≿━━━━༺ 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ༻━━━━≿
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"Fuck" I muttered, under my breath.
I should have stayed.
But no, my dumbaas got up immediately after those words slipped his mouth. Even before the couch cooled under me, even before I could process his words properly.
I had mumbled something, about work, a deadline, an emergency. Literally anything, and the worst part? I don't even remember what excuse I had given back there, at Nyra's place.
Because all I could remember right now was what he'd said. What Nirvan, Nyra's elder brother, the devilishly handsome one, had said.
devilishly handsome. God I really need help right now.
I am in my car right now, wind in my hair, of course the windows are open, despite the AC being on, with some weird music playing on the radio, jazz.
I don't even like jazz what the actual fuck was I doing?
But none of that mattered right now, because all that was playing in my head was his voice, and no, it's not because of how deep, husky or throaty it was. Hell no.
His words.
His words were what has occupied my mind from the past 10 minutes.
"Funny... how easily people forget they're being seen."
Seen.
That word. That fucking word.
What the hell did he mean by this?
Was what I kept asking myself ever since I got, no, Ran out of Nyra's house.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, my nails digging into the leather as if I could erase that sentence from my mind. As if I could reverse the precise tone he employed—venom wrapped in velvet. As if I was blind to the way his eyes revealed my innermost thoughts.
Who the fuck talks like that?
Who the fuck looks like that?
No, scratch that.
Who the fuck was he?
That face. That voice. That SMIRK.
Why did my spine jolt like it remembered him like I knew him?
Why did my skin prickle like it was warning me of something my pride won't admit?
I look directly at the road, but my mind's focused on that house, at that moment, seeing him fade into the darkness as if he were supposed to be there. As if the shadows had made room for him.
It all made no sense at all. Him looking familiar, and then that line.
The line that had completely altered my brain chemistry.
I don't get scared easy, not that easily at least.
I get even, yes.
I get angry, again yes.
I get dangerous.
But this?
It was like being recognized in a dream you can't recall having.
As if speed could stop the rumbling in my chest, my foot presses the accelerator harder.
In the cupholder, my phone buzzes.
I ignore it.
Most likely Nyra. Or someone else who believes that I'm still the same girl I was yesterday, the one who wasn't troubled by a man she shouldn't have remembered.
"Dammit"
I gasp, remembering the appointment with Dr. Sharanya, my therapist.
Fuck.
Yana's going to kill me today.
I know who and even what to expect when I look at the caller ID.
Yana
I tap the screen to answer, holding the phone to my ear with my already shaking shoulder as I swerve into the Raheja lane.
"Yana, I—"
Her voice cuts in before I can finish. Calm. way too calm for a mom who just got disobeyed.
"Ri, where are you?"
No drama, no scolding, no yelling, just quiet concern.
Which, by the way, makes it worse. The guilt came crashing over me like never before.
"I'm on my way," I sigh, fingers drumming the steering wheel, nervously. "I forgot, okay? There was... a thing."
"A thing?" she repeats gently, like she's trying not to push me, she never did. "Raya, this is about your mental health, not a cute little brunch date."
I wince. Inaudibly.
"I know. I know. I just..."
My voice trails off because what the hell do I even say to her?
"Something happened," I settle, leaning back against the seat slightly. "At Nyra's place."
A pause occurs. One beat is too long.
Unbearable.
"You're okay though?" she asks finally, more serious now.
"Yeah."
I lie through my teeth.
"I'm fine. Just... a little off today."
"You've been off all week, Ri," she says quietly.
Not accusing. Just observant. She always was.
and it felt good having someone who noticed, dad loves me, no doubt in that.
So do Rey, Riv and Aarik. But they never noticed. Never notice.
I sigh again.
"I'll be home in five. I'll call Dr. Sharanya and reschedule."
"You won't," she says, tone soft but pointed.
"You'll get home, take a hot shower, pretend you're fine, and forget this conversation ever happened."
I bite my lip. Hard.
Yana's tone becomes even softer. Fuck it.
"I'm not mad, Yana. Just... I worry. That's all. you don't have to worry about me"
"I know, and I also know that I must worry about you."
And she meant it. she really does.
She doesn't ask more. She never pushes unless she has to. That's the thing about Yana — she doesn't mother me, she understands me. Which honestly? Hurts more sometimes.
We hang up just as the gates of the Arora Mansion come into view, iron and glass gleaming like nothing inside could possibly be broken.
I pull in.
The security guards open the gates without a word — habit. Reputation. Maybe fear. Who knows anymore.
I park. Cut the engine.
And sit there, In agonising silence.
Just for two minutes.
Just breathing.
Because I'll have to act like I'm someone else as soon as I enter that house. Act like I didn't run like a crazy person from Nyra's place. Act as though I wasn't internally ignited by Nirvan's words.
Act as though I'm not slowly recollecting something I claimed to have left behind.
Something I thought I had forgotten about.
I finally step out of the car, slamming the door shut harder than necessary.
As I walk across the mansion's front steps, heels echoing like threats across the marble, the breeze nips at my skin.
The front door is open, as expected.
Instead of being angry, Yana stands there with her arms crossed loosely in that I've-seen-too-much way. Her pastel suit from her brunch earlier is still on her, and the chandelier light softly highlights the pearls around her neck.
I stop. Take her in.
She remains mute.
She merely tilts her head.
One eyebrow arched a little. "So?" the universal mom code.
I mumble as I pass her, "I rescheduled."
She follows. Silently.
"To when?"
"In two hours. video chat. Sharanya was sweet about it.
Yana says softly, "Sharanya always is."
Without making contact, we enter the living room side by side. avoiding unnecessary interaction.
With my legs crossed and my gaze fixed on the crystal bowl before me, I lean back on the couch. There are avocados in it. I hate avocados.
"Do you want tea?" she asks.
"No," I say. Then pause.
"...Maybe."
Yana doesn't tease. Doesn't smile knowingly. She just nods, disappears into the kitchen like a soft presence floating out of the room.
Even worse is the silence she leaves behind.
I take my phone out. Go to my chats. Gaze at the name of the therapist.
Dr. Sharanya Jaiswal
"Hey Sharanya, I'm sorry about earlier. Can we do 6:30 instead? I promise I'll be present this time."
I sent it.
Toss the phone on the couch next to me.
I still have shaking hands. Not in an aggressive way. But enough.
Because there is fear underneath all of the rage and confusion.
And underneath the terror?
Suspicions.
My skin still remembers how that voice felt when it wrapped around me.
That smirk. That line. That Voice.
Funny... how easily people forget they're being seen.
Dammit.
Suddenly cold, I rub my arms.
Was I being paranoid? Was I thinking too much?
...Or was I getting up within?
I buried something.
Something I vowed never to uncover.
Not for anybody.
Not for him, in particular.
Whoever the devil he is.
*****
The room smells like Lavender and a pricey scent, like guilt in a bottle, permeate the space. Act composed. False solace.
As if everything were designed to calm me down before the actual cutting began.
Dr. Sharanya is seated across from me, her legs crossed neatly, her notepad balanced on her lap, and a pen spinning dangerously gracefully between her fingers. Everything about her is soft, with the exception of her black heels. A silk blouse. A quiet voice. kind eyes.
I hate it.
"So," she starts, voice even. "You made it, didn't you?"
"I was threatened by my stepmother," I mutter, slumping into the velvet couch like it had personally offended me.
She smiles softly. "That's one way to stay accountable."
I shrug, nonchalantly.
She lets a few seconds pass. Letting me squirm.
I hated it.
I shift my gaze toward the antique clock on the wall. Thirty-eight minutes to go.
"You rescheduled. That matters."
"Had nothing better to do," I lie.
"Hmm," she hums. "Let's talk about the dreams."
My jaw tightens.
"Straight to the point today? No gentle build-up?"
"I haven't had one in a while," I say quickly. Way too quickly.
Lie #2.
Sharanya doesn't react at all. Just scribbles. "The ones where you wake up in the room?"
My throat dries. I lean back, cross my arms.
"Yeah. That one."
"Describe it."
Fuck, fucking hell.
I close my eyes for a second. Instantly regretting it.
"It's the room," I say flatly. "The one she died in."
"The same fan. The same smell. Lilies. That disgusting antiseptic hospital stink."
"The air feels... too still. Like it's holding its breath with me."
Sharanya nods slowly. Her pen stops moving.
"Do you ever see her in them? your dreams" she asks.
I open my eyes.
"...She's there."
"Under the blanket. Pale. Too quiet. Mouth open, like she was about to say something but couldn't."
"And do you think she was there?"
I blink rapidly. My jaw clenches.
"I don't know. Maybe. Probably."
"Or maybe my brain's playing those twisted games again."
Sharanya leans forward just a little, not too close. Never too close.
"What would she have said, if she did speak?"
I breathe. "'You ruined me, Ri-Ri.' Maybe."
"Or—'You could've saved me.'"
A pause.
"Do you really believe that?" she asks, calm.
I look at her sharply.
"No. Not really."
Then after a beat—
"...I don't know."
My voice cracks, slightly.
Barely.
Just enough.
I blink fast.
"And you still don't remember that first few weeks after she died?"
"Nope."
My voice is flat now. "One second I'm screaming in that goddamn room, the next thing I know, it's a week later and everyone's acting like I survived something."
"Maybe you did."
I laugh. Bitter.
"Or maybe I snapped."
Sharanya pauses again. She's watching me observantly now. Her expression softening slightly.
"You don't talk about her often."
"I don't remember her often."
Lie #3.
I remember her every fucking day.
Especially the way she looked the last time I saw her, on that bad.
Like she knew something I didn't.
Sharanya tilts her head.
"Do you ever feel like... something is missing?"
Something.
I freeze.
I don't speak.
Because yes.
Yes.
But it's not just about Mom.
It's about that damn week. That black-out. That blank space my brain skips like a song with corrupted audio.
It's about the silence that feels too loud lately. About shadows that feel too familiar. About that man at Nyra's house who made my soul jolt like it had seen a ghost wearing perfume.
But I don't tell her that.
Instead, I breathe out slowly. Too calmly.
"I think I've remembered enough for today," I say coolly, picking at my bracelet.
Sharanya watches me for a moment.
She nods. "Okay. But next time... we'll talk about that week. You might not remember it. But your conscious still does."
I stand up.
The session's over.
But the loud echo in my chest?
It's just begun.
Because whatever I buried that week—
It's clawing its way back up.
And I'm not sure I'm ready to remember what it brings with it.
Especially if he was part of it.
Whoever the hell he is.
*****
Light flickers across the deep emerald velvet of my headboard and the gold-framed mirrors as the Netflix home screen glows against the wall-mounted TV with muted sound. The blanket is half-draped over me as if I struggled to keep it in my sleep, and I'm stretched out on the bed with one leg dangling over the edge.
My finger scrolls. Clicks. Scrolls again.
Nothing sticks.
Except his words. What the fuck did he even mean by that?
I don't even know what I'm looking for.
Some mindless comedy? A gory thriller?
Something loud enough to drown him out.
Something distracting enough to make me forget the way he said seen.
But it's useless, really.
Because Nirvan Agnihotri's voice plays on loop inside my head, over the dull hum of the ceiling fan. Like a fucked-up lullaby, Like a clockwork.
"Funny... how easily people forget they're being seen."
I squeeze the remote so tight it creaks.
My thumb hovers over Play button. It never presses.
My phone buzzes, again.
Nyra
Nyra
Nyra
Fucking hell, girl. Take a hint.
I flip it over.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz again.
This time, I don't even look, I didn't know how to.
I don't want to lie to her, not to one of the most reliable persons I know.
And I can't tell her the truth.
Because how do you explain the feeling of being haunted by someone who's not even dead?
My eyes flicker to the mirror across from the bed.
For a second, I swear I see something behind me.
Paranoid.
A flicker of motion. A shape.
But when I sit up—
Nothing.
Nothing but my reflection.
Hair tied up messily. Hoodie two sizes too big, of course it was Riv's. Eye makeup smudged like I hadn't removed it properly.
I look tired. But not the sleepy kind.
The bone-deep kind.
The kind that comes from remembering something your brain swore it had buried.
I press the remote again.
Some random true crime doc starts, the one I love to watch.
Love to. God I really needed a therapist.
Voiceover. Drone shots. Blood spatters.
Perfect.
I lean back into the pillows. Let the noise take over.
But even as the narrator talks about serial killers and missing girls,
it's his words that play louder than anything in this room.
"Seen."
urghh.
What the hell did he mean by that?
Did he know me?
Did I know him?
No. No. No, I would've remembered that face. That mouth. That venomous calm.
Right?
My skin prickles again.
I rub my arms, suddenly cold.
Just a thought, I tell myself.
Just adrenaline.
But I know my own body.
I know when it's reacting to something real.
I shut the huge TV down completely.
Mute. Black screen. Silence again.
I sit there silently.
In the dark.
In that space between safety and suspicion.
And when the phone buzzes one last time,
I don't even flinch.
Because there's something deeper than fear settling into my bones now.
Something that feels less like paranoia creeping through my bones—
And more like a memory, a hazy one.
Faint.
Blurred.
But clawing its way to the surface.
And I don't know how long I sit there before my eyes flick to the window.
Curtains pulled. Just a sliver of glass exposed.
But enough.
Enough to wonder—
If someone out there is still watching me.
If someone never stopped.
and then it hit me.
Did a man really think he could just watch me and not have a single insult thrown at him?
What a pussy.
I got up, my movements rushed.
Why the rush? I have no fucking idea.
I crawl out of the bed, stand Infront of my window, where the guards were standing, on the ground floor, mic in one ear.
I look around and swing two middle fingers to all of them.
Why to all of them?
Well, one for the guards for not doing their job right, and another for Mr. Stalker for doing his so well.
duhh.
And bam, another message.
Just. Like. That.
I felt like I was being suffocated by the walls, and my breathing became shallow.
"Sure about that, Princess?"
≿━━━━༺ 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ༻━━━━≿
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