Chapter 35 The Things Society Refused to Forget

The photos spread everywhere overnight.

By morning, the gossip pages had become vicious.

Not because the images themselves were scandalous.

Because they were intimate in the most humiliating way possible.

A younger Ananya standing slightly behind Arjun during family gatherings.

Looking toward him during events when he wasn’t paying attention.

Waiting near entrances after functions ended.

Small moments.

Ordinary moments.

Yet together they painted an unmistakable story:

a girl who loved too openly while receiving very little back.

The internet devoured it instantly.

“She followed him around for years.”

“So she was obsessed all along?”

“This is embarrassing.”

“Poor girl. No self-respect.”

Every comment felt like someone digging through the corpse of her previous life for entertainment.

Ananya stared silently at her phone while sitting alone at the kitchen counter early Saturday morning, tea growing cold untouched beside her.

She should stop reading.

She knew that.

But some part of her kept scrolling anyway, almost compulsively searching for the exact shape of humiliation others now assigned to her.

The worst part?

None of it was entirely false.

She had followed him around.

She had waited.

She had loved him in ways that consumed too much of herself.

The difference was that strangers viewed those things as pathetic entertainment instead of emotional tragedy.

Her phone rang suddenly.

Rhea.

Ananya answered quietly.

“Hello.”

“You are not allowed online today.”

Too late.

Rhea sighed immediately, clearly hearing the exhaustion in her voice.

“How bad?”

Ananya looked down at another comment glowing against the screen.

“Apparently I’m the national symbol for female humiliation.”

“Incorrect,” Rhea replied instantly. “You’re the national symbol for what happens when emotionally unavailable rich men accidentally create character development.”

Despite herself, Ananya laughed softly.

The sound came fragile.

But real.

Good.

At least she could still laugh.

“You know what I hate most?” Ananya whispered after a moment.

“What?”

“That people are mocking a version of me who genuinely loved someone.”

Silence.

Then Rhea’s voice softened.

“That version of you deserved compassion, not ridicule.”

Emotion tightened sharply inside Ananya’s throat.

Because yes.

Exactly that.

No one looked at a young woman loving too deeply and thought:
she must have been lonely.

Instead they laughed.

As though devotion itself became shameful once unreturned.

“I feel embarrassed for her,” Ananya admitted quietly.

“No,” Rhea corrected immediately. “You feel protective of her now.”

The words hit hard enough that Ananya stopped breathing briefly.

Protective.

Not ashamed.

Protective.

Because for the first time, she was looking at her past self not with disgust—

but grief.

The younger version of herself had not been weak.

Just unloved properly.

The realization hurt differently.

—

By afternoon, the situation worsened.

Several entertainment accounts began reposting the photos alongside newer images of Arjun openly standing beside her at recent events.

Then came comparisons.

“She finally won.”

“Years of chasing finally worked.”

“Persistence really pays off.”

Ananya nearly threw her phone across the room.

Won?

As though love were some exhausting competition where humiliation eventually earned rewards.

As though her pain had been strategic instead of real.

A knock sounded against the apartment door before she could spiral further.

She already knew who it was.

Arjun entered moments later looking colder than she had ever seen him before.

Not toward her.

Toward the world.

The moment he stepped inside, his eyes found the phone still open in her hand.

His jaw tightened immediately.

“You’re reading them again.”

Not a question.

Ananya locked the screen silently.

“It’s hard not to.”

Arjun crossed the room slowly.

“You shouldn’t have to relive this publicly.”

The anger in his voice startled her slightly.

Because he sounded furious on her behalf.

Not uncomfortable.

Not embarrassed.

Furious.

“I survived worse,” she said quietly.

The sentence slipped out too naturally.

Arjun noticed instantly.

His expression changed sharply.

Worse.

Again those strange phrases.

Always sounding like memory instead of fear.

He stepped closer carefully.

“What exactly happened to you?” he asked softly.

The question froze the air between them.

Dangerous territory.

Ananya looked away immediately.

“You already know enough.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I know you loved me and got hurt. I don’t think that’s the whole story.”

Her pulse tightened painfully.

Because he was starting to notice too much now.

Not rebirth itself.

But the depth of the damage.

Ananya forced herself to breathe evenly before speaking.

“I spent years believing if I loved someone enough, eventually they would choose me properly.”

Silence.

Then:

“And when I didn’t?”

The quietness in his voice hurt.

She laughed softly without humor.

“I kept waiting.”

The honesty devastated the room.

Because waiting had been the true tragedy of her old life.

Not rejection.

Duration.

Years spent emotionally suspended around someone who never intended cruelty but also never loved her enough.

Arjun looked down briefly.

And for the first time—

she realized he genuinely hated himself for it now.

“You deserved certainty,” he said quietly.

The immediate conviction in his voice nearly broke her again.

Because certainty was exactly what she never received before.

Only fragments.

Enough hope to stay.

Never enough love to heal.

Ananya looked toward the apartment windows instead, watching rain slide endlessly down the glass.

“You know what’s funny?” she whispered.

Arjun stayed silent.

“I used to think if you ever loved me back someday, everything I suffered would suddenly feel worth it.”

Pain flickered sharply across his face.

“But now?” he asked carefully.

Ananya swallowed once.

“Now I think the version of me who suffered that much deserved better from both of us.”

The words settled heavily into the room.

Because this was no longer romance.

This was accountability.

Grief.

Growth.

Arjun moved closer after a long silence until he stood directly in front of her.

Close enough that she could feel warmth radiating from him again.

“You were never hard to love,” he said quietly.

The sentence shattered something inside her instantly.

Because once—

once she truly believed she must have been.

Why else would loving her properly have taken him so long?

Tears burned behind her eyes again.

Damn him.

Damn this version of him who said exactly the things she once needed most.

“You can’t say things like that now,” she whispered shakily.

“Why?”

“Because I would’ve believed you back then without hesitation.”

“And now?”

Ananya looked at him helplessly.

The truth hurt too much.

“Now I believe you too,” she admitted softly. “That’s what scares me.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Real.

Arjun’s gaze dropped briefly toward her mouth again.

The same look.

The same unbearable tension from the car.

Only stronger now.

Because this time neither of them were pretending anymore.

No confusion.

No denial.

Just love.

Terrifying and unavoidable.

Arjun lifted one hand slowly then, brushing his thumb gently beneath her eye where tears threatened to fall.

The tenderness nearly destroyed her composure completely.

“Ananya.”

The way he said her name sounded almost reverent now.

She closed her eyes briefly.

Because she already knew what was happening.

One more moment.

One more breath.

And she would stop resisting entirely.

Then his phone rang.

The interruption sliced violently through the room.

Arjun cursed softly under his breath for the first time since she’d known him.

The startled sound almost made her laugh despite everything.

Almost.

He pulled the phone out sharply before glancing at the screen.

His expression hardened immediately.

“What?” he answered coldly.

Silence.

Then his jaw tightened dangerously.

Ananya’s stomach dropped instantly.

“What happened?”

Arjun lowered the phone slowly after the call ended.

His voice came controlled.

Too controlled.

“My mother invited Priya Malhotra’s family to dinner tomorrow.”

The room went completely silent.

Because suddenly—

this was no longer just gossip anymore.

The families had officially started moving pieces across the board.