Page 18 of Glass Jawed
Her steps falter but she doesn’t turn. Doesn’t respond.
Just walks away.
But I know she heard me.
SIX
Aarohi
Me: Do you have 8 minutes?
I collapse onto my bed the second I hit send.
The night hadn’t gone how I expected, and I couldn’t quite understand Lucian’s motives. He seemed... affected. Like the words he’d said that night—those words—were finally sinking in.
Maybe it was on me to clear the air. Toactuallystart fresh.
We couldn’t keep pretending we were strangers sharing polite drinks when there was an elephant parked between us. So I addressed it. Was it wrong to bring it up? Maybe. But I couldn’t stand the way he kept looking at me—like I was something inconvenient.
Something he regretted bumping into.
He was right.
Weshouldstart over.
I stare at my screen, waiting for it to light up. Knowing Kashvi will call once she sees the message is already soothing. I once saw a video of Simon Sinek saying that sometimes, all you need is eight minutes with a friend to calm a storm inside you. I’m probably paraphrasing, but the concept stuck.
Since then, Kashvi and I had a deal: when either of us was spiraling, we’d text the other.
Do you have 8 minutes?
A quiet code forI need you.
My phone buzzes just under three minutes later. Her name flashes across the screen and I smile, relief loosening my shoulders.
Kashvi.
My best friend of twenty years. We grew up together, clung to each other through school, through breakups, through undergrad applications and real-world jobs. Even when distance pulled us apart geographically, we never really drifted.
I swipe to answer. “Hey...”
My voice cracks. There’s something stuck in my throat—leftover dread from the drinks. Fromhim.
“What happened? Are you okay?” Kashvi’s voice is immediate, sharp with concern.
I close my eyes, letting the sound of her voice settle something in me.
“Not really,” I murmur. “But I will be.”
“Tell me.”
Kashvi doesn’t waste time. Her voice drops into that tone—soft, serious, the one she only uses when I’m unraveling. It’s like a drill. She knows how to get things out of me, and I’m too tired to resist.
I push off the bed and wander to the tiny kitchen area of my apartment. My flatmate, Charlotte, isn’t here—probably on her night shift, bartending.
My hands move on autopilot, grabbing a bag of plain potato chips from the shelf and ripping it open.
“This is my dinner,” I announce, flopping back onto the bed. “Chips.”
