Just This Once

 The clock above the chai tapri is stuck at 6:17.

Has been for weeks now. Not AM, not PM, just frozen. Hung there like an old truth no one bothers correcting. People come and go. Tea is poured. Plastic stools wobble under weight. But the clock? The clock just stays.

I sit beneath it, elbows on knees, cigarette burning low between two fingers. The smoke curls up into the streetlight’s yellow, like it doesn’t want to be here either.

My phone buzzes.

Another message I won’t read.

"You took it the wrong way."
"Why do you always get so emotional?"
"You make everything about you."

It’s strange how familiar those words are. Like a fight on loop. Like a film I’ve memorised the dialogues of.

I don’t open the chat. Just let the screen fade.

Same pattern. Same silence. The same apology expected from me.

I’ve always been the one to say sorry first. To call, to explain, to soften my own hurt so others don’t feel uncomfortable around it. I’ve laughed mid-argument to keep it light. Bit my tongue so someone else wouldn’t have to taste their own bitterness.

And every time, I’ve asked myself, “Was I overthinking?”
“Was I too much?”
“Did I ruin this?”

But not tonight.

Tonight, the weight of it all doesn’t feel like mine to carry.

Not when they walked away while I was still mid-sentence.
Not when I asked for honesty, and they gave me silence.
Not when I cried and they called it manipulation.

I pull another drag.

And something inside me settles. Not with anger. Not with closure. Just… truth.

"Har baar main hi galat nahi hota..."

"Kabhi duniya bhi galat ho sakti hai."

It doesn’t solve anything. Doesn’t fix the echo inside me. But it stays. Like warm chai on an empty stomach. Quiet and grounding.

For once, I’m not going to untangle things I didn’t knot.

For once, I’m not sorry for feeling too much.

I flick the cigarette, crush it under my heel, and walk away from the tapri. The old man doesn't notice. The traffic doesn’t slow. The clock still reads 6:17.

But I’m not stuck.

Not this time.