But Karan’s lips are downturned as he stares at the floor and mumbles, “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Your what?”

“My gi—”

“How do you already have a girlfriend? It’s been, like, twenty seconds since we broke up.” Her mind is flooded with the image of them from that day. Karan’s large, easy smile. Anisha in her dress and heels. Of course Karan likes a girl like her. A Suhani-type girl, as put together on the inside as she is on the outside. There’s no way Anisha snoozes her alarm too much or takes forever to respond to texts for no legitimate reason or oscillates between being angry at everyone and then not caring at all.

“It’s been weeks since you said no to marrying me,” Karan whispers as he looks around. Natasha wants to tell him nobody can hear him, and even if they can, nobody cares.

They’ve been together for years—years—and he can just be with someone else within weeks? What’s worse is that he didn’t even really replace her; he upgraded. If you randomly polled anyone—an auntie, a twenty-year-old, or a high schooler—all of them would agree that Anisha is a catch.

“So that means you just got another girlfriend?” she asks, suddenly feeling nauseated. “But when I asked you to meet, you seemed excited. Like you really wanted to see me.”

And you’re the only person I have left, she wants to say. Nobody else gets what’s going on.

“I did want to see you,” Karan says. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay since my mom had heard from some of the aunties that things have been tough for you.”

“You got your intel about me from your mom and the aunties. Shocker,” she says.

Anita Auntie could have gotten her Natasha updates from Kavita Auntie or Mira Auntie. Both are equally likely. Mira Auntie likes sharing everyone’s business as much as possible, but Kavita Auntie, even though she seems quieter, is actually the one who gets the information in the first place. Suhani’s always thought that people tell Kavita Auntie more since she puts on a pretty convincing I-don’t-care-about-gossip act.

“Yeah, and I mean, at that wedding a couple of weeks ago, you got into that argument with your Mom during cocktail hour. So, I dunno, it seemed like you weren’t in a good place.”

“Well, thanks for caring.” Natasha scoffs. “But I’m fine and I definitely don’t need your support.”

She expects him to be irritated or maybe even mad. But when she looks up, what she sees in his eyes is way worse: pity. Stark, straightforward pity, the kind that stings more than anger would.