≿━━━━༺ 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ༻━━━━≿
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The thing about forgetting is... it never asks for permission.
One minute I'm here, beneath this ceiling that has a subtle paint and cigarette smoke smell, and the next I'm barefoot on a road I don't remember taking, listening to his voice in an inappropriate location.
And he's there.
Constantly present.
Even now.
Even here.
I didn't go to Raventon today. It was unusual and noticeable since, somewhat surprisingly, even my dad noticed it.
It's not like I've never had a day off in my life, I have, but only when I feel like I am about to die. Why? Because there are no days off for this girl.
I've always hated the idea of taking days off Why do people even take days off?
Is something I've always resented a question that a Psychotic overachiever like me would ask.
But don't blame me, in a society where women are not even given education, I would much rather go to Raventon every hour. All of this, just to prove myself, because a girl's got to do what she's got to do. Unnecessary day-offs are for losers with no dreams or aspirations, and I, Raya Arora, am a fucking exception.
Anyways, I get up from my bed and stare at the window. A tall, wide... window, along with a ridiculously unnecessary Mini Baby Blue teddy hanging from one side. The one that I used to cherish once, back when I was still young, back when Mom was Alive.
The sound of people having somewhere to be in the morning filled the house, not music or arguments.
Rivaan and Reyaan are fighting over a tie.
Dad had a meeting, and Riyana kept reminding him.
Riyana was constantly being reminded by Dad that she was not his secretary.
I watched the parade while sipping my coffee at the dining table. I simply gave them all the same bored expression that says, "Don't ask me why I'm home, I won't answer," so I didn't even need to say goodbye.
The silence was like a damp cloth as the final car rolled out of the gates.
There was still the sound of the fountain outside, the rustle of maids cleaning already spotless surfaces, and the sound of the guards' boots crunching on gravel every few seconds, so it wasn't exactly quiet.
However, that false quiet caused you to become overly aware of your breathing.
I avoided guards who avoided eye contact and maids who bowed excessively as I padded around barefoot with my coffee cup in one hand.
They simply know, not because they were afraid of me. They have seen how my gaze occasionally wanders to areas where no one is present, or where no one goes.
I found myself in the kitchen. Walking in circles around my room would have made me feel like a mental patient, and I'm not ready for that aesthetic yet.
It's not that I was hungry—I wasn't. For the sixth time today, I opened the refrigerator, gazed at the exquisitely arranged fruit as if it had personally insulted me, and then closed it without touching anything.
As I was leaving, I moved the large vase in the hallway precisely three inches to the left, took a step back, scowled, and then moved it back again. It still didn't look right.
I noticed movement in the reflection of the tall hallway mirror as I passed it, like someone turning away. The corridor, however, was deserted. I gripped my coffee cup tightly until the ceramic edge sank into my flesh. I continued to walk. Not a drama. Not a single gasp.
Just a mental note: He's still here.
In the sitting room, the sun was streaming through the blinds, creating striped shadows on the marble floor. It briefly reminded me of the road I had been standing on this morning, the one I don't recall walking to. I felt sick to my stomach and felt guilty for noticing.
One of the maids appeared by the doorway, hands clasped, voice too soft.
"Miss, would you like your lunch served earlier today, Miss?"
She said "Miss" twice, which is her tell when she's unsettled. I nodded once, that polite nod that means don't talk to me again unless the house is on fire. She vanished.
I decided to "sort" my bookshelf after taking my coffee upstairs, which is code for handling items I haven't touched in years.
I ran my fingers over the spines of a worn green hardcover and came to a stop. When I took it out, a folded piece of paper fell face-down onto the floor from between the pages.
I didn't remember putting it there.
Before my fingers even touched the paper, I knelt to pick it up—
A voice.
youthful. Warm. You know, the way a song is familiar when you can't remember where you first heard it.
"Raya, you're terrible at this," he laughed, breathless.
I believe I was laughing too. The sun shone brighter, my hands were smaller, and everything was simultaneously softer and louder. the grassy scent. The way his hair twisted in the wind.
Then nothing.
Like a screw being turned, the blur pressed itself tighter into my skull. A headache. The identical one.
Before grabbing the bottle from my drawer, I put my palm to my forehead to steady my breathing. Sharanya gave me two pills. drank the last of the cold coffee and fell asleep.
I thought about calling her for a moment. Dr. Sharanya Sharma.
I never give her a call. Those therapy sessions are awful.
However, the idea persisted. enduring. Uncomfortable.
There's a knock.
Hesitant, soft. The knock that doesn't know if it wants to be heard or not.
"Miss Raya?"
One of the newer maids — her voice still carries that hopeful politeness, like she hasn't learned yet that no one in this house likes being interrupted.
Before responding, I closed the drawer. "What?"
She grabbed a tray and peered in. Like she was trying out for a hospitality brochure, she had tea, a plate of biscuits, and a small, folded napkin.
"I was asked by Sir to see if you needed anything else today."
"Sir" means Dad. This meant that the message was basically a reminder that he is still watching even when he is not at home.
Even though my cup was empty and my stomach had begun its silent protest, I said, "I'm fine."
She hovered for an excessive amount of time, her gaze darting to the floor close to my bookshelf, where the folded paper was still lying. I looked after her eyes.
She had already left by the time I raised my head again.
There was a gentle click as the door closed.
I gazed at the paper. It stayed there. face-down.
Because sometimes it's easier to act as though something doesn't exist than to discover it does, I told myself I would deal with it later and left.
*****
I spent the rest of the afternoon pretending my bookshelf didn't just spit out a ghost.
The problem is, pretending takes effort.
And effort makes you tired.
I drifted from room to room like I was doing a house inspection I never signed up for. Every room had the same over polished smell, the same "we-have-money-but-no-life" kind of arrangement.
As usual, the guards were outside, their shadows slicing through the curtains as they moved. They kept moving posts like chessboard pieces, so I tried to count how many there were in reality. It was tiring to watch Dad's paranoia.
The air felt heavier by four o'clock. It's heavy, not hot or humid, the kind of air that, for some reason, makes you stutter.
I kept thinking about the folded paper. Ten times, all right. Even in the kitchen, my gaze kept darting to my room upstairs. I didn't like the little guesses my brain kept making about what was on it.
I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I was standing by the glass doors, watching a maid water plants that had no need for. Not out of fear, but just in case.
Upstairs, something changed.
A groaning door hinge.
Not at my door. Not even the maids' quarters.
With my coffee cup empty once more, I turned back toward the stairs, wondering if it would be worse to go check or to remain down here and speculate.
But the thought continued. enduring. Uncomfortable.
Clinging to the pillow and attempting to will it away as I have done a hundred times before, I turned onto my side.
It stayed.
My phone was on the nightstand, screen dark, silently judging me.
If I called her, I'd have to explain why.
If I didn't call her, this... whatever this was... would keep gnawing at the edges.
I buried my forehead in the pillow. The lavender detergent that Riyana is adamant about purchasing had a subtle scent to the cotton. Too tidy. It's too staged. Not mine.
Still, my fingers found the phone. The light pricked my eyes as I thoughtlessly unlocked it.
Sharanya's name was buried halfway down my contact list, between "Security — South Gate" and "Sharath Singhania — Principal."
I stared at it.
My thumb hovered.
Tapped.
Too loud, too slow, the dial tone dragged. I nearly hung up.
On the fourth ring, she answered.
"Raya?"
I had forgotten how sharp her voice was.
It was only when I heard it that I realized I was holding my breath.
"I—" My throat tightened. Leaning my elbows on my knees, I sat up.
"I want us to... I think we need to talk."
A pause came up. Not the polite kind.
Finally, as if she needed to hear herself say it aloud, she said, "You called me."
"Yeah."
And just like that, the room felt smaller.
Or maybe it was my ego, which felt reduced and nearly crushed, especially after I had promised her that I would never ask for her help.
She said, "Come by now," as if she had already made up her mind.
It wasn't a question.
"Fine."
Before she could hear the hesitation, I hung up.
I remained motionless for a moment, gazing at my image in the shadowed window. My face was pale from too much coffee and not enough sleep, and my hair was a complete mess. I needed my armour if I was going to enter her office.
I moved to the closet after swinging my legs off the bed.
My attention was initially drawn to the black crop top because it was unapologetic, clean, and simple.
Next are denim pants. those that are fitted and prevent you from slouching. The leather jacket followed, its weight resting like a shield on my shoulders.
I applied lip gloss at the vanity, watching how my mouth formed into an almost self-assured shape. Gold hoops clipped into place; they were never subtle. It was satisfactory that my hair remained loose and fell forward when I cocked my head.
Let people wonder as to what I'm concealing.
The folded paper on the floor was still there, watching, by the time I finished. I crossed it.
The guards straightened when I came downstairs. They didn't ask about where I was going. Before I even got to the front door, one of them pulled it open, letting the late afternoon light spill onto the marble.
My black Mercedes was waiting in the driveway, gleaming like it had something to prove. I slid in, the leather seat warm against my back.
Engine on.
Gate open.
The house shrinking in the rearview until it was just another piece of scenery I could ignore.
The drive to Dr. Sharanya Sharma's clinic was a straight line through streets that pretended to be calm but never were.
Windows down, hair whipping, my reflection in the glass kept looking like a version of me I didn't entirely recognise.
My heartbeat had become gratingly stable by the time I pulled up in front of the clinic, that clean beige structure with an excessive number of windows. As if my body had information that I did not.
I killed the engine. I sat there longer than I should have. Then got out.
≿━━━━༺ 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ༻━━━━≿
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