Meera and I had been best friends since our college days at the University of Mumbai.
Both of us came from small towns, and we lived together in a cramped room in Andheri, sharing packets of noodles and bottles of water. Those four years were the kind where we survived on each other—poor, but full of laughter.
After graduation, I got a job as an accountant in Pune, while Meera stayed back in Mumbai to work as a saleswoman.
We kept in touch over the phone, until one night Meera sent me a message.
Her voice on the call was choked:
“Anika, I’m in terrible trouble. My father has been hospitalized with a heart condition, and our house in Nashik lost its roof in a storm. I just need a temporary loan of five lakh rupees for repairs—I swear I’ll return it within the year.”
I hesitated, but years of friendship wouldn’t let me refuse.
I gathered all my savings—my wedding fund, my deposits—and borrowed from friends to make up the amount. Then I sent it to her.
She had promised to return it in six months.
But after that day, Meera disappeared.
No messages. No calls.
Facebook, WhatsApp—everything blocked.
I looked everywhere, asked old classmates, but no one knew where she had gone.
I was furious… and heartbroken.
Many times I thought of going to the police, but then I told myself, “She was my friend… she must have had a reason.”
I swallowed that bitterness for three long years.
Three years later, I found new happiness.
My fiancé, Rohan Sharma, was a gentle, soft-spoken software engineer who often told me he would make up for all the hurt I’d ever faced.
Our wedding was held at a luxurious hotel in Mumbai.
I was greeting the guests with a smile when a shiny black BMW pulled up right in front of the gate.
A stunning woman stepped out—designer saree, sunglasses, high heels, and the sharp scent of French perfume.
The whole crowd fell silent. I recognized her instantly… Meera.
I froze.
The friend who had borrowed money from me and vanished without a trace was now arriving like a wealthy businesswoman.
She smiled, walked up to me, and said softly:
“Congratulations, Anika. Today is the best day of your life.”
She handed me a thick envelope and turned away, her face calm, as if nothing had ever happened.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
There was no money inside.
Just a folded A4 sheet.
I thought it would be an apology… or an explanation.
But no.
It was a bank statement.
Clear as day: ₹5,00,000 had been transferred to my account that very morning.
Below it was a handwritten line I recognized instantly:
“Returned—with interest.
And you… owe me an apology.
– Meera.”
My whole body went cold.
I looked again at the sender… and my heart shattered.
It wasn’t Meera who had transferred the money.
It was Rohan Sharma—my husband.
I pulled Rohan aside, my voice shaking:
“Explain. Why did the money come from your account?”
Rohan’s face went pale.
“Meera and I… knew each other. Before I met you. But we broke up a long time ago. I didn’t know she was your friend. I never imagined she’d show up today…”
A loud ringing filled my ears.
In front of everyone, I forced a smile, but inside, I was collapsing.
Not because the five lakh rupees had been returned.
But because I realized I had been betrayed—not only by my best friend, but also by my new husband.
The whole wedding felt like a blur after that.
I smiled for photos, clinked glasses, thanked guests… but inside, there was a deep, hollow emptiness.
Meera had returned the money—with dignity and precision.
But she had also returned a truth I never wanted to know.
That night, after all the guests had left, I sat alone in the bridal suite, staring at the bank statement.
The tears wouldn’t stop.
I realized something:
Sometimes the most precious wedding gift isn’t money—
but a painful lesson about trust, friendship, and love.
That day, I lost the two people closest to me—
but I found myself again.