The Art of Deleting You
Summary:
A Gemini writer named Ria falls for her quiet neighbor Vikram—without ever speaking to him. She creates an entire imaginary relationship in her notes app: dates, fights, make-ups, pet names. When he finally notices her and says "Hi," she panics, deletes 47 drafts of their imaginary future, and replies "Hey" like she hasn't already planned their wedding.
They date for 8 months. She talks nonstop—about aliens, pasta shapes, conspiracy theories, his eyebrow growth pattern. He listens, amused. Then one day, he says "I need space."
Ria smiles. "Character development," she whispers. That night, she types and deletes 83 texts. Sends: "K." Then blocks him. Unblocks. Re-reads their chats. Screenshots. Deletes screenshots. Cries while laughing at her own dramatics.
Weeks later, he returns. She opens the door in mismatched socks, holds up her phone, and says: "I've already survived our breakup in 14 different timelines. This one? Piece of cake."
He doesn't know if she's joking. Neither does she.
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Full Story (Instagram-Caption Style):
Ria didn't fall in love. She narrated it.
Day 1: Saw Vikram watering his plants.
Day 2: Named their future cat Pancake.
Day 3: Wrote a 2000-word dialogue where he confesses under rain.
Day 45: He finally spoke. "Hi."
She opened her mouth—and said "Hey" like she hadn't already buried him in her notes app under "Husband Material (Confirmed)."
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Dating Ria was like dating a podcast that never pauses.
"Did you know octopuses have three hearts? Like my feelings for you—too many, confusing, and they all panic."
Vikram laughed. She talked faster. He kissed her forehead. She updated her Notes app: "Forehead kiss = marriage material +5."
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Then came the text:
"I think I need some space."
Ria read it 19 times. Zoomed in. Screenshot. Cropped. Stared at the period at the end—aggressive.
She typed:
"Space? Like NASA space? Or emotionally unavailable space? Define. Please. I'm begging."
Deleted.
"Okay."
Sent.
Then blocked him.
Then unblocked.
Then checked his last seen.
Then threw her phone under the pillow.
Then pulled it out.
"Character development," she announced to her wall. "This is growth."
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Three weeks later, Vikram stood at her door with coffee. She opened wearing one sock, hair like she'd fought a tornado and lost.
"I missed you," he said.
She blinked. Pulled out her phone. Scrolled dramatically.
"Interesting. In Timeline B, you came back on Day 12 and brought cheesecake. This is Day 19. You're late. But—" she took the coffee, "—this timeline still wins because it's real."
He laughed. She didn't. Then she did. Then she cried. Then she laughed again.
"I'm fine," she said, clearly not.
---
The End?
She never deleted his contact. She just renamed it: "Plot Twist."
Final line:
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