"Stop, Bro , stop!" Saurabh exclaimed, snatching my whisky glass.
"I'm not drunk," I insisted, though my words slurred. We were tucked away in a corner of Chandan Arora's drawing room, near the makeshift bar. The other faculty members of Chandan Classes, our boss's coaching institute, were busy fawning over Arora sir. They never missed an opportunity to suck up to him.
"You swore you wouldn't have more than two drinks," Saurabh reminded me.
I smiled. "But did I specify the size? How much whisky per drink? Half a bottle?" I was struggling to keep my balance.
"You need fresh air. Let's go to the balcony," Saurabh urged.
"I need fresh whisky," I countered.
He dragged me to the balcony by my arm. When had this "fatso" gotten so strong?
"It's freezing here!" I shivered, rubbing my hands together for warmth.
"You can't drink this much, bhai," Saurabh said.
"It's New Year's Eve. You know what that does to me."
"That's history. Four years ago. It's almost 2018."
"Feels like four seconds ago," I muttered.
I pulled out a cigarette packet, which Saurabh promptly confiscated and hid in his pocket. Then, I grabbed my phone and opened Zara's contact details, my next "intoxicant."
"What did she say that night?" I asked, staring at Zara's WhatsApp profile picture.
"'We are done,' that's what she said. What did she mean, 'we'? How can she say 'we'? I'm not done."
"Leave the phone alone, bhai. You might accidentally call her," Saurabh cautioned, lunging for my phone. I dodged him.
"Look at her," I said, turning the screen towards him. She'd set a selfie as her display picture—pouting, hand on her waist, her black sari a dramatic contrast to her fair, almost pink, face.
She didn't always use her photo. Often, she'd put up quotes—the "let life not hold you back" kind, statements that sounded profound but meant nothing. Her WhatsApp DP was my last link to her, how I kept tabs on her life.
"Who wears black saris? She doesn't look that great," Saurabh scoffed. He always tried his best to help me move on. I love Saurabh—my best friend, colleague, and fellow misfit in this crazy drive called life. He's from Jaipur, not far from my hometown of Alwar. His father's a junior engineer in the PWD. Like me, he didn't get placed after campus, and we both worked our asses off at Chandan Classes, hoping to escape ASAP.
"It's Zara. She always looks great," I stated plainly.
Saurabh shrugged. "That's part of the tragedy."
"You think I'm mad about her because of her looks?"
"I think you should shut your phone."
"More than three years, dude. Three crazy, crazy years."
"I know, bhai. If you promise not to drink anymore, we can go back inside. It's cold out here."
"What do you know?"
"That you dated Zara for three years. Want dinner?"
"Screw dinner. More than three. Three years, two months, and three weeks, to be precise."
"You told me. Rendezvous 2010 to New Year's Eve 2014."
"Yes, Rendezvous. That's when we met. Did I tell you how we met?" My feet were finding it harder to find the floor, and Saurabh held me tight to prevent me from falling.
"Yes, you've told me. Fifty times," Saurabh muttered.
"There was a debating competition. She was in the finals."
"Bro, you've told this story a zillion times," he said. I didn't care. He could hear it a zillion times plus one.