She Called Me a Joke Pt. 06

I Thought I Wanted Her

I thought it would feel different. More intense. More electric. More... something. After all those nights, all those imaginary conversations, After all the glances that never came, After being invisible for so long-- This moment? Should've meant everything.

But halfway through? I realized: It meant nothing.

She was beautiful. That hadn't changed. But now -- I wasn't watching her with hunger. I was watching her watch me. Searching my face for approval. Checking my breath. My grip. My attention. She was trying. Overcompensating. Performing.

And I? I wasn't in love. I wasn't even excited. I was just there.

She kissed like someone who'd watched too many reels. Moved like a girl who was used to being chased, not caught. Everything felt calculated -- Right angle, right sound, right breathy giggle. And the more she moved, the more I saw it: She didn't want me. She wanted what I'd become.

My hand brushed the side of her neck. She gasped. I didn't react. Just adjusted.

She tried to take control halfway in. Whispered: "Say my name." I didn't. She said mine instead. Soft. Like a question.

I nodded. Let her finish. Let her win. Because I wasn't playing anymore.

Afterward, she rested her head on my chest. Fingertip tracing circles near my collarbone. "You're quiet," she said. "Tired," I replied. Not a lie. Just not the reason.

She smiled. "I'm glad you messaged me." I didn't correct her. Didn't remind her that she messaged first. Didn't mention the old text -- the one she laughed at with her friends. Why waste words on a past that no longer mattered?

She looked up at me. "What are you thinking?" I stared at the ceiling fan. Same creak. Same wobble. But it sounded smaller now. Like everything else. "Nothing important," I said. And kissed her forehead.

Not out of affection. Out of closure.

Later, when she left -- clothes adjusted, hair messy, face flushed -- she looked back at me with a smile that asked: "Will you call?" I nodded. Didn't mean it.

When the door shut, I exhaled. Long. Deep. Final.

I opened my laptop. 4rabet still open. Odds moving fast. Game starting soon. I stared at the screen. Not to bet. Just to feel something real again.

And for the first time in weeks -- I didn't feel like a loser who got lucky. I felt like a man who finally understood: Winning doesn't taste sweet. It just makes you hungry for better things.

I don't chase anymore. I choose.

I don't check for blue ticks. Don't refresh DMs. Don't wait for smiles across the classroom. I wait for odds. For numbers. For certainty.

I've won ₹65,000 in the last four weeks. Some call it luck. Some call it obsession. I call it math.

Every time I place a bet, I hear the same whisper in my head: "No one saw you coming." And that's how I like it.

Sandhya stopped trying after a week. Unfollowed me. Tried blocking, then unblocking. Sent a voice note I didn't open. She became just another forgotten song on a playlist I don't play anymore.

Since then? I've had offers. Girls I used to be invisible to now "bump into" me in the canteen. Ask about the app. Ask about the money. Ask if I "still live alone."

I don't say much. Don't need to. Let them lean in. Let them smile. Let them guess.

I fuck when I feel like it. Not out of thirst. Out of control. Out of rhythm.

Once with a junior who used to giggle at my shoes. Twice with a girl from commerce who asked if I had a bike. I said no. She came anyway.

They always come. Because now, I don't give chase. I give choice.

I pick the game. Pick the time. Pick the terms. Then I win. Then I fuck. Then I leave.

And I do it again.

No guilt. No drama. No texts at 2AM. Just clean, sharp decisions.

I still sleep with the fan creaking. Still drink instant coffee. Still walk alone. But the silence now? It listens to me.

Because now? I am not the joke. I am the punchline.

Win. Fuck. Repeat.

That was the pattern.

Until the pattern started feeling... predictable.

I didn't miss chaos. I didn't want drama. But something in me started looking past the faces. The moans. The routines. I saw the loops -- different lips, same questions. Same texts. Same breathless giggles.

One night, I left before she could finish. Not because I was done -- but because I was bored.

Another time, I didn't even touch her. Just let her talk. About her ex. About crypto. About yoga. She laughed too loud, touched me too much. I let her stay the night but didn't touch her once. In the morning, she looked confused. Said I was "deep." I didn't answer.

Later that week, I moved out of the old place. Found a one-room flat near Koramangala. Tiny balcony. Cold tile floors. But quiet. And mine. Paid six months in advance. No landlord calls. No leaking roof.

I bought a new mattress. No more floor sleeping. A real kettle. Two glasses I never used.

That's when it shifted again.

It wasn't about the girls anymore. Or the money. Or revenge.

It was about control.

I started seeing it in other places -- how my physics professor stopped making snide remarks once I corrected his equation. How the admin lady smiled when I walked in. How the guy who used to call me "chotu" in lab now asked if I could "help him get started on the app."

People changed. Or maybe they just adjusted once you stopped waiting.

Even Sandhya. She messaged again last week. Voice note. Said she missed my "energy." I deleted it before opening.

Energy doesn't beg.

Now when I enter a room, I don't scan for faces. I scan for opportunity. Risk. Edges.

I've started betting bigger. Not stupid bets. Pattern bets. I track form, weather, player stats. I even built a spreadsheet.

I'm not addicted.

I'm focused.

And when I win -- which I do -- it's not a rush. It's confirmation. That I'm thinking clearer than most. That I know the game better than those who just play it.

Girls still flirt. Some even offer to "learn the app together." I let them talk. Let them lean. Let them assume.

I pick who I fuck the way I pick my bets -- with precision.

Last week, it was an assistant prof from another college. Older. Sharp. Married. She asked about the app after a guest lecture. Her hand stayed on my forearm too long. I didn't pull away.

That night, she came over. Said she had twenty minutes. I made her come in eight.

She messaged the next morning: "You're dangerous."

I didn't reply.

She sent a red heart.

I deleted it.

I don't collect memories now. I collect leverage.

One of these days, I'll disappear from campus. Not because I have to. But because I've outgrown it.

And when I do, no one will know where I went.

No stories. No selfies. No explanations.

Just quiet.

And numbers.

Because I don't chase approval anymore. I chase edge.

I don't look for her.

I look for the next odds shift.