Third Corner

The monsoon had arrived early in Kochi that year, turning the narrow lanes of Fort Kochi into rivers of red earth and memory. Smriti stood at her apartment window, watching the rain create patterns on the glass that reminded her of the rangoli designs her grandmother used to make during Diwali. But unlike those deliberate, beautiful patterns, these seemed chaotic, accidental, much like her life had become.

Her phone buzzed against the wooden windowsill. A message from Aman: "Diya loved the jasmine you picked for her hair yesterday. She kept talking about how thoughtful you are."

Smriti smiled despite the ache in her chest. She had spent twenty minutes in her building's garden that morning, selecting the most perfect jasmine buds, knowing exactly how Diya liked to weave them into her long, dark hair. She knew because she had been watching Diya do it every morning for the past three years, ever since Aman had brought her home to meet his friends.

"Tell her I said she looked beautiful," Smriti typed back, then deleted it. Instead, she wrote: "Glad she liked them."

The reply came immediately: "See you at Ravi's tonight? Diya's making that payasam you taught her."

Smriti set the phone down and returned to her easel, where a half-finished painting of the Chinese fishing nets at sunset waited for her attention. Her art had become her refuge, the only place where she could be honest about what she felt. The canvas was filled with warm oranges and deep purples, but in the corner, she had painted a small figure standing apart from the main scene, always watching, always separate.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She had introduced Aman and Diya at her own birthday party two years ago. Diya had been her colleague at the advertising agency, a recent transfer from Bangalore who didn't know anyone in the city. Aman was Smriti's oldest friend, her confidant since their college days in Trivandrum. She had thought they would get along well, perhaps too well, as it turned out.

She remembered the exact moment she realised she was losing them both, not to distance or anger, but to something more complicated. It was during last year's Onam celebrations at Ravi's house. The whole group had gathered for the traditional feast, sitting cross-legged on banana leaves, sharing stories and laughter. Smriti had been explaining the significance of each dish to Diya, who was experiencing her first proper Onam sadhya.

"This is olan," Smriti had said, pointing to the delicate coconut curry. "My grandmother used to say it represents the simple pleasures in life. Nothing fancy, but essential."

Aman had been listening, and suddenly he looked at Smriti with such warmth, such appreciation for her knowledge and care. But then Diya had laughed, that beautiful, musical laugh of hers, and said, "Smriti, you know everything! No wonder Aman always talks about how lucky he is to have you as a friend."

The word 'friend' had hung in the air like incense smoke, sweet but insubstantial. And in that moment, Smriti saw it clearly: Aman loved her, but as the dear friend who enriched his world and made his relationship with Diya more beautiful. Diya loved her too, as the generous soul who had given her not just a boyfriend, but an entire community, a sense of belonging in a new city.

They loved her, both of them, but she existed in the spaces between their main story, in the margins of their shared life, essential but secondary.

Now, six months later, Smriti had learned to navigate this strange territory. She was the one Aman called when he was worried about work, the one Diya asked about everything from saris to career decisions. She was loved by both, needed by both, but belonged fully to neither.

The rain intensified, drumming against the window with increasing urgency. Smriti mixed more purple into her palette and began working on the solitary figure in her painting. As she painted, she thought about the conversation she'd had with her mother the previous weekend during her visit to Thrissur.

"You look thin," her mother had said, the standard opening to any serious conversation in their family. They were sitting in the courtyard, watching the temple elephant, Padmanabhan, being given his evening bath.

"I'm fine, Amma."

"Are you? You talk about Aman and Diya constantly, but when do I hear about your life? Your dreams?"

Smriti had looked at the elephant, wise and patient, and wondered if this was how he felt, loved and cared for, but ultimately there for others' joy and comfort. "They are my life. My friends are important to me."

Her mother, shrewd as always, had been quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "There's a difference between being important in someone's life and being important in your own life."

The memory stung now as Smriti worked on her painting. She had been so busy being the perfect third wheel that she had forgotten to build a life that didn't revolve around them.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Diya: "Smriti! Emergency! What do you wear to meet someone's parents for the first time? Aman is taking me to Calicut next weekend!"

Smriti's brush paused mid-stroke. This was new. Meeting parents was serious business in their world, especially in Aman's traditional family. She felt a complex mix of emotions, happiness for her friends, a sharp pang of something that might have been jealousy, and underneath it all, a growing sense of being left behind.

"That's wonderful! What's the occasion?"

"I think... I think he might be planning to propose soon. His mother specifically asked to meet me. Smriti, I'm terrified!"

Smriti stared at the message for a long time. She could picture Diya pacing around her apartment, probably wearing one of those soft cotton kurtas she favoured. She could also picture Aman, nervous and excited, probably having called his mother three times already.

And here was Smriti, as always, being the first person they turned to in moments of significance. The irony was sharp; she knew Aman better than anyone, understood his family dynamics better than Diya ever would. But guiding Diya through this would be like gift-wrapping her own solitude.

"They'll love you. You make Aman happy. What more could they want?"

"Will you help me? You know his family so well."

Of course she did. She had spent countless celebrations with them over the years. His mother still asked about her health and sent her homemade banana chips.

"Come over tomorrow evening."

"You're the best! I don't know what we'd do without you."

There it was again, that casual, genuine declaration that somehow made everything more complicated. Smriti set the phone aside and looked at her painting. The solitary figure now had more definition, more presence. She realised she had been painting herself.

The next evening, Diya arrived with nervous energy, chattering about the weekend ahead. As they sat with tea, going through conversation topics and family traditions, Smriti found herself genuinely invested in helping her friend succeed.

"You know," Diya said suddenly, pausing mid-sentence, "I feel bad sometimes. About how much of Aman's life I'm learning through you. You know him in ways I never will. All these shared memories, inside jokes. Sometimes I wonder if..." She trailed off.

"If what?"

"Nothing. Never mind." But her eyes held a question she couldn't voice.

Smriti looked at her friend, because despite everything, that's what Diya was, truly, and felt a rush of protective instinct. "What Aman and I have is friendship. What you two have is love. They're different things entirely."

"Are they always?"

The question hung in the air like evening mist. Smriti could have deflected, but instead found herself being honest. "I love him like family. Like the brother I never had. Someone who's been part of my story for so long, I can't imagine life without them. But that's different from being in love."

It wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't entirely false either. The feelings were more layered than that, complicated by years of shared experiences and paths not taken.

Diya reached over and squeezed her hand. "I'm grateful you're in our lives. Our relationship is stronger because of your friendship with both of us."

There it was again, being valued as the connector, the one who made their love work better. Smriti squeezed back, surprised to find that the ache in her chest had shifted into something else. Not gone, but transformed.

Three weeks later, Smriti received two phone calls. First Aman: "She said yes! We're engaged!"

Then Diya: "We want you to be our maid of honour. We can't imagine doing this without you."

Smriti said yes, because how could she not?

The wedding planning consumed the next months. Smriti found herself at the centre of everything; she painted their invitation, coordinated between families, and listened to pre-wedding anxieties.

On the wedding morning, as Smriti helped Diya get ready, she caught her own reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a beautiful blue silk saree, her hair adorned with jasmine, and she looked... not blissfully happy, but genuinely at peace with her place in this story.

During the ceremony, watching Aman tie the thaali around Diya's neck, Smriti felt something settle in her chest. This was right. She wasn't losing them; she was gaining a different kind of family.

At the reception, during his speech, Aman raised his glass: "I want to thank Smriti, who introduced us, who has been our biggest supporter, who knows us both so well she sometimes understands what we need before we do. We love you."

The crowd smiled at her, and Smriti felt the warmth of being seen, acknowledged. Not as a consolation prize, but as essential to this story.

Later, as the couple prepared to leave for their honeymoon, Diya hugged her tightly. "Thank you. For everything. For bringing us together. For being our constant."

"Thank you for loving him the way he deserves," Smriti replied. "And for letting me be part of your story."

Walking home that night, still in her blue silk saree with jasmine in her hair, Smriti thought about her haiku:

In my own relationship

I'm being loved more

As a third person

She had written it focusing on the limitation, the separation. But now she saw it differently. Being loved as a third person didn't mean being loved less; it meant being loved for who she actually was, not for who she might become in someone else's story.

The next morning, she stood before her easel again. The solitary figure was still there, but now the scene felt complete. The couple, the observer, the sunset, the nets, all part of one story, all necessary.

Smriti picked up her brush and added one final detail: a small smile on the watching figure's face.

Outside her window, the monsoon had ended, and Kochi sparkled in the morning sun. But as she stepped back to look at her completed painting, Smriti felt something she hadn't expected, a small, persistent question mark in her chest. What now? What came next for the woman who had found peace in being the third person, but who still had her own story to write?

She set down her brush, suddenly aware that this ending was also a beginning. The painting was finished, but her canvas was still large enough for something new.

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