The Time You Said Only What You Meant

You say no to the office dinner. Not a soft no, the kind that trails off with excuses about work. You say the exact words: "I won't be coming." You don't offer a reason. Your phone buzzes for an hour after that, a flat grey rectangle on your desk.

The first few Fridays are strange. You go to a place called Carnatic Coffee, sit at the counter, and order one filter coffee. You drink it while it's hot, which you never do at the office dinners because you're always talking. You watch the steam rise and disappear. You leave when you're finished.

Within six months, your name disappears from the WhatsApp group for team lunches. Your manager, Prithvi, stops asking you for weekend project updates because he knows you'll say no. You take up swimming at the YMCA pool on Saturdays. The water is a cold, blue silence. You count laps: one, two, four, five. You never get to three.

A year passes. You hear through a former colleague that the team went to Goa for a celebration. They rented a house near Vagator beach. There are pictures of them on a boat, arms linked, drinking Kingfisher. You look at the picture on your phone in your apartment. The air conditioner hums at a specific, steady frequency. You do not save the picture.

Two years later, you transfer to a different project. You pack your desk. Under a stack of old notebooks, you find a birthday card they gave you. It's signed by everyone, a chorus of "Best Wishes!" and "Happy Birthday, Buddy!" in four different colors of pen. You read each signature. You put the card in the bin for recyclable paper. Your new desk is a clean surface, a monitor, a chair that doesn't squeak. You adjust the height of the chair twice. You leave it there.