi to Mumbai. My mom began a discussion the day before I moved, but when I pushed back, my mother agreed reluctantly.