I stayed. I found Meera at 10:30, on the terrace, near the cliff rail. I pulled her aside — not gently, I'll admit. I was panicking, and when you panic, your hands forget to be careful.
"He knows," I said. "About us. He has photographs. Kabir, we need to —"
"I know." She was calm. Terrifyingly calm. "Kavya told me an hour ago."
"An hour — and you didn't leave?"
"Leave and go where? This is my house. My marriage. My mess." She touched my face. "Kabir, listen to me. Whatever happens tonight, I need you to do one thing."
"What?"
"Trust me."
I held her wrists. Both of them. I was gripping too hard — I know that now, looking at the bruise marks on the report you've probably already read. I was holding on because I was afraid of what would happen if I let go.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"I'm going to tell him the truth. All of it. Not just about us — about everything."
"What does 'everything' mean?"
She didn't answer. She kissed me — quick, hard, the kiss of someone saying goodbye — and went back into the party.
I left at 11:15. I drove back to Vagator. I sat in my cottage and waited for her call.
At 11:43, she called. I answered.
"Kabir. I told him. It's done."
"What did he say?"
"He cried." A pause. "I've never seen him cry before."
"Are you safe?"
"I'm safe. Kavya's here. I'm going to stay on the terrace for a while. I need air."
"Meera —"
"I love you. I need you to know that. Whatever happens."
"Whatever happens? What does that —"
The line went dead.
I called back. No answer. I called again. Nothing. I drove to Villa Saudade — twenty minutes of the most terrifying driving of my life — and arrived to find police lights and Rohit standing on the terrace like a statue and Kavya wrapped in a blanket, rocking, and an ambulance that wasn't using its siren because there was no longer a reason to hurry.
Meera was dead.
And I had killed her. Not by pushing her — by pulling her. By pulling her out of a marriage and into a love that I couldn't protect her inside of. By being the reason she was on that terrace at 2 AM, in the dark, on a cliff edge, having just detonated her entire life.
If I'd never walked into that gallery. If I'd never spoken to her. If I'd never invited her into my darkroom. She would be alive. Unhappy, maybe. Lonely, certainly. But alive.
That's my confession.
That's my version of the truth.
[End of Kabir Menon's statement]
