≿━━━━༺ 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ༻━━━━≿
💋
Her gaze lingered too long.
by the window. Stiff arms. The shoulders clenched. Like an invitation, the hoodie slipped off her left shoulder a little. Or perhaps a disclaimer.
For what reason?
To experience an emotion?
To catch a ghost in the glass?
She failed to notice me. She didn't, of course.
That's not the point, though.
She sensed me.
And that's what counts.
since the body never forgets. even if the brain chooses to tell a lie.
I reclined.
The screen wavered.
momentarily motionless. Clarity next.
Once more, she was there. This time, on the bed.
gazing up at the ceiling as if it had answers.
As if it could clarify what her own heart won't accept.
Good luck with that, Princess.
I tapped once, then zoomed in.
Nearer.
Even closer.
Every breath she takes tonight gets recorded even though she is oblivious of it.
Each sigh. Each blink. Each tremble.
Does she believe she is spiralling?
She hasn't even begun to explore the depths of what I buried within her.
The file was sitting next to me. sealed. Months with no contact.
Right up until tonight.
Before I even sent the signal, my fingers began to move.
Click, flick, and open.
Her photo is on the first page.
An off-guard photo, that made no effort to hide her beauty.
Fifteen.
Hair locked in place. Shocked. Not afraid. not in tears.
Simply put, blank.
mute. Too tidy. Too calm.
As if someone had washed her humanity away.
No obvious trauma. Not a single bruise. No blood.
It got worse because of that.
She looked fine.
As if she hadn't screamed uncontrollably six hours prior to the photo being taken.
As if she hadn't pleaded. Chosen. Broken.
Like she hadn't looked me in the eye and said,
"I'll forget this."
Second page—incident report. Vague. Sterile.
"Subject experienced acute dissociation."
"Recommended psychiatric evaluation."
"Parental guardians notified."
Third page—Sharanya's psych evaluation. Sealed in plastic.
Unread. Unopened. Like someone knew the truth was best left untouched.
Final page.
One fucking sentence.
"Subject exhibits full episodic memory loss between August 12 and August 19."
Seven days.
A full week wiped clean.
Nothing recorded. Nothing remembered.
Not by her.
But I remember.
I remember every second.
A whole week vanished like it never existed.
But it did.
And so did I.
She forgot me.
But I never forgot her.
I can still taste her voice when she screamed. I can still feel the tremble in her hands when she chose me over the rest.
And I can still see it—clearer than anything else—
"I wish I could just forget you," she said.
And she did.
But only because I let her.
Only because I wanted her to return on her own.
But now?
Now I'm done waiting.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
I chose to ignore it.
One more knock. More volume. enduring.
"I know you're in there," The voice says.
Still nothing from me.
The footsteps backed off after a few seconds.
Excellent.
Tonight, there will be no disruptions.
I didn't want company.
Not with my hands trembling from memory and need.
They don't understand.
Nobody does.
Obsession is not the issue here.
This has to do with putting things back where they belong.
And Raya?
She's mine.
She always was.
Even if she doesn't remember the scream she left in my hands.
I thought the silence would last.
It didn't.
The lock clicked three times.
Fast. Familiar.
Of course.
Only one person had access without permission.
He stepped in, hoodie half-zipped, chewing gum like he didn't just hack through five layers of retinal security.
Aarth Rai.
They call him R.
I don't call him anything.
He pulled the chair across from me like this wasn't my private fucking sanctum. Sat down. Legs spread. Eyes already flicking to the monitors.
"You're spiralling," he said casually, like it was weather.
"I'm not."
"You reopened the file," he nodded toward the desk.
I didn't answer. Didn't need to.
He booted up the tablet in his lap and cracked his knuckles.
Code streams. surveillance video. trackers of facial patterns. He was still smiling stupidly.
"I ran that voice command again. Her phone? Spiked when you texted. Full system spike. Her pulse shot up like she saw The Devil."
"She didn't see The Devil," I muttered.
"She felt the devil," he replied, eyes still on the screen. "Same thing."
I looked at him then.
R never flinches. Never fakes anything.
He's too deep in this.
Too broken to ever be afraid.
That's why I keep him.
He leaned back.
"You're going to break the gameboard, boss."
"I am the gameboard."
He smirked.
"And what's next?"
I stared at Raya on the screen. Still curled on her bed. Still thinking she's alone in the dark.
"She's starting to remember," I whispered. "That's what's next."
Aarth sat across from me. His mouth open, like he wanted to say something worth saying.
He didn't.
"She's not the same girl anymore," he tried.
I smiled.
Small. Cold. Crooked.
"Neither am I."
He looked away first, smiling annoyingly.
Because we both knew the truth.
Raya Arora wasn't a person anymore.
She was a trigger.
She was a nerve.
She was an unfinished sentence written in blood and blackout and silence.
She was my Ri,
My fucking Princess.
I leaned forward. Eyes back on the screen.
She's quiet right now. Still.
But her heart isn't.
It's beating like it did that night.
Fast. Loud. Off-rhythm.
That's how I know she remembers—
Not with her mind. But with her pulse.
I smiled.
"She'll remember me," I said softly, my voice still low.
Aarth stood up, raising his eyebrow, lazily of course. "And when she does?"
I looked up at him.
And for once, I didn't smile.
"She won't run."
I paused.
"Because last time—when she did—I almost burned that godforsaken building down, I don't know what I'll do this time."
He leaves.
The door clicks shut behind Aarth, and the silence returns.
The kind that wraps around your neck like silk.
I sit there for a moment. Staring at her through the screen.
Then I reach for the drawer.
Third one down. Behind the false base. Still cold.
The photo slips out.
The photo I had been surviving on for years.
Not because I couldn't just do anything.
Because I didn't want to feel what it felt like to talk to her.
She's 15 in it.
Barely holding the weight of the world yet.
Bright fucking mesmerizing eyes. That cute, stupid messy braid falling over one shoulder.
A hoodie two sizes way too big. It was mine. I remember that part clearly.
She's looking at the camera, smile wide, full of that naive joy she wore too easily back then.
And me?
I'm not looking at the camera.
I'm looking at her.
Smile not wide—but real. Too real.
Not for the lens.
Just for her.
Weeks before Aanya, her birth mother died.
Weeks before she screamed.
Weeks before she forgot.
And yet even then—
She was mine.
Even if she didn't know it.
Even if she forgot it.
I trail a thumb across the edge of the photo.
Raya, 15. Nirvan, 22.
Wrong. Twisted.
But true.
She looks so happy.
And I look like the monster who already knew how the story would end.
Except—
This story's not over.
Not even close.
I slide the photo back in place. Lock it again.
Then I glance back at the monitor.
She's still there. Still breathing. Still forgetting.
But not for long.
Not for fucking long.
She seems happy.
And I look like the monster who was already aware of the conclusion of this story.
Except—
This is not the end of the story.
Not even near.
I swap the picture with a slide. Lock it once more.
I then turn my attention back to the monitor.
She remains there. breathing still. is still forgetting.
Not for long, though.
Not for very long.
Finally, I manage to turn my head away. I make a physical, nearly painful effort to take my eyes off the screen.
For now, enough.
Work.
I get up. Take a single stretch. Stillness cracking fingers. My neck hurts.
The call has been scheduled. There are some arms dealers in Prague. Typical. Throw away.
The phone is already ringing when I step out onto the balcony.
However, I never call.
Because she's there.
Nyra.
My sister.
My not-so-little-anymore little sister, leaned against the railing like she owns the skyline. Hoodie on. Hair tied up in a messy claw clip. Her silhouette lit in silver by the city behind her.
She hears me.
Of course she does.
Her head turns. Eyes land on me. And her expression changes instantly.
Cold.
Then colder.
Then—worse—furious.
She starts walking away, muttering under her breath.
"Nyra," I say, quietly. Not a demand. Not a plea.
Just her name.
It still holds weight.
She stops, shoulders stiffening.
I don't move closer. I don't deserve to.
She turns halfway. Arms crossed. Gaze sharp.
"What?" she snaps.
I say nothing.
Because I wasn't.
Because I could have.
Because the fact that I didn't should mean something, but it never will—not to her.
Her voice sharpens, like broken glass under pressure.
"You don't get to say my name like that. Like you still know me."
I swallow back every word I want to say.
"I didn't know you were out here," I finally answer, voice even. Quiet.
She scoffs. Loud.
"Of course you didn't. You don't know a fucking thing anymore, Nirvan. Not about me. Not about Dad. Not about anything."
My jaw clenches. Still—I stay silent.
She turns fully toward me now, and I see it in her face.
The rage.
But worse—the betrayal.
"You chose him," she says, the words flung like knives. "You chose dad."
Her voice cracks—just once—but the venom doesn't.
"You chose the man who ruined her. Who ruined us. You stood there while Mom broke, while I broke, and you just—what? Took his side?"
I say nothing.
Because it's true.
Because it's not true.
Because it's fucking complicated, and she's too young to know the rot behind the smiles, the way Nihita carved lies into lullabies.
But I don't tell her that.
Because to her—I am him.
Just younger. Just better. Just better at hiding the control.
"You think you're different," she spits. "But you're exactly like him."
I breathe in. Deep. Stillness in my chest, fury under the surface.
I don't lash out. I couldn't.
My breath uneven.
Like my lungs didn't want to give out.
Like even they were mourning with me, and my heart.
Mourning the loss of a connection I once believed was untouchable.
Unshakeable.
My sister.
Nyra.
The same girl who once called me "Nivi" like it was the only name that had ever mattered to her.
Who used to sit on my shoulders during Diwali fireworks, laugh into my ear like it was the loudest and the best thing in the whole world.
The same one who used to made Rakhi cards by hand and glued our baby photos onto the back.
The only one who refused to sleep unless I tucked her in myself.
And I used to listen.
Even when I was breaking.
And now?
Now she couldn't look at me without hating the reflection I carried in my bones, and my face.
Because to her, I wasn't her "Nivi" anymore.
I was him.
Anant.
Our father.
The same man our so-called mother told her was a monster.
And maybe he was.
But I wasn't, at least not for Nyra.
She storms past me angrily, shoulder brushing mine roughly as she passes.
"Go fuck yourself, Nirvan." She muttered angrily.
I don't stop her this time.
Didn't call her back this time.
Just stood there, staring at the railing she left behind blankly, still warm from her palms.
Hands in my pockets. Head down.
Every sentence she threw at me, still ringing in my head like old sirens replaying like a memory roll.
But I take it all. Quietly as always.
Because maybe if she empties all the pain on me—she won't keep swallowing it herself, she won't keep torturing herself like that.
Let her hate me.
Let her spit every damn word she needs to.
If it makes her feel better—if it keeps her heart from rotting like mine did—
Then let her.
Let her hate me.
I'd let her insult me a thousand years more if she feels satiated doing so. Even if it fucking burns me.
Even if every sentence she throws lands on me like a blade lodged straight into my fucking ribs.
Even if every look of disgust that she spares towards me makes me want to rip out all those parts of myself that remind her of our father.
Because this isn't about me anymore.
It stopped being about me the moment she stopped calling me her brother.
If spitting venom keeps her from swallowing it—
Then let her spit.
Let her curse me. Let her flinch when I walk past. Let her choose to forget every single thing I ever did right.
Painfully, mentally...torturously.
Because that's what elder brothers do, don't they?
Even the bad ones.
Even the hated ones.
≿━━━━༺ 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ༻━━━━≿
💋
Write a comment ...