Part 2: Vanishing Acts

The first week with Ritvik felt... neutral.

Not fireworks, not fairytales — just quiet steps on unfamiliar ground.

He messaged me consistently, nothing too deep, nothing too cold. We were getting to know each other — bit by bit, word by word.

Early on, he told me that sometimes his phone would be used by his brother or uncle.

“If I don’t reply,” he said, “don’t message first.”

So I didn’t.

Not once. Not even when I wanted to.

By the start of the second week, conversations had started to slow down.

There wasn’t much to say. So we tried to make it interesting — we played Truth or Dare over chat, asked each other silly and serious questions.

Somewhere in that game, we ended up exchanging Facebook passwords.

He had mine.

I had his.

But unlike him, I never used it. I never even logged in — because I believed that trust wasn’t something you test. It’s something you offer. Freely.

Midway through that second week, everything changed.

He disappeared.

Just like that.

No messages. No calls. No updates.

I remembered what he said — not to message him first.

And I didn’t.

Even though everything in me screamed to reach out.

He’d mentioned that he was heading to his village, that he’d be busy with family stuff.

So I waited. I gave him space. I gave him silence.

I gave him the benefit of every doubt.

But one week became two.

Two became three.

By the time it reached a month, my patience had turned into panic.

I told myself he was busy. I told myself not to overthink.

But the truth was — he hadn’t messaged me once.

Not even a “Hi.”

And yet… he was posting TikToks.

Videos. Edits. Smiling.

He wasn’t missing.

He just wasn’t missing me.

Every beep on my phone made my heart jump.

Morning, afternoon, midnight — I’d check it.

Just in case.

Maybe this time, it’s him.

Maybe this time, I’ll finally matter again.

Then, after a whole month — a call from an unknown number.

It was him.

Ritvik.

His voice was calm, too calm, as if nothing had happened.

He said he couldn’t text or call because his house was full of relatives, and he was too busy.

That’s it.

No apology. No explanation that made any real sense.

I smiled on the outside. But inside… something was cracking.

Later that night, I opened his Facebook account for the first time.

I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe I wanted to feel close to him. Maybe I just needed reassurance.

What I found — was silence masked as betrayal.

He hadn’t been too busy to talk.

He had just been busy talking to other girls.

It wasn’t even that he messaged them — that’s not what hurt me.

It was that he hid them.

Archived chats. Buried conversations. Like I wouldn’t know. Like I didn’t deserve to.

That’s what broke me.

The hiding. The secrecy. The quiet, deliberate effort to pretend I didn’t need to know.

Was it jealousy? Maybe.

But more than that — it was pain.

It was betrayal without words.

It was realizing that while I waited, he wandered.

And in that moment, a new thought crept in:

Maybe I wasn’t ready for love after all.

Or maybe I just wasn’t ready for this kind of love.

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