Kyra

Sometimes I question my destiny.

It always seems to confuse me. One moment with the happiest instances and then the other with the most heartbreaking experiences of my life. I can never decide whether or not I'll get the picture-perfect princess tale, happily ever after or a sadistic hair-pulling ending which might be the death of me.

A month ago, life felt like a mess. Like I'd gotten stuck in this constant loop of questioning everything happening around me. Like I was trapped by the cruel hands of fate, unwilling to let me move forward from the trauma of everything.

From my dad's health to my sister's behaviour and the sudden unwanted distance I'd created between me and the people I love the most, everything had me so agitated that all I could think of was to sleep it off. To close my eyes and drift off to a land where everything seemed easier.

A place where my dad wasn't how is he. A place where everyone seemed to have time for each other. A place where I could smile without fearing what it might cost me. Where I could be with him, without the shadow of losing whatever it is we have, whatever it is we're trying to become.

But life doesn't bend that easily. The ache didn't vanish overnight, nor did the questions stop clawing at me. I still woke up some mornings with my chest heavy, still caught myself staring too long at nothing, wondering if anything would ever make sense again.

And yet... even in the haze, there was someone.

Someone I never expected to be there, someone I never expected to lean on.

Ansh.

He wasn't supposed to matter this much, not when I'd promised myself I wouldn't let anyone in again. Not when my heart was still too tired to trust. And yet, he kept showing up, in silences I thought would swallow me whole, in moments that should've slipped by unnoticed. He wasn't trying to fix me, not really. He was just... there. Present in a way that unsettled me, steady in a way that made me wonder what it would mean if I let myself lean back.

I didn't know what to call it. I didn't know if it was comfort, or danger, or something in between.

And I tried. God, I tried. Tried to outrun whatever it was, the heat rising in my skin, the wild stutter of my heartbeat every time he was near. Tried to convince myself it was nothing, because the thought of falling for him terrified me more than I could admit. I had sworn that I'd never let myself go there again. Not after what love had cost me before.

So I pulled back. I stopped texting him for days after that moment at the hospital, because it was too much. I couldn't name it, couldn't place it, couldn't control it. All I knew was that it wasn't ordinary. And when I don't know what to do with something, I do the only thing I know best.

I shut myself away. From him. From it. From everyone.

Days went by with me declining his calls, leaving his messages unread, ignoring every way he tried to reach me. Whether it was sending me letters flying through my window, or sending treats for me at my doorstep. I'd ignored it all.

But his patience only runs that far. It got weary within a week. A week of not seeing me. A week of being away from me had him forcing a way to come meet me.

The afternoon Kaynaaz came to my room, I tried to turn her away. But walls don't hold forever, and soon we were both breaking down, the distance between us collapsing in tears neither of us could stop. When the quiet settled, she asked about him.

I hadn't meant to, but I told her more than I should have. How he left me unsettled, how I couldn't name what was happening between us, only that he made me feel things I wasn't ready for, and even worse, things I didn't want to lose.

Later that day, needing a place to breathe, I went to the library. But instead of the quiet I was searching for, I found him. Ansh. Standing there as if the universe had led us both to the same page.

"You're really stubborn, Señorita." His voice pulls me out of the silence, low and teasing, moments before he steps out from between the heavy rows of books.

I nearly jump out of my skin. My pulse stutters, and when I spin to face him, a shiver slides down my spine. He looks different here, out of place in the quiet library, yet somehow fitting too well. An oversized hoodie hangs off his frame, paired with acid-washed jeans. His hair is tousled, probably from his helmet, messy in a way that shouldn't look as good as it does. And then I spot the glasses hanging low on his perfectly crafted nose.

Glasses.

He's wearing glasses.

My breath falters. My jaw trembles with the effort to keep it shut, and suddenly the book in my hands feels like it's made of stone. I force myself to hold it tighter, as if that will ground me against the chaos he brings just by existing.

"Do I look that good, ma'am?" He teases, another nickname slipping in between as he steps closer to me.

His body towers over me, close enough that the air shifts, heavy with his presence. I have to crane my neck back just to meet his gaze.

"Don't flatter yourself," I manage, aiming for nonchalance. The words leave my mouth steady, but my hands betray me, trembling against the spine of the book I clutch like it's the only thing keeping me upright.

He steps closer, erasing the space I was clinging to. Gently, he slips the book from my hands and sets it aside on the nearest shelf, as if I won't be needing it anymore. Then his touch is on me, warm palms framing my face, thumbs brushing lightly against my cheeks. His eyes search mine, steady and unyielding, like he's trying to read the words I'm too afraid to speak.

"Why wouldn't you talk to me?" he whispers, the sound roughened compared to his tease moments ago. "It was hell not being around you."

The weight of his voice startles me, cracks something I thought I'd reinforced. My chest tightens as I force out, "I needed space. From everything. From you. It all just... surprised me."

The words taste raw on my tongue. I don't even know why I'm explaining, why I feel the need to justify the silence. But standing here, with his hands still cupping my face and the heat of his presence seeping into me, it feels like he deserves the truth, even the fractured pieces of it.

His thumbs trace slow circles against my skin, and the look in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

"You can't do that to me again, Kyra," he says, voice low, almost rough. "Take all the space you want, push me away if you need to, but you have to tell me. You don't just disappear. You don't know what it does to me."

I swallow, but he doesn't let me look away. His forehead dips closer to mine, breath fanning across my lips.

"I couldn't breathe when you weren't around," he murmurs, every word pressed into me like a vow. "Every room felt too quiet, every day too long. And now you're here, and I don't ever want to know that silence again."

The air between us grows taut, thick, like it's pulling me closer to him. My pulse stumbles, traitorous, at the sheer gravity in his voice, the way it sounds like both a warning and a plea.

I only manage a small nod, my throat too tight for words. His eyes search mine like he's waiting for more, but I can't give him anything. Not yet.

So I step back. My feet carry me toward another row, the smell of old paper grounding me as I run my fingers along the spines. One book slips out, I glance at it, then slide it back in. I hear him move too—quiet, steady—his presence trailing me like a shadow.

"Are you okay now?" he asks once.

I don't answer.

Another shelf. Another book.

"Kyra." His voice is firmer this time, but I keep my gaze on the words in front of me, pretending they matter more than the way my heart pounds at his nearness.

"Talk to me."

Still nothing. My silence is all I have right now, the only shield I can manage.

And then his hand wraps gently around my wrist, pulling me back before I can slip away again. He turns me to face him, his grip not harsh, but unyielding. His eyes pin me in place.

"Don't run from me," he says softly, almost like it aches to say it. "I asked if you're okay. Tell me the truth, my love."

"I'm okay," I murmur, dodging his gaze, pretending the rows of books suddenly hold the secrets of the universe.

He doesn't buy it. His fingers brush against my jaw, then his hand slides up to gently cup my chin, tilting my face toward him until my eyes have no choice but to meet his. The quiet plea in his stare makes my chest tighten.

"You're not," he whispers, the words more like a confession than an accusation. "Tell me the truth."

"I'm fine, really," I breathe out, though the quiver in my voice betrays me. "Dad seems better today. I even... talked to Kaynaaz about things."

Something shifts in his eyes at that, the tension in his jaw easing ever so slightly. His thumb lingers against my chin for a second longer before he finally lets go.

"Good," he says quietly, but there's still a storm in his voice. "Just don't shut me out again, baby. I can handle your silence, your anger, your fire, everything. But not your silence."

Heat flares in my chest, stealing words from me, so I only nod. My feet carry me away before I can say anything else, slipping into the next row of books. My fingers trail along the spines, reading titles that seem interesting.

I sense him behind me, steady as a shadow. He doesn't speak, doesn't push again. He just follows, close enough for me to feel him, far enough to give me space.

That day, Ansh had bought every book I'd subconsciously touched and put away.

His efforts never waned, no matter how difficult I got, no matter how much I tried to ignore the pull between us. And yet, piece by piece, my days began to feel incomplete without him. His voice on the phone at odd hours, the ridiculous way he texted, half-teasing, half-demanding, all him.

And then there were the "dates," as he insisted on calling them.

One evening, he drove me across the city without a word, refusing to tell me where we were going. When we finally stopped, I realised we were standing outside an old theatre, its marquee lights flickering softly against the night.

"You bought this entire theatre for me?" I gape at the empty hall, the rows of plush seats glowing under the dim light. It feels too much, too extravagant, too unreal.

He leans back in his seat, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Correction. I bought it so I could watch you watch your favourite movies. You're much better entertainment."

Another night, he's climbing straight into my bedroom, his grin full of trouble as he whispers, "Come on, Senorita."Minutes later, I'm clinging to his arm in the middle of a carnival, my laughter spilling into the night air as we ride every ride twice, because once isn't enough for him.

The small gifts followed, little things that made me pause, because they weren't random. A bookmark in my favourite colour. A pen he pressed into my hand, claiming it would make my words flow faster. A scarf he wrapped around me himself when the evening gets too cold.

Somewhere between those gestures, I found myself telling him things I'd never intended to. One evening, in a voice I barely recognised as my own, I spoke about Tanmay.

About the way he had broken me, how his betrayal had cut deeper than I ever admitted aloud, and how, in the worst of it, his temper had crossed the line into something darker, almost dangerous. The words had trembled out of me, raw and jagged, like tearing open an old wound.

I hadn't expected Ansh's silence to feel so heavy. His jaw had locked, his eyes darkened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might shatter something with his bare hands. But then, he reached for me, not with violence, not with fire, but with a vow. His voice was low, fierce in its restraint, as he told me that I'd never have to face that kind of fear again. As long as he was there, no one would dare hurt me.

And maybe it should have frightened me, the storm I saw simmering beneath his calm. But instead, it steadied me. For the first time in years, I believed someone when they said I was safe.

And when the silence between us grew too heavy with the weight of my confession, he did the one thing I never expected.

He sang.

His voice slipped into the cracks of my trembling heart, soft where words might have broken, warm where memories still ached. It settled me in a way nothing else could, quieting the ghosts I thought would always haunt me.

His singing isn't polished or rehearsed, but it doesn't need to be. It spills out of him the way rivers find the sea, unforced and inevitable. He doesn't just sing words, he inhabits them, and when he does, it feels as if every lyric carries my name hidden somewhere between the lines.

Every note seems to reach for me, soft and consuming, until the rest of the world fades to silence. In those moments, he is the melody itself, the kind that lingers long after the song ends, echoing in the quiet corners of my mind. I hold my breath without meaning to, terrified that even a sigh might break the fragile spell of it.

It isn't perfection that makes it unforgettable. It's him. The cracks in his voice, the way he sometimes stumbles over a line but smiles through it, the tenderness stitched into every syllable, those are the things that stay with me.

The thought lingers, curling warm in my chest, until the world around me slowly pulls me back. The hum of the rain, the quiet shuffle of my own steps, the weight of the moment pressing in.

I'm no longer lost in the echo of his voice. I'm here, waiting, at the threshold of his apartment.

The world outside is still pouring, a steady roar against the city, but in here it's just the two of us, drenched, breathless, caught in the aftermath of our decision to dance in the storm.

My hair is plastered to my face, raindrops running down my neck, and my clothes stick stubbornly to my skin. Ansh isn't faring any better; his shirt clings to his chest, his dark hair dripping in unruly strands across his forehead, his jaw glistening where the water traces down.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, bright, unrestrained, bubbling out of the knot of nerves in my stomach. I press a hand against the doorframe to steady myself, giggling harder when he raises an eyebrow like I've just lost my mind.

But it's not madness. It's a relief. It's the absurdity of us standing here, soaked to the bone, and the impossible lightness that comes from being with him, even when I tell myself I shouldn't.

His gaze doesn't waver. It's steady, piercing, drinking me in with a quiet intensity that makes the laughter catch in my throat. For a second, I swear the storm isn't outside anymore. It's right here, in the way he looks at me.

"Come inside," he murmurs, voice low, roughened by the rain. His hand brushes against the small of my back, and the warmth of his touch seeps through the wet fabric like a spark.

I let him lead me in. The door shuts behind us, sealing off the world, the rain muffled to a distant hum. Suddenly, it's quiet. Too quiet.

I stand frozen in his living room, my shoes dripping onto the polished floor. The apartment is nothing like I imagined, minimal, but warm, all sharp lines softened by pieces that are undeniably his. Books stacked neatly on a coffee table. A guitar leaning in the corner. A jacket was carelessly slung over the couch. I shouldn't be here, and yet... I can't stop looking.

"You're staring," he says, his voice teasing, though there's a weight behind it.

I swallow, turning toward him. "I just... didn't expect it to feel so... you."

He steps closer, water still dripping from his hair, his shirt sticking to his chest. His eyes don't leave mine. "And what does me feel like?"

My breath stutters, but I don't answer. I can't. Because it's in the way he's standing, close enough for the heat of him to cut through the chill of my soaked clothes. In the way his gaze searches my face like he's memorising every line.

And then he lifts a hand, slow, deliberate. His fingers skim my jaw, trailing up to tuck a strand of wet hair behind my ear. The touch lingers, feather-light yet burning, and my entire body feels caught between wanting to step back and being unable to move at all.

The silence stretches, thick, almost unbearable, until his hand drops from my face. Instead, he reaches for mine.

His fingers are cold, damp, but steady as they close around my wrist, sliding down until his palm fits against mine.

The contact jolts through me, too gentle to be casual, too deliberate to be ignored. He doesn't ask. He doesn't need to. He just holds my hand and starts walking.

And I follow.

Every step echoes in my chest louder than the storm outside, my heart tripping over itself as he leads me deeper into his apartment. Past the living room, down the quiet hallway, until he pushes open a door with his shoulder.

His room.

The air feels different in here, darker, heavier, warmer. A faint trace of him lingers everywhere: his cologne in the sheets, the neat order of the desk by the window, the weight of a space that's his and his alone.

I stand at the threshold for a moment, my pulse in my throat. His hand slips from mine, leaving behind a strange emptiness, and he moves toward the closet. When he turns back, there's a towel in his hand.

"Here," he says, his voice quieter now, almost rough.

I take it, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The towel is dry, warm against my trembling hands, but it does nothing to calm the way my chest tightens under his gaze.

"You'll catch a cold standing there like that," he adds, softer, eyes flicking down to the rain-slick clothes clinging to me before darting back up, fast, controlled, like he's holding himself in check.

I clutch the towel tighter, unsure if I should laugh, or thank him, or tell him that the last thing I'm worried about right now is the rain.

Because the real danger is standing two feet away.

The real danger is the way my skin still remembers his hand in mine.

The real danger is how badly I want him to reach for me again. How badly I want him to touch me.

. . .

The sofa cushions sink beneath me as I curl deeper into them, a soft blanket cocooning me in borrowed warmth, my hair still damp from the shower. The fabric smells faintly like him, like vanilla, coffee, and something sharper I can never name. I draw it tighter around myself, as though I can trap the comfort he's given me inside my skin. My legs are folded beneath me, one hand absently tracing the stitched pattern of the throw while my mind drifts.

From the kitchen comes the steady rhythm of his presence. The gentle scrape of a knife against a board, the faint sizzle of something meeting a hot pan, cupboards opening and closing with a quiet deliberation. He doesn't rush. He never does when it's for me. Every sound carries an intention, a patience that makes my chest ache.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the blanket and the soft lamplight lull me into stillness. He's humming under his breath again, low, almost careless, as though he doesn't realise how it reaches me even here. It slips into the silence like a secret melody meant only for these four walls, only for me.

A part of me wants to call out, to ask what he's making, to break the hush of the moment with something simple. But another part just wants to stay like this. Waiting. Listening.

The humming from the kitchen quiets, replaced by the muted sound of his footsteps padding closer. I don't bother opening my eyes. The blanket is warm, the sofa too comfortable, and my body feels heavier than I thought, tired in that way that comes after a day of too much laughter, too many memories crowding in.

"Hey baby", his voice is low, carrying that unshakable calm only he seems to have.

I make a sound that's not quite an answer, just a soft hum. My eyes stay closed. I don't have the energy for words, and maybe I don't need them.

A moment passes, then I feel the cushion dip as he comes closer. His hand brushes over my hair first, gentle, almost tentative, before resting against my head in a slow, steady pat. The touch is grounding, a quiet reminder that I don't have to hold myself up right now.

It's ridiculous how something so small can feel like everything. My chest tightens, but not with fear, never with him. With him, it's different. The chaos in my head, the shadows of every wound I've carried, they all seem to hush in his presence. He doesn't even have to try; he just is, and somehow that's enough to steady me.

I used to think I knew what falling felt like, the rush, the sweetness, the sting. But this isn't a rush, it's slower and deeper, a quiet ache that settles in my chest whenever he's near. It's the way my heart strains toward him without my permission, the way my breath trips when he looks at me like I matter. Maybe I shouldn't admit it, not even in the safety of my own thoughts, but I can't deny it anymore. I've already fallen, somewhere between his silences and his storms. I've already let myself care in ways I can't take back.

"Sleep," he murmurs, his lips so near they almost graze my temple. His voice is low, certain, and impossibly tender. "I'll stay right here. Your dreams can have me tonight."

The words curl through me, softer than a caress, wrapping around the parts of me I thought no one could touch. I melt into them without resistance. My body loosens, my pulse slows, and I let go of the tension, of the fear, of the walls I've kept standing for far too long.

The last thing I register before sleep takes me is the weight of him beside me, steady, warm, and impossibly mine.

UNSEEN

The window is a stage, and they don't even know they're performing.

She sleeps, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm I've memorised, a rhythm that used to be mine.

Her lips part slightly, her body curling into the blanket as though it will keep her safe.

But nothing can keep her safe from me.

He hovers too close, stealing moments that don't belong to him. His fingers ghost over her hair, his gaze devours what I have already claimed.

He thinks it's love.

Pathetic.

Tender.

Foolish love.

I almost laugh. Does he not see the storm sleeping under her skin? Does he not understand what she does to people, what she did to me?

No, of course he doesn't. He's just a fool who stumbled into her orbit.

And yet... she forgets me.

She lets him close, lets him touch her, lets him whisper promises he cannot keep.

It burns. God, it burns.

But it's not entirely her fault. Not really.

I let her slip away. I left her. My own weakness, my own greed, my own... stupidity. I went away, chasing something cheap, meaningless, and for that, she turned to him.

That tiny betrayal fuels the fire in me. She only forgot because I gave her the space to do so. I will fix that. I will make her remember.

He can't have her forever. He won't.

His hold is fragile, brittle, like glass begging to be shattered.

Because she belongs to me.

She always has.

Every laugh, every tear, every secret she's ever spilt, I carry them all, carved into me like scripture.

And scripture cannot be rewritten.

Let him think he has her now. Let him breathe her in and drown in her light.

It will make the fall all the sweeter when I rip it away.

She was mine.
She is mine.

And when the time comes, I will tear her from him piece by piece, until she remembers.

Until she crawls back to me, begging like she should have all along.