Beneath her skin

Chapter 1 - A Placeholder

The light from Ishaan's monitor flickered across the cheap white walls -- like a prayer half-remembered, unfinished, unanswered. The only sounds were the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional hiss from the kettle that always boiled a little too long before he remembered to turn it off.

Power backup hummed faintly in the background. Buried in browser tabs, his screen split between company dashboards and GitHub repos with names like CrackMeIfYouCan and b0rkedShell.

Technically, he was a cybersecurity analyst--remote hire, working from a one-bedroom flat in Pune. He'd moved here thinking he might start going on treks, explore the hills, maybe rediscover some version of himself. But in all the months since, the only place he'd explored was a supermarket one bus ride away.

A ghost in a Slack channel for startup out of Gurgaon. He handled penetration testing, vulnerability scans, and the kind of low-level bug bounty cleanup that kept products functional but not flawless.

He hadn't spoken out loud in two days.

Not a single word.

When he coughed that morning -- a dry, sharp bark into his pillow -- it startled him. His voice sounded foreign. Rusted.

He wondered briefly if he'd forget how to speak entirely, like a muscle left unused too long.

Could that happen? Could a person just... fade like that?

He typed a line of bash. Then another. Then deleted both. Slack pinged from the side

Tanvi (10:37 AM):

Hey Ishaan, think you can test the latest deployment for vulnerabilities, we have a stakeholders meeting coming up.

Ishaan (10:39 AM):

On it.

The message was seen. Never answered.

They rarely replied when he said yes. His team mostly treated him like a manual tester who occasionally wore the word "security" on his title. To them, cybersecurity just meant 'you'll fix it, right? To them, he was just a safety net -- quiet, invisible, expected to catch their mistakes and never complain. Another placeholder in a system that only noticed when things broke.

By 12:11 PM, he was back on Zomato, scrolling. Not choosing -- just numbing.

Dal khichdi again.

Comfort food for the unloved.

The delivery guy showed up fifteen minutes early, didn't make eye contact, and didn't respond when Ishaan said "thanks."

The bag was damp at the corners. He didn't care enough to ask.

He ate at his desk, one hand still on the trackpad. Slack pinged again -- someone dropped a meme. A Minions thing. Tanvi reacted with a ????. So did three others.

He looked at it. Didn't get it.

He was always five seconds too slow for laughter.

He minimized the window and opened Instagram instead.

--

Scroll.

A girl in lavender yoga tights does slow stretches in golden light. Caption: "Find your breath. Let it hold you like I would."

Scroll.

Another girl, nose crinkled, holding a cookie in both hands. "Boys with trauma taste the best."

The top comment had 2,317 likes: "marry me pls."

Ishaan paused on that one.

Not because she was hot. Not even because she was funny.

But because someone had written that. And meant it. And maybe she even replied.

When was the last time anyone meant anything to him?

He saved the reel.

Opened his "Aesthetic" folder.

Scrolls again -- a soft-spoken influencer whispering affirmations into a mic: "You are safe. You are seen. You are loved."

He turned the volume up for that one.

And replayed it.

Twice.

And then once more.

Because the voice didn't sound like his.

--

At 2:32 PM, he got a call from his mother.

He didn't pick up.

At 2:34 PM, she called again. Then a third time at 2:41. He answered, finally, just as the fan clicked into a higher gear.

"Hello?"

"Beta, broadband bill is due. Did you forget?"

"No--I'll pay it now."

"And send your uncle that LIC receipt. He asked again. Also, your chachu's daughter is getting married. You should come this time. No excuses."

"Yeah--"

She was already moving on.

"Also send me 1,500? I'm short for the gas payment. Will return by next week."

"Okay."

"Okay. Bye."

Click.

No "take care." No "how are you holding up?"

Just instructions. Deadlines. Transactions.

He stared at the call screen, her name fading into silence.

That's all he was to people. The guy who fixed things. Repaired things. Quietly. An invisible insurance policy with a bank account.

A placeholder.

--

Later, in a corner browser tab no one knew about, he scrolled a private forum -- 0dayLeakz, where ghosts traded scripts, cracked firmware, leaked builds, pirated plugins.

He liked it there.

Everyone had handles, not names.

Nobody expected small talk.

He replied to a thread:

"Looking for rootkit obfuscation module for Android 13 payload. Clean API if poss."

Someone responded five minutes later.

Just: "mirror: "

And that was it.

No emojis. No judgment. No one asking why he was 27, alone, and still using usernames he made at 16.

--

At 5:00 PM, he walked to the local supermarket. Mostly for air. Maybe for snacks. Maybe to prove he still had a body.

A girl brushed past him in the dairy aisle. Pink hoodie. Hair tied up in a messy bun. Her nails were white-tipped and perfect. She reached for oat milk the same second he did. Their hands touched.

"Oh! Sorry," she said with a laugh. She smelled like strawberries and lotion.

She smiled -- not flirtatiously. Just the kind of default kindness women learned to wear like armor.

She walked away. Hips swinging slightly. Hoodie reading: "baby girl energy." He just watched. Said nothing.

He stood there, staring at the shelf. Oat milk carton still in his hand.

If I had a life like hers, I'd smile too.

She doesn't even know how seen she is. That she gets to move through the world soft and scented and... acknowledged.

And I'm just noise. Function. The guy who says "sorry" when someone bumps into him.

He looked down at himself.

Greasy joggers. A hoodie that still smelled faintly of yesterday's chai. Unshaved neck.

Twenty-seven. Never kissed. Never seen naked by anyone who wanted to.

Every classmate from school either married, honeymooning, or getting DMs from girls who posted red dress reels.

And him?

The last time a woman touched him was by accident at an ATM queue.

--

Back home, 7:23 PM, he microwaved the leftover khichdi.

Didn't finish it.

At 8:00 PM, he turned on porn. Same site. Same muted thumbnails. Clicked through four clips. Nothing stuck. One girl was crying -- not fake-crying, but crying.

He closed the tab.

At 8:46 PM, he opened Instagram again.

"Saved" tab. "Aesthetic" folder.

The perfume girl. The cookie girl. The whispering affirmations. One shot from a reel he'd paused over a dozen times: a woman standing in front of a mirror, lip gloss glistening, whispering to herself: "Good girl."

He didn't touch himself.

He just watched.

Until the room was blue-lit and silent.

--

At 10:42 PM, he checked his call log. No one else had called.

At 11:03 PM, he stared at a blank Google Doc titled "Resignation Letter - Draft."

He didn't write anything in it. He wouldn't quit. They'd never notice if he did.

He thought about messaging one of those girls. The ones who posted Q&As like "Ask me anything ????"

He never did.

He knew how that ended: Seen. Ignored. Blocked.

--

At 11:59 PM, he whispered out loud, "I don't think anyone would notice if I was gone."

No echo.

No contradiction.

No one to say otherwise.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Like it was holding its breath.

Like it was waiting for someone else to enter.

--

Finally at 12:19 AM, he lay in bed, phone screen still glowing beside him. The room felt like a waiting room for someone else's life. He shifted under the blanket, reached down, and started touching himself.

It wasn't about arousal. It hadn't been for months.

Just a tired ritual to pull the day to a close.

He tried a few tabs. A girl in a plaid skirt. Another whispering into a mic. One fake sleep-play scene. Nothing stuck. His erection came and went like a signal in a tunnel.

He skipped past hardcore thumbnails and landed on a girl applying foundation. Her fingers gentle. Her face still. He watched it like a documentary on warmth. That gave him a little stir.

Even his fantasies were buffering now.

He closed his eyes and forced the images.

Someone moaning. Someone looking at him like he mattered. Someone saying his name, not because they had to, but because it felt right in their mouth.

He clenched his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut.

It took longer than usual.

When he finally came, there was no release--just relief.

He wiped his hand on the inside of the blanket.

And only then did he fall asleep.

Outside the window, birds had already started chirping.

He hadn't even noticed the night end.

Chapter 2 - The Phone

What Finds you First

It was a mistake.

It had to be.

A forgotten phone wedged deep between the cab seat cushions, screen dark, case smudged with prints and bronzer dust. Ishaan almost didn't see it until the driver hit a pothole and it slid just far enough to catch a glint of light.

He picked it up without thinking. That's what people did, right? You see a phone, you pick it up. You try to return it. Be decent. Be useful.

It felt warm in his hand.

A pink iPhone -- not soft pastel, but glossy like a candy wrapper. Scratched at the edges. A tiny rhinestone heart sticker on the back. The kind of phone that belonged to someone who could film herself blinking and get five thousand views.

He turned it over.

Blank screen. Dead battery.

The cabbie glanced at him in the mirror, said nothing.

Ishaan slipped it into his jacket pocket.

He told himself he'd charge it, check for emergency contacts, and return it. Maybe hand it over to the police. Or post about it online -- a simple lost-and-found thing. One of those small human gestures that made the world feel a little less empty.

But when he got home, he didn't go online.

He didn't tweet.

He didn't turn it in.

The screen stared back. Nothing. No sound.. Like it was a portal. Like something had shifted -- the air heavier, the silence fuller. Like his one-bedroom apartment, with its peeling beige paint and the faint, permanent smell of boiling tea, was no longer entirely his.

It belonged to it now, too.

--

He plugged the phone in using his backup charger -- the kind with frayed insulation but a still-working core. The red battery icon blinked to life. Then the Apple logo. Then the lockscreen.

Her wallpaper appeared.

A blurred photo. Collarbone, gold chain, corner of glossy lips. No eyes. Just skin. Just suggestion.

He paused. Swiped up.

Passcode required.

He tapped "Emergency."

No contact listed.

None.

He stared at the screen.

Heart tapping faintly in his throat.

No name.

No backup number.

Just her.

He checked again the next morning, expecting missed calls, a flurry of notifications, some friend or boyfriend trying to reach her in panic.

There was nothing. No calls to the phone. No pings. No Find My iPhone alert. No login attempts.

Just silence.

That was the first thing that felt off.

Most people lost their phones and realized within an hour. Two, max. They'd call themselves. Spam the lockscreen. Message their own number from a friend's phone. Panic-post. Ask the internet for help.

But this phone -- her phone -- had just gone dark. And stayed that way. That's when something started scratching at the edge of his thoughts.

What if she hadn't lost it?

What if she'd left it behind on purpose?

Or worse -- what if she couldn't come back for it?

--

That night, he couldn't sleep.

He lay awake in the blue light of his laptop, scrolling endlessly. Reddit. GitHub. Instagram. Telegram. Porn. Nothing held him.

He kept glancing at the phone.

It didn't buzz. Didn't light up. But it felt alive. Like it was waiting for him to ask the right question.

At 3:13 AM, he picked it up again. Held it like it might whisper. The phone didn't unlock.

But the smell clung to it -- faint, feminine, warm. Not perfume. Not floral. Something skin-like. Salt, sleep, and static.

He brought it close to his nose.

Closed his eyes.

And something shifted.

--

The next morning, he traced the cab company through his ride history. Called twice. Left a message. The driver didn't pick up.

He didn't try again.

By evening, the phone still sat on his desk.

He Googled "lost iPhone Pune police station." Clicked nothing. Typed a draft Reddit post. Deleted it.

By night, he had decided it was just better if he handled this. Properly. Quietly. told himself he wasn't snooping. He wasn't being creepy. He was trying to help. Just doing what anyone with half a conscience and a skill like his own will do.

He told himself he wasn't invading. He was investigating.

--

It took him two days.

He finally cracked the phone -- not forcefully, but delicately. Forensics tools from work. A sandbox environment. Passive image caching. Quiet, careful methods. He didn't want to break anything. He just wanted to help. That's what he told himself.

He cloned the phone's data to his system -- safer that way, he reasoned. More efficient. No accidental wipes, no system locks. Just a clean environment to sift through and look for clues: messages, email handles, ride history, anything that might tell him who she was or where she lived.

He wasn't spying.

He was investigating.

Just looking for breadcrumbs.

That's what anyone with his skillset would do.

--

The gallery loaded first.

He hadn't meant to open it. Not at first. But it was all right there -- cached thumbnails appearing in neat rows. Hundreds of images. Hundreds of versions of her.

And she was everywhere.

Always framed. Lit. Cropped. Curated.

Pouting at mirrors. Laughing mid-blur. Crying in soft pink light. Dancing in rooms too small for movement. Whispering into the camera with eyes half-lidded, like it was a lover.

Some shots were brazen. Others, intimate.

One of her sitting on a kitchen counter in boy shorts and an oversized hoodie.

Another curled up on the floor, mascara tear-tracks staining her cheek.

A video -- no sound -- where she ran her fingers slowly along her collarbone, like she was memorizing herself.

His first reaction wasn't lust.

It was confusion.

She looked... familiar.

Not in the way strangers sometimes do -- that fleeting resemblance you forget in seconds.

This was different.

No -- he looked like her.

Same cheekbones. Same almond eyes. The slight crook in the smile when it wasn't posed. Same hair, too -- that soft, dark wave with just enough length to fall across the forehead. Hers was styled, maybe glossed. His was a little fuller, heavier, not yet trained to move like hers, but close.

There she was. Like a hallucination dressed in better lighting.

A strange symmetry -- as if someone had taken him and polished the roughness away. Sanded him into something soft. Something glowing. Something touchable.

It unsettled him.

It intrigued him.

Maybe that's why the phone had felt so magnetic in his hands.

He kept watching.

Looking for clues -- tattoos, street signs, a shop name in the background. A takeaway bag with a partially visible address. A delivery app notification. He paused the frames, enhanced them, traced them.

Not because he wanted to know her.

Because he needed to find her.

That's what he told himself.

If she was nearby, if she was still in Pune, if she was missing this -- he could return it. Quietly. Directly. A small good deed in a life otherwise filled with fragments and static.

But the more he searched, the less he found.

No family.

No saved numbers.

No emergency contact.

No group chats. No screenshots of conversations.

Just her.

Always her.

He kept digging.

Watched. Zoomed in.

Noticed how she carried herself. How she touched her own face. How she tilted her head when she laughed -- always to the left. How she painted her lips differently depending on the hour: matte in the morning, gloss at night. How she blinked slowly when she filmed -- as if she wanted each frame to ache.

She wasn't just a person.

She was a performance.

A persona.

A mood.

And yet...

She looked like him.

Only brighter.

Only better.

Polished.

The more he studied her, the more something stirred inside him.

Not lust. Not just curiosity.

Something slower. Warmer. Dull and hot.

Envy.

They had the same face -- but on her, it meant something. On her, it caught light. Drew attention. Had weight.

On him, it was just... a face.

She was the colored-in version.

He was the sketch.

And somewhere along the line, without realizing, he began to mimic her.

Tilting his head the same way she did -- just slightly, like he was posing too.

Letting a small, uncertain smile crease his mouth, lopsided, delicate.

He didn't notice. But the dark reflection in his laptop screen did. A flicker. A blur. Someone he almost recognized -- not quite her, not quite him. What did it mean, to look like someone you wanted to become? That question stayed with him longer than it should have. And still, he hadn't found her name.

--

That weekend, he found her flat.

He traced a blurred Uber Eats receipt from one of her screenshots. Backtracked through her GPS photo tags. The building was fifteen minutes away, a crumbling five-story rental with no watchman and rusty mailbox slots.

He waited outside for over an hour.

Just watching.

No one entered. No one left.

He buzzed the unit listed on her delivery address.

No answer.

He climbed the stairs. Tried the knob.

Unlocked.

--

The door opened with a reluctant creak.

Ishaan stepped inside, calling out instinctively.

"Hello?"

His voice felt foreign in the space -- too sharp, too dry. He cleared his throat and tried again, quieter.

"Anyone here?"

No answer.

He stood still for a moment, half-expecting a voice to come from the bedroom, the bathroom, anywhere -- someone annoyed, alarmed, demanding to know what he was doing there.

But silence pressed back.

Not the eerie kind. Not empty.

Just... lived-in.

The kind of quiet that held traces of someone's rhythm -- like a song that had stopped mid-verse.

He stepped inside fully and shut the door behind him, the click unnervingly loud. His hand lingered on the knob.

The air inside was warm.

Not stifling. Warm. Like a body had just left it. Like the flat had exhaled but hadn't inhaled again yet.

And then -- the scent.

It hit him like muscle memory.

Soft and human and clinging -- a mixture of fabric softener, rosewater toner, something faintly salty, and the barely-there trace of sweat that hadn't turned sour.

Not perfume. Not deliberate.

Just her.

It stirred something in him -- not arousal exactly, but something more dangerous.

Recognition. Longing. Hunger twisted into familiarity.

He blinked, suddenly aware of his own body in the space. How he stood in her air. Breathed her residue.

It wasn't the kind of space he'd expected.

Not curated like her phone's gallery.

Not polished.

It was soft. Comfortable. Messy in the specific way people are messy when they don't expect anyone to see.

It wasn't sterile. It wasn't "aesthetic."

It was real.

Feminine in the way lived-in spaces are. Half-finished. Intimate. Unapologetic.

Ishaan hovered by the door, guilt flickering at the edges of his awareness.

He was only here to return the phone.

That was still true. That was always true.

Maybe she was out running errands. Or at work. Or on a walk. Or a vacation. Or she'd show up any minute and thank him and laugh and ask how he managed to find her.

He took another step inside.

Just one.

To leave the phone on the table, maybe.

He was helping. He repeated that in his mind. Like a prayer.

He was helping.

--

He moved through the flat cautiously, as if each step might disturb something sacred. Or already broken.

The silence had settled around him like a weighted blanket. But he noticed things now -- specific things.

No signs of forced entry.

No broken glass.

No blood.

No struggle.

Just to satisfy his negative brain that nothing wrong happened to her and she is alright.

Just absence. Stillness.

Her absence wasn't violent. It was... casual. Like someone who'd left for errands and never made it back.

A phone charger still plugged in beside the bed.

A packet of sanitary pads half-tucked under the sink.

The slow drip of a tap that hadn't been turned tight.

None of it made sense. Not yet.

--

He wandered to the bedroom and stood at the threshold.

The curtain moved faintly in the breeze.

The bed looked slept in -- not violently, just lived in. The way sheets wrinkle when someone dreams hard, or rolls too far to one side.

There was a laundry basket near the dresser, open and spilling.

He didn't mean to look.

But his eyes caught it anyway.

A bra -- lilac, worn, the lace slightly frayed at the edges -- lay on top of the pile like it had been dropped there in a rush. One strap curled. The cups softly collapsed inward, still warm with suggestion.

He stared at it for too long.

Too long.

And then -- breath catching, heartbeat quickening -- he picked it up.

Just to move it aside.

Just to fold it. Just to--

But the scent hit him.

Not perfume.

Not detergent.

Her.

That same salt-and-skin warmth from the phone -- only sharper now, fuller. Like heat and sleep and something unspeakably intimate.

It gutted him.

Something inside him snapped.

He brought it closer. Held it in both hands. Pressed it to his face. Closed his eyes. And inhaled.

His knees almost gave out.

It wasn't about sex. It wasn't even about her.

It was about closeness. Contact. Proof that someone like her existed -- and had worn this, sweated into it, lived inside it.

And something ignited in his gut -- low and unbearable.

His body acted before he could stop it.

A rush. A surge. His breath faltering, his stomach tightening.

He came.

Hard. Silently. Involuntarily.

Still standing.

Still holding her.

--

For a few seconds, there was nothing but ringing in his ears.

The aftershock hit like shame acid-washed through him.

His hands trembled. His throat was dry.

He dropped the bra -- not on the floor, but back into the basket. Tucked it in. As if that undid it.

He didn't cry.

But he came close.

--

He cleaned up quietly, methodically. Wiped the floor where he thought he might've stepped. Picked up a piece of lint that didn't belong to him. Washed his hands twice.

Then he placed the phone -- her phone -- on the coffee table.

Where it belonged. Where it would be found.

If she comes back.

--

He took one last look around the apartment.

At the spoon on the napkin. The mug. The mascara streaks on the vanity mirror.

Then he let himself out.

Closed the door behind him.

Didn't look back.

--

The walk back to his flat was silent.

Head down. Hands in his pockets.

His pants were damp -- the fabric sticking to his thigh in patches that grew cold in the night air.

He told himself it was sweat. Told himself it was a mistake. It hadn't even felt good. That's what he told himself. But a quiet part of him -- the one that still hadn't stopped trembling -- knew it wasn't entirely true.

It wasn't pleasure. It was panic.

He kept repeating that -- muttered it under his breath like a ward, like trying to reassure himself.

But something in him had shifted, and he knew it.

--

The moment he stepped into his own room, the difference gutted him.

It was colder here. Grayer. Like the air had thinned in his absence.

The faint hum of his old ceiling fan. The cheap desk lamp. The stale smell of tea and unwashed blankets. It all felt... flat.

He hadn't noticed it before.

But now it felt like standing in grayscale.

He sat down slowly. The dampness clung to his skin, sticky, cold. It felt wrong to clean it. Wrong to forget.

The smell -- her smell -- was gone.

The scent of skin and salt and sleep. The quiet heat that clung to fabric, to breath, to light.

It had been real. Too real.

And now it was missing.

He stared at his table for a long time.

It wasn't there anymore either. He'd left it on her table, like he was supposed to. Like a good man would.

But his room didn't feel like his anymore.

It felt like the waiting room for someone else's life.

--

The next morning, he woke up in yesterday's clothes.

He sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and unlocked the cloned drive.

At first, he told himself he was just cleaning up the files. Clearing temp folders. Removing duplicates.

But then the thumbnails loaded again -- her face, her poses, her laughter frozen in frames.

And he felt that thing again.

That small tug in the ribs. That ghost of scent in his nostrils.

He scrolled slower this time.

Not for clues. Not to return anything.

But to feel something.

He played a reel. Muted. Then again, with the sound on low.

And that's when he noticed it -- an album he hadn't seen before. No title. Just a grey folder icon with the number "11" in the corner.

He tapped.

They weren't selfies.

Not reels. Not outfits.

Photos of paper.

Pages. Spiral-bound. Soft-lined. Shot under warm light.

Her handwriting, slanted and urgent.

Black gel ink.

Margins smudged with thumbprints.

Phrases circled. Some underlined twice.

One page torn halfway. Another dotted with what looked like tea stains or tears.

Something about the way they were framed -- cropped close, held tenderly -- it felt like she wanted to remember them, but not share them.

He swiped through slowly, as if each page might speak.

Blocky, raw, and intimate. Poured straight from the gut onto the screen. Rambling. Unfiltered. Half-poetic.

A journal.

Her voice.

---

He stared at the file for a long time.

It wasn't named anything obvious -- no "Dear Diary," no "My Life." Just a string of numbers and an unformatted timestamp. The first line loaded in preview like a warning

"Some things you write so no one else will ever see them. Which is exactly why someone always does."

His finger hovered over the trackpad.

He told himself he shouldn't.

Told himself it was private. That everyone deserves one place in the world that stays untouched.

But what if it held answers?

What if it explained why she was gone?

What if it told him who to call?

He wasn't invading.

He was investigating.

Besides, he told himself, what's one page?

Just enough to get a sense. A fragment. A hint.

He opened it.

And started reading.

--

He read for hours.

One entry led to the next, each one more raw than the last -- full of half-thoughts and sharpened loneliness. But it was the most recent ones, right at the top of the folder, that unsettled him most.

"

October 6

I didn't eat today, but I smiled in three photos. That counts for something, right?

October 5

Sometimes I take a picture just to remember what my face looks like when I try. Not when I'm happy -- just when I'm trying.

October 4

They call it brave. Healing. Soft.

I just call it proof I woke up.

"

He leaned back in his chair. It wasn't just poetry. These weren't captions. They felt like... confessions. Like someone trying to hold herself together, frame by frame.

A soft chill moved through him.

What if the photos weren't performance?

What if they were proof of survival?

He opened a new tab. Typed: "grief Instagram healing girl Pune."

Scrolled. Nothing that matched her face.

He tried Reddit. Twitter. Instagram.

No tags. No threads. No credit.

But the tone was unmistakable -- he'd seen it before, in reels and captions and long comment chains under other girls' posts.

Only this time, it wasn't curated.

It was cracked open.

He went back to the journal -- scanning the entries more methodically now.

And there it was.

"Amara, stop. You're not being deep, you're being dramatic," I tell myself. But maybe that's what healing looks like. A little too much, a little too loud, a little too seen.

Amara.

That was her name.

He whispered it aloud, just to hear how it sounded in the room. "Amara." It fit. Not just her -- but the feeling she left in the air. Like something half-lit, not yet finished.

--

He searched again. This time, with the name.

"Amara + Pune + influencer"

And then he found her.

Instagram handle: @amaradust

35.2K followers.

A grid of soft hues and mirror selfies. Lip gloss, tattoos, golden-hour reels with gliding transitions. Captions that hovered between flirtation and ache.

Thousands of likes. Comments crowded with heart emojis, "babe ily," and "drop the routine pls ????" It all looked alive. Tended. Recent.

But her last post was from over two weeks ago.

No stories. No replies. No lives. No updates.

Just... stillness. Ishaan sat back. Something tightened in his stomach.

Thirty-five thousand people followed her -- and not one noticed the stillness.

She'd stopped posting. But the likes still trickled in. They loved the version she left behind.

He also did the same. He just clicked "Follow."

And began to scroll.

All the way back to the beginning.

--

He started building a picture of her -- piece by scattered piece.

The journal entries gave him her thoughts. Unfiltered. Wild and wounded.

Her Instagram showed the mask. Curated. Coy. Lit just right.

He toggled between the two like puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit but still belonged together.

Her captions were full of contradictions.

"Just a girl, just a ghost."

"Pretty when I cry ????"

"Mood: Wanting to be noticed before you vanish -- even if you don't."

He'd read one post, then search the same day's journal entry -- matching the voice to the version, syncing the online smile with the offline ache.

And somewhere in between them, he imagined her real self -- messy, soft, hiding under her own filters.

He told himself he was learning her so he could help.

Find her.

Rescue her.

Bring her back.

--

The Days Begin to Blur

He started walking to her apartment building every night.

Not going in. Not buzzing the door.

Just standing across the street.

Looking up.

Fifth floor. Corner flat. The one with the balcony and the wilting plant. Curtains always drawn.

Sometimes he brought a hoodie.

Sometimes he stood bare-armed in the night air, like punishment.

Each night, he stared at the same dark window, hoping for something.

A light. A shape. A flicker of return.

Nothing ever came.

But he still returned.

--

Back home, the rest of his life began to rot in place.

Slack pinged once, then stopped.

Emails stacked. Jira tickets opened and closed without him.

At some point, HR marked him as "Burnout - Mental Health" without asking.

His name was greyed out in the team tracker.

His boss didn't follow up.

No one called.

His mother sent three messages that week:

"Bill paid?"

"Are you okay?"

"Just reply once."

He didn't.

Not out of spite -- he just couldn't make space for anything else.

Because Amara's world had become everything. It needed space and he was making it.

--

Her journal was always open in one tab. Her Instagram in another.

He started pairing them -- reading an entry, then scrolling through her posts from the same day.

Tracking the tone. The performance. The unraveling.

"Smile, you're in public."

"Mood: I want to be missed before I leave."

"Some people post selfies. Others leave breadcrumbs."

He copied them into a folder. Matched them to photos.

Built a spreadsheet and marked emotional spikes.

October 3:

Insta Caption: "Pretty when I cry ????"

Journal Entry: "I didn't cry for them. I cried for the silence after."

October 2:

Insta Caption: "Soft girls break loud."

Journal Entry: "If they only love my fragments, they don't deserve the whole."

Every detail felt important.

Every caption, a clue.

He wasn't obsessed.

He was reconstructing.

Translating signal from static. Someone had to.

--

And still, each night, the craving returned.

That feeling -- that impossible, electric, full-body surrender he'd had the first time in her room. He hadn't meant for it to happen. But now he couldn't forget.

He tried to reach it again -- mechanically, repeatedly. Alone in his bed, under the blue light. But it never worked. The orgasms were shallow. Brief. Forgettable. No scent. No breath. No her. He sat afterward in silence, breathing hard, empty.

--

On the sixth night, after another failed attempt, he sat on the floor.

Eyes stinging. Laptop on his knees. He opened the journal archive and scrolled.

Then stopped. A short entry -- easy to miss

He read it once. Then again. Something in him split.

It wasn't obsession anymore.

It was something quieter. Heavier.

A promise.

--

The next night, he didn't wait across the street. He didn't hesitate. He walked up the stairs, turned the knob, and stepped inside. This wasn't trespassing. It was continuation. An open tab returning to the source.

Chapter 3 - What Fade

When scent leaves

Time stopped counting. The lights stayed off. The curtains never moved. He had no idea how long he'd been there.

He didn't track hours. Just instinct. Just need.

Sometimes he woke up on the bed. Sometimes on the floor. Once, on the bathroom mat with his cheek pressed against the tile, her bra tangled in his fingers like a rosary.

He didn't try to explain it. Not really.

He told himself it was just grief. A delayed release. Emotional compensation.

That anyone who held this much of someone -- their scent, their warmth, their leftover pulse in a room -- would do the same.

It wasn't perversion.

It was preservation.

--

The first time, it happened so fast it scared him.

Just the smell -- the crease of a cotton hoodie, the way the fabric had absorbed her -- it undid him.

No touch. No friction. Just him, folded over her laundry basket like he was bowing to it. The orgasm tore through him like something he hadn't earned.

He came so hard he saw stars.

Collapsed.

Felt his lungs seize for a second, like his body wasn't sure it could hold that much at once.

Afterward, he lay there for almost an hour. Limp. Breathless. Dazed.

He hadn't felt anything that full in years. Maybe ever.

A tide he hadn't known he was waiting for.

He stared at the ceiling like it might explain something.

But the only thing he felt was terror.

What if this is it? What if it never feels this good again?

--

The second time came slower. Meaner.

He'd used one of her bras -- soft laced and pink, worn thin. It still held the shape of her, collapsed inwards like her breath had just left it.

He pressed it to his face and inhaled. This time, he touched himself. Lightly. Timidly. Like he didn't want to wake something.

When the orgasm came, it wasn't pleasure. It was collapse.

Like falling down a hole in himself. Like sobbing without tears.

He came with a sharp exhale and a tremble that didn't stop. His legs spasmed. His hand shook for minutes afterward.

His heart knocked hard against his ribs -- not arousal, not even shame.

Panic.

Because again, that thought

What if this is the last time?

What if my body forgets this scent before I'm ready to let it go?

--

He started rationing the clothes. Didn't want to use the same panties two nights in a row. Didn't want to run out. He laid them out on the bed like tokens. Held them. Folded them. Re-folded them.

Each orgasm after that felt like a bargain struck under duress. Too desperate. Too fast.

Sometimes he didn't even want to come. He just wanted to linger in the edge of it -- that dizzy, pulsing space right before.

But his body always surged forward. Always emptied itself.

Always collapsed.

--

He started fearing sleep -- not because of dreams, but because he knew when he woke up, the scent might be fainter.

That it might be fading already.

Sometimes he woke in the dark and pressed his face into the sheets, desperate to find her again.

Sometimes it worked.

Mostly, it didn't.

--

By the fifth or sixth day, who knew no one was keeping track of time, the clothes were just clothes.

The pillowcase -- just cotton. The hoodie -- once radiant with warmth -- smelled like nothing now. Like air. Like fabric.

Like absence.

He pressed the bra to his face again, harder this time. Desperate.

Inhaled once.

Twice.

Held it there until his nose stung.

Nothing.

It was gone.

--

He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the garment in both hands.

It felt lighter now.

Like it had surrendered.

Like it had given him all it had, and was done.

His chest ached. Not from longing -- from shame.

From that deep, familiar knowing

I ruined this.

He'd clung too hard. Pressed too close. Worshipped too greedily. And now it was gone.

Just like everything else he'd ever touched.

His friendships.

His job.

His voice.

His sense of self.

All dulled by contact.

All left faded in his wake.

He'd absorbed her, and now she had nothing left to give.

Not even scent.

--

The panic didn't come like a scream -- it came like a vacuum. Cold and slow and soft.

He stood.

Dressed in silence.

Didn't fold the clothes.

Didn't make the bed.

He walked to the door barefoot, hoodie still inside, and looked back one last time.

The room looked smaller now.

Duller.

Like whatever had made it holy had lifted and left.

He stepped outside.

Closed the door quietly behind him.

Didn't look back.

--

His own flat was smaller than he remembered.

Or maybe he had grown too large inside Amara's. Too swollen with her air, her weight, her scent. Now everything here felt shrink-wrapped and sterile.

The walls felt grey, like peeling beige is not there anymore, the light harsh. His mattress had lost its shape.

He sat on the bed in silence for hours.

Didn't switch on the fan.

Didn't move.

--

He tried to erase her.

That night, he opened the cloned drive again.

Selected it all -- the photos, the scraped notes, the cached app data.

His cursor hovered for a full minute.

Then: Delete.

A second later, the prompt:

"Are you sure?"

Yes.

"This action cannot be undone."

Yes.

It was done. He emptied the trash folder. Then cleared the cache. Then wiped the external backup drive. Then, like some ritual sacrifice, unplugged it and tossed it under the bed.

Clean.

Free.

Untethered.

--

But the space that was supposed to open in her absence?

It just filled with dust.

--

He tried to go back to work, as reflex

Replied to a Slack thread with three thumbs-ups and a "sure."

No one asked him where he went. Or how he was. Or what loss he felt. Just "Get it done. By EOD".

Marked a Jira ticket resolved.

Opened an old vulnerability report and stared at it for twenty-five minutes, unable to read a single line.

Slack pinged again. He left it unread. Closed the window. Opened a new tab.

Typed: how long does scent memory last in fabric?

Deleted it.

Typed again: how to recreate a person's smell

Deleted that too.

--

He made himself tea.

Drank it halfway.

It tasted like someone else's life.

--

He tried to masturbate.

Not out of lust. Not even out of habit.

He just wanted to sleep.

That kind of sleep he'd had in her bed -- heavy, full, dreamless. The kind that wrapped around his spine and held him under.

The kind that only came after he came.

Back then, her scent had been in the sheets. In the fabric. In his mouth.

Maybe if he came again, he could trick his body into sinking like that. Maybe if he shut his eyes right after, the rest would come. The quiet. The float.

--

He tried.

Harder.

Played the same reel five times.

Paused on an old post of hers -- a mirror selfie with glossed lips and chipped nail polish. Tried to remember how the hoodie had smelled, right at the collar.

It didn't work.

His hand cramped. His breath stuttered.

He came eventually, but it was dry. Shallow. Mechanical. Like dragging static across skin.

The peaceful sleep never came, still he dreamt.

Not erotic. Not even visual. Just a scent.

That old combination of sweat and sleep and skin.

In the dream, he was lying on her bed again, holding her hoodie like it might shatter.

But when he looked down, the fabric was ash in his hands. He woke up with his mouth open, gasping like he'd been underwater. His sheets were soaked.

But he hadn't come.

--

He opened her Instagram at 3:14 AM.

Scrolled to the bottom of the feed.

Paused on a photo from last year: her in a red sundress, smiling -- not at the camera, but at something outside the frame.

Caption:

"I want to be remembered the way your bed holds your shape after you leave."

He closed the app.

Opened the journal folder from memory -- but it was gone.

Of course.

He'd deleted it.

I killed her twice.

--

The next day, his phone buzzed.

It was his mother.

He let it ring. Then ring again. The screen dimmed.

A minute later, a message.

Beta, broadband bill's due. Can you send 1,500?

That was all. No "how are you." No "where are you." No "I miss you."

He stared at the message.

Typed: Sure.

Paused.

Didn't send it.

Just left it there -- blinking.

She didn't follow up.

Didn't ask again.

Didn't notice when he didn't reply.

--

No one else messaged.

No pings.

No check-ins.

Slack was silent. Email, unopened. His bank app hadn't been touched in days.

He could've vanished.

And no one would've known.

Maybe he already had.

--

That evening, he sat in the dark again -- hoodie still damp with old sweat, phone screen dimmed on the bedside table, untouched.

And from nowhere, a line bubbled up in his mind -- from her journal, soft and slow like breath on the back of the neck.

"If no one remembers the real me, maybe the version I left behind is enough."

He whispered it aloud. Then said her name.

"Amara." Again.

"Amara."

It didn't echo. But it didn't leave either. It hung in the air like smoke.

--

He stood up. Didn't change. Didn't even grab his keys or phone. Just walked out -- half-dressed, half-alive -- hoodie half-zipped, socks mismatched. His feet moved like they remembered something his brain hadn't caught up to yet. Fifteen minutes later, he was outside her building. Looking up. Same fifth floor. Same corner flat. The curtains still drawn. Still no light. Still no her.

--

But something clung to his throat. Not quite scent. Not quite memory.

A shadow of warmth. A suggestion.

He climbed the stairs. Slowly. Not counting. Turned the knob. It opened like it had been waiting. Like the space hadn't exhaled since he left.

He stepped inside. Let the door click shut behind him.

He expected the scent to rush back the second he stepped inside.

It didn't.

The air was thick with dust. Not the kind you could see -- the kind you could feel. Dry, weightless, coating the skin. Like the room had stopped breathing while he was gone.

He stood still in the doorway.

Waited.

Nothing.

No salt. No warmth. No sleep-sweet trace of her.

Just stillness. And that faint, bitter note of untouched fabric.

His chest tightened.

I've ruined it. She's gone.

But maybe--maybe it hadn't left.

Maybe it was just buried.

Beneath the dead air. Beneath the dust. Beneath the silence that settled when no one lived loud enough to disturb it.

Walked to the kitchen. Opened every window.

Then began to clean.

Not hurried.

Not angry.

Methodical.

Gentle.

He wiped down the window frames. Ran a damp cloth over the fan blades. Swept under the sofa, behind the bathroom door, under the dresser.

He washed the mug by the sink.

Rinsed the tea bottle and set it beside the stove, exactly where it had been before.

He scrubbed the floors on his hands and knees -- not because they were dirty, but because he needed the scent to have space again. Clean surfaces. Cleared air. No static in the fabric of the room.

The scent had lived here once.

Maybe it still could.

--

He found her phone on the coffee table where he'd left it -- battery long dead, screen cold.

He plugged it in.

Sat beside it on the floor as the red icon blinked to life.

Then the Apple logo.

Then her lockscreen again: blurred lips, a collarbone, that barely-there gleam of gold.

It wasn't about unlocking it.

It was about powering her world back on.

If her phone wakes up, maybe she will too.

--

When he got to the laundry, he unfolded each piece of clothing carefully. Smoothed them out. Shook off the dust, as if her breath might still be clinging to the threads.

Washed the bedsheets, but not with detergent. Just water. Cold and clear. Hung them to dry in the sun that spilled through the balcony.

Let it breathe, he thought. Let her come back.

That night, he sat on her bed.

The flat looked the same -- but it felt slightly different. Lighter. Unstuck.

Still no scent. But it was cleaner now.

More willing.

More ready.

He reached over and tapped her phone once. The screen lit up -- soft and slow.

He watched the glow pulse like a heartbeat.

Then closed his eyes and imagined her lying beside him, just long enough to fall asleep.

He slept not because he was tired -- but because he'd done all he could. And somewhere deep down, he hoped she'd come back in the morning.

--

He woke to light.

Not harsh. Not sharp.

Just soft, golden light spilling through the balcony curtains he'd forgotten to close.

It stretched in warm slats across the bed, onto the floor, across his arm.

For a second, he didn't know where he was.

Then he breathed in -- shallow, hopeful -- but the air still smelled like nothing.

His chest ached. Not from grief. Not quite.

More like... interruption.

Like a dream that had almost come back, but slipped again through his fingers.

He sat up slowly. The bed creaked beneath him.

His tongue was dry. Mouth stale. Muscles sore in that specific way that came from sleeping too still, too long, too wrong.

He stood, barefoot. Walked to the kitchen.

Eyes half-closed. Still sleep-drenched.

Opened the fridge for water, the kind of morning motion that required no thought.

The cold hit his face.

His fingers wrapped around the bottle.

And that's when he saw it.

A small whiteboard, stuck beside the fridge with two worn-out magnets.

He must've seen it before, in passing.

But never really seen it.

Now, with the light hitting it just right, it looked like something sacred.

A list. Bullet points. Faded marker ink in soft, looping handwriting:

☀️ 7:30 AM - Wake. Water. Breathe. Stretch.

????‍♀️ 8:00 - Sun Salutations x 3. Breathwork.

???? 8:45 - Smoothie. Protein bowl. Multivitamin.

???? 10:00 - Edits or engagement.

???? 12:00 - Read or rest.

???? 2.00 - Nourish.

???? 3:30 - Green tea + journal.

???? 5:00 - Light shoot or reel prep.

???? 8:00 - Bath. Moisturize. Unplug.

???? 10.00 - Dinner.

???? 11:00 - Dream sweet, reset.

At the bottom, in smaller letters, a note to herself:

"Make it a rhythm."

And then in different pen and different hand.

"If I vanish, let my rituals remain."

Below it, smudged almost into nothing,

"That's how you'll know I was real."

He didn't move. His breath caught -- like something just brushed the back of his neck.

--

That was it. That was the key.

It wasn't just about her being gone.

It was about her pattern being gone.

The scent hadn't vanished because he used it up.

It had faded because the rhythm had stopped.

Her life wasn't a smell. It was a system.

Movements.

Rituals.

Repeats.

To bring her back -- to bring any of it back -- the flat needed to move like she had. Breathe like she did. Sweat. Exhale. Pulse.

Maybe if I follow it...

He didn't finish the thought.

Just stood there.

Clutching the bottle of water in one hand, the other hovering inches from the list.

He wasn't crying.

But something behind his ribs felt raw. Newly opened.

--

The morning started with breath.

Not because he wanted to -- but because the list said so.

He stepped onto the balcony barefoot, cold tiles pressing into his soles, and unrolled her yoga mat. The light was gentle. Diffused. Like it had agreed not to wake the dust.

He moved slowly.

Stiff.

One breath. One pose.

His shoulders creaked. His spine ached. His palms slid on the mat.

She did this every day, he thought, pausing mid-downward-dog. How?

He shook his head. Tried again. Sank into the stretch, held it, counted to eight.

But even after three rounds of sun

Why isn't it working?

It felt... hollow.

Like he was going through the motions, but nothing remembered her.

He paused, resting his hands on his knees. Looked around.

Still no scent.

Still no warmth.

Still no her.

He reached for the phone -- hers -- and opened the Reels tab in the cloned gallery.

Scrolled.

Paused.

There it was.

A saved reel, captioned:

"Flow + glow ???? soft body, soft music, strong mind."

It was her.

Camera propped at an angle just below the dresser mirror.

Amara in her lavender leggings and ribbed workout bra. Hair in a bun. Bare-faced. Ambient lo-fi playing low in the background.

She moved through the poses like she was melting. Like breath wore skin. Sunlight pooled behind her. Her body curved slow and sure, each motion like punctuation to a sentence only she could write.

He watched the reel twice.

Then three more times.

And that's when it clicked.

She had created a mood -- a ritual. Her breath. Her soundtrack. Her second skin.

This wasn't about the rituals alone.

Amara had lived them.

Worn them.

Sweat through them.

Her body wasn't just part of the performance.

It was the medium. The altar. The canvas.

If he wanted to find her again -- if he wanted to call her back -- he had to step inside that shape.

His gaze flicked toward the wardrobe.

Slowly, almost reverently, he opened it. It was quiet inside. Too quiet -- like a breath held in fabric.

The lavender set sat folded neatly on the middle shelf. Leggings, still faintly creased from wear. The matching ribbed bra, curled at the edges like it had once clung to someone warm.

His hand trembled as he reached for them.

The fabric felt... soft.

But not delicate.

Used.

Worn-in.

Trusted.

He undressed slowly, out of his tattered old grey Tshirt and monochrome tracks -- not out of shame, but ceremony.

Then stepped into her leggings.

The stretch caught him mid-thigh.

Snug.

Almost too tight -- but they held. Wrapped around his hips. Hugged the curve of his ass, the softness of his thighs. Compressed his waist.

He paused.

Breathing through it.

Not because it hurt.

Because it felt like something had clicked into place.

He pulled the bra over his head, carefully. Arms through the loops. Adjusted the band where it sat under his chest.

It pressed against his ribs -- not uncomfortably. Just... intimately.

Like a hand at his sternum.

Like someone whispering, There. That's better.

He caught his reflection in the mirror.

His breath left him in a slow, shallow exhale.

The outline wasn't Amara's.

But it wasn't quite his either.

He leaned in.

His gaze dropped.

There it was -- the one thing the mirror couldn't soften.

Just a faint outline, barely a curve beneath the stretch of the lavender leggings.

His cock, flaccid and small, resting off-center like an afterthought.

Not aroused. Not present. Just... there.

And somehow, that felt worse.

There was no desire.

No thrill.

Just the quiet, alien weight of something that didn't belong in the frame.

It looked out of place -- not because of shame, exactly, but because of mismatch. Like an echo of someone else's body taped over his.

He didn't think.

Just moved.

Fingers slipped under the waistband.

And slowly, he tucked it back -- between his thighs.

A gesture more instinct than idea.

Gentle.

Automatic.

The fabric smoothed over the gap like it was always meant to.

For a second, the outline disappeared.

And something in his chest loosened.

He didn't smile.

But he didn't wince either.

Eyes continued following upwards expectantly.

The outline wasn't Amara's.

Not yet.

But it wasn't quite his either.

No weight in the bra. Just flat skin and the outline of his ribs. A chest that hadn't bloomed. A body that hadn't been asked to soften.

His waist didn't pull inward. No cinch. No suggestion of hourglass.

Just straight lines.

Function.

Unwritten space.

The emptiness stung. Not deeply. But enough to register.

Like being passed over by a softness the world only gave to others.

She was built to be held.

I was built to fold in on myself.

Then -- his eyes shifted.

Turned sideways.

And paused.

His ass.

The curve of it, reflected just right -- full, round, snug inside the lavender fabric.

A little higher than hers.

A little firmer.

Not soft -- held.

Surprise flickered through him.

Followed by something quieter.

Pride.

A low, blooming satisfaction that whispered

You don't have it all, do you, Amara?

He almost laughed.

Didn't. But almost.

Tilted his head -- the same way she used to.

Caught his own face in the mirror again.

This time, with his hair falling just right -- thick, slightly waved, still damp from the light sweat.

Longer than hers.

Healthier.

Shinier.

That smug smile cracked through.

Crooked. Private.

He held the moment like a secret.

And he whispered, not for her, but for the mirror

Maybe I'm not her. But maybe I could be... better.

--

Then grabbed her silk scrunchie -- faded pink, elastic still warm from past mornings -- and twisted his hair into a bun.

High.

Effortless.

He stepped back from the mirror.

Not Amara.

Not Ishaan.

Someone new.

Someone rising.

And for the first time in weeks, he felt... present.

And that presence -- the physical containment of it, the pressure of the bra across his chest, the friction of the leggings against his inner thighs -- stirred something low and hot in his belly.

It wasn't full arousal.

Not lust.

But charge.

A soft, humming static -- like nerves waking up.

Like his body recognizing itself as seen.

--

The scent hadn't returned. Not yet.

But something had.

A closeness.

A thread pulling taut.

He turned, opened Spotify, and searched the playlist from her reel.

lofi soft sunrise.

The notes drifted out slowly -- warm piano, low heartbeat bass, rain sounds in the distance.

He stepped onto the mat.

The fabric of her leggings whispered with every move.

He flowed.

Pose to pose.

Breathed.

Bent.

Held.

And in the downward stretch, sweat beginning to bead at the small of his back.

Maybe she's not returning.

Maybe I am.

He stayed on the mat long after the final pose.

Chest rising. Falling.

Sweat curled at his collarbone. A faint stickiness gathered where the bra pressed against his skin. The waistband of the leggings dampened with warmth.

His body buzzed -- not from exertion, but from alignment.

This time, the yoga hadn't just loosened him.

It had opened something.

He stood and caught his reflection again.

His cheeks were flushed. Lips pink. Hair loose from the tie.

There it was.

The glow.

Faint. Not performative. Not polished.

But familiar.

Like a shadow of one of her stories. One of her captions.

"Post-workout = post-rebirth. Shedding the sleep. Waking the self."

--

He walked into the kitchen still warm from the mat, chest damp under the bra, skin tingling where the waistband pressed.

Her routine said:

"Smoothie. Protein bowl. Multivitamin."

He opened the fridge, searching for ingredients she'd once posted about -- almond milk, chia seeds, bananas, soaked oats, a scoop of protein powder.

Nothing.

Just a dried-out lime, half a jar of pasta sauce, a single bottle of expired kombucha and a few glass bottles of water

He sighed, wiped his palms on a dish towel, then picked up her phone from the counter.

He already knew the passcode -- cracked it days ago while cloning her system. He didn't even need it anymore, not really.

But habit made his thumb hover.

Then he paused.

The screen had already lit up.

Unlocked.

Face ID.

It had recognized him.

He froze.

Staring.

No one else was in the room.

Just him.

But the phone didn't hesitate.

It unlocked again when he tilted it back up.

It thinks I'm her.

The thought was ice and static.

And something warmer underneath.

Something close to hunger.

He didn't question it.

Just smiled.

Maybe I am.

--

He swiped through her apps -- everything was still logged in.

Zomato, Blinkit, BigBasket. Her order histories were all intact.

He opened the grocery list first. Blinkit.

Tapped "Repeat Last Order."

Paused.

There were things he didn't even recognize.

Seedless tamarind paste. Himalayan pink salt. Vegan kefir. Rolled oats, not instant. A brand of almond butter that cost more than his week's breakfast.

Who buys oat milk in glass bottles?

What is maca root powder?

He blinked at it all -- brands he'd never heard of, ingredients he couldn't pronounce, a lifestyle curated to the decimal.

And yet... he didn't delete a single item.

Just hit Checkout.

Used her card -- it was auto-filled.

Biometric confirmation came up.

He lifted the phone, watched the screen blink.

Face ID again.

Success.

Payment approved.

Groceries en route.

He stared at the confirmation screen a moment longer than necessary.

Then, on impulse, he opened her bank app.

Logged in.

No resistance.

He told himself it was for budgeting.

So he could manage the spending.

Make it sustainable.

But that wasn't true.

He just wanted to see.

Her balance loaded in clean sans-serif font.

Savings.

Investments.

Fixed deposits.

Portfolio snapshots.

₹14.2 lakhs.

Plus two SIPs.

Freelance income from brand gigs trickling in weekly.

His lips parted.

He didn't speak.

Didn't think he could.

She had saved more than he'd ever earned. Quietly. Casually. As if softness paid interest

It wasn't even shame that hit him.

It was... jealousy.

Pure and unfiltered.

Like her life had existed on a higher plane. Brighter. Easier. More designed -- even the chaos was aesthetic.

I've been working since I was 22 and all I have is a laptop, a backlogged credit card, and a 1BHK that smells like old tea.

And yet, the world called her soft girl.

Cute.

Lovable.

Follow-worthy.

I fix vulnerabilities in enterprise stacks. I'm ghosted in my own office Slack.

His throat felt dry. His palms, cold.

He tapped the screen off.

Set the phone down.

No wonder her skin looked better. No wonder her smile felt earned.

The world bent toward her like light bends toward water.

He looked around the flat -- sunlight now pooling near the window, catching on the countertop she wiped with lemon oil, on the mirror she'd shot reels in front of.

Everything was intentional.

Alive.

Funded.

She was soft, and the world rewarded her for it.

He exhaled slowly.

No not this, it was not jealousy.

But something sharpening inside him.

Something like

You've been doing everything right, and still... you were forgettable.

--

The doorbell rang twenty-eight minutes later.

He almost dropped the spoon he was holding.

For a moment, panic. He wasn't ready.

Still in the leggings. Bra clinging damp to his chest. Hair twisted into that soft, high bun.

He should've changed.

Covered up.

Thrown on a hoodie. Hidden the leggings. Stepped back into himself.

But something inside him -- some quiet current pulsing under the surface -- whispered

No.

So he didn't.

He stepped lightly to the door, her phone still warm in his palm from the recipe page he'd just closed.

He cracked it open.

Just a careful wedge.

Enough to reach through, not to be seen.

But sunlight spilled in anyway.

And caught him -- full across the cheek, the collarbone, the line of his jaw.

His face, half in shadow, looked almost cherubic in the warm light.

Lashes lowered.

Eyes cautious, wide.

A soft flush still lingering across his skin from the yoga and smoothie.

His head tilted slightly -- not deliberate, just habit now -- the way she used to when she said "Hi love, contactless pls ????."

A few loose strands of hair had slipped from his bun and curled gently around his cheek.

They caught the light.

Framed him.

Made him look, for a moment, effortlessly soft.

Almost delicate.

The delivery boy looked up. Blinked once. Then smiled.

Not just the usual half-bored smirk people gave when they handed over a parcel -- this one flickered with something like... acknowledgment.

Polite.

Unassuming.

Ishaan didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

Just accepted the bag with both hands -- fingers curling around the paper handles like it meant something more than groceries.

And he smiled back.

Not big. Not obvious.

Just a sliver of curve. Small. Intimate.

Not because he was overwhelmed.

But because something cracked.

Is this what it feels like?

To be smiled at...

and meant?

No one had looked at him like that in months. Maybe longer.

Not in his own body.

Not in his own life.

That tiny flicker of warmth -- acknowledgment, respect, presence -- it filled a crack inside him so fast it hurt.

Is this what it's like to be visible?

He held the bag closer.

Not because it was heavy.

But because, for the first time in his life, someone had called him something that didn't sting.

And it didn't matter that it wasn't him they saw.

It mattered that it had been seen.

--

He placed the groceries down on the counter -- each item like a relic, a necessary ingredient in a spell that might bring her back.

Unpacked them with care.

Lined the glass bottles on the shelf exactly the way she had -- labels forward. Almond milk, spirulina, flaxseed, chia.

Opened the fridge. Rearranged it.

Bananas in the middle tray. Blueberries in the side drawer. The oat milk got its own spot, front-facing, cap tightened until it clicked.

He had her post open on the phone -- the one with the smoothie bowl, captioned:

"Post-glow fuel ???? + a lil sunshine."

He followed it exactly.

Frozen banana.

Handful of blueberries.

Scoop of her protein powder.

Almond milk -- not too much.

Chia, flax, spirulina -- just a pinch.

Blended it slow.

The kitchen filled with a soft, earthy sweetness -- banana, almond, something green and floral he couldn't name. He poured it into one of her glass jars, added a few blueberries on top like she had. Even tilted the jar slightly when he placed it on the counter, just like in her photo.

He stared at it.

It looks like hers.

He lifted it.

Tasted.

Cold.

Nutty.

Slightly gritty at the bottom -- she probably used the blender a little longe.

But it wasn't bad.

It was hers.

He placed the empty jar in the sink with a kind of reverence.

Checked the whiteboard again.

> ???? 8:45 - Smoothie. Protein bowl. Multivitamin.

Vitamins.

His breath caught.

He hadn't seen any.

Not on the counter.

Not in the fridge.

Not beside the mirror where she kept the jade roller and eye cream.

He checked again -- top drawer of the vanity. Just mascara, a few loose hair ties, an empty lens case.

Nothing under the sink.

Nothing beside the bed.

The calm started to crack.

He opened the kitchen drawers. All of them.

Shifted the cutlery tray.

Lifted up the spice basket.

Checked behind the tea tins.

Nothing.

He stood in the middle of the flat, heart knocking a little faster.

This wasn't just a step missed.

It was a broken beat.

A skipped measure in the music she'd written into the walls.

He whispered, almost without thinking:

I can't stop now.

It won't work if I stop.

He moved quicker. Rummaged.

Opened her wardrobe again -- not for clothes, but for clues.

Checked the pockets of hoodies.

Unzipped her duffel bag.

Nothing.

Then--The bathroom. Of course.

He yanked open the mirror cabinet -- just toothpaste, micellar water, nail clippers.

But just beside it, over the sink, was a narrow drawer. Shallow. Easy to overlook.

He pulled it open with shaking fingers.

Inside, tucked into the back behind an old sheet mask and a crumpled receipt from Nykaa, was a soft floral pouch.

Faintly worn.

A little dusty.

He unzipped it.

Inside: blister packs. Small labelled strips. Neatly arranged.

Hair. Nails. Skin. Immunity. Collagen. Gut. Calm.

He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Relief hit him so hard it felt like oxygen.

He slumped against the bathroom doorframe, pouch clutched in both hands like it was sacred.

Thank god. Thank god. Thank god.

He took the day's strip.

Unpeeled it slowly.

Held each pill in his palm.

Two white. One pink. One dark green.

He swallowed them dry, one by one, standing there in the bathroom in her leggings and ribbed bra, staring at his reflection in the slightly fogged mirror.

It felt like completing a circuit.

Like closing a loop.

Like exhaling into something ancient and alive.

He stepped out of the bathroom feeling strangely accomplished. Not proud -- not yet -- but steady, like he'd passed through something.

The pills were still settling in his stomach, but he could already feel the faint warmth they promised. He crossed into the living room barefoot, the morning still quiet, her scent just beginning to lift around the corners again. The whiteboard caught his eye as he passed --

10:00 AM - Edits or engagement.

He read the line three times, then glanced at her phone -- already unlocked

Edits.

Engagement.

He wasn't sure what that meant exactly. Did she answer DMs? Like comments? Trim reels? Choose filters?

Probably all of it.

But he didn't want to fake it.

So he did the only thing he could.

He settled onto her couch, cross-legged, back straight but soft -- the way she might've. Her phone fit easily in his hand now, like it had always belonged there. He opened the gallery and started to scroll.

Soft light. Arching spine. Laughing in motion. Crying in stillness.

He tapped on one reel.

Then another.

Paused.

Watched it again.

There she was -- dancing in the hallway, loose shirt, bare feet, hips swaying just enough. That half-smile like she knew the world was watching and still didn't care. The way she flicked her hair and stepped out of frame, like punctuation.

He smiled.

Not big.

But wide enough that it showed in his eyes.

She was so good at this.

He whispered it like a secret. Watched another. And another.

His hand rose to his own hair, tugging a curl loose from the bun. It fell across his cheek the same way hers had in one of the clips.

He reached for the scrunchie she'd kept looped around the lamp and tied it tighter. Neater. Like hers.

One of the reels buffered -- a close-up of her face, tongue pressed to the inside of her cheek, eyes mischievous.

He laughed. A real one.

The kind that felt foreign coming out of his mouth.

Then he whispered, "You were ridiculous," and caught himself using past tense.

Paused.

Looked away.

Then played the reel again.

--

12:00 PM - Read or rest.

The note on the whiteboard was casual -- breezy, even.

But to Ishaan, it felt like instruction. Like a sacred pause written into a song.

So he stood from the couch, exhaled softly, and scanned the shelf near her bedside.

Mostly paperbacks.

Dog-eared. Sun-faded. Pastel covers with raised lettering and worn spines.

Nothing heavy. Nothing academic. Just titles that felt like breath held between fingertips.

He picked one at random.

A romance -- the kind with a whimsical title and a curvy girl mid-laugh on the cover, being spun around by someone's flannel-shirted arms.

He almost put it back.

Not my thing, he thought.

Then

But it was hers.

All this time it never occurred to him maybe she should change out of bra and leggings. He felt comfortable in them

He lay down sideways on the bed, body curled gently, book propped on a pillow that still smelled faintly of green tea and scalp oil.

The first chapter opened in a bakery. The heroine spilled flour. The love interest offered her a napkin. There was tension. Warmth. A shy quip about cinnamon rolls. A hint of past hurt.

He found himself smiling.

Not because it was great writing -- it wasn't.

Not because he believed in love stories -- he didn't.

But because she had held this book.

Because the page he'd just touched was slightly bent, like her thumb had rested there too long.

Because the underlined sentence in pink ink read:

"The first time someone looks at you like you're daylight? Don't flinch. Just let it in."

He paused there.

Closed the book.

Pressed it to his chest.

Let his eyes fall shut.

And for the next twenty minutes, he didn't move.

Didn't scroll.

Didn't fidget.

Didn't think of Slack, or his bank account, or his inbox.

He just lay there. Still.

Like a bookmark in someone else's life.

Like maybe the world would turn the page and he'd still be there, waiting.

--

He wasn't hungry, not exactly. But the next step had already been decided.

Lunch.

She'd posted a reel once -- soft instrumental music, overhead shot of sautéed zucchini and tofu sizzling in olive oil, captioned:

"Fuel not filler. Lunch reset ????????"

He'd bookmarked it on instinct back when he scrolling through her gallery an hour ago.

In his own flat, he rarely cooked. Meal prep was a hassle -- the chopping, the cleanup, the dull silence between microwave beeps. Half the time, he didn't even plate properly. Just leaned over the sink with a paper box and greasy fingers.

Food was fuel. Barely. Most days it was numbness on a spoon.

But here, now, it felt different.

He pulled her phone out, propped it up against the backsplash, and followed each step.

Not expertly. Not efficiently.

But with a kind of reverence.

He washed the vegetables gently. Measured oil by the capful. Even wiped the stove mid-cooking like she had in one of her sped-up reels.

Zucchini. Quinoa. Chickpeas from the fridge.

Sesame dressing.

A squeeze of lemon.

It wasn't hard -- not really. And he didn't question why it suddenly felt so doable.

Maybe because she had already done it.

Maybe because it was part of her day, and now, part of his.

Maybe because following made it easier than choosing.

He sat at the kitchen table when it was done. No screen. No distraction. Just the plate, the light, the soft hiss of the window fan.

The first bite surprised him.

Not with taste -- it was mild, almost underwhelming -- but with clarity.

The warmth of it. The texture. The crunch and chew in rhythm. The absence of grease. The quiet way it filled him without dragging him down.

By the third bite, he felt good.

By the fifth, he felt clean.

He didn't felt full at all -- just enough.

Enough to feel like she would've.

Enough to move to the next rhythm.

For the first time in years, he felt full without being heavy.

Satisfied without being sedated.

So this is what they mean, he thought.

When they say food is love.

Or maybe just:

This is how she felt. And now I do too.

--

3:30 PM - Green tea + journal.

The whiteboard said it plainly, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

No drama. No metaphor.

Just: tea, and words.

The kettle clicked once, then hissed.

Steam lifted like breath from a body just beginning to wake.

He found the exact green tea she'd posted about once -- a flat-lay photo with a hand in the frame and a caption that read:

"Bitter clarity. Sweet afterthought."

He remembered laughing at that line the first time.

Now, it made sense.

The tea was pale. A little grassy. Not good, not bad -- just clean.

Like drinking light.

He carried it carefully to the balcony.

Set it down beside her journal.

It wasn't a fancy one -- no quotes on the cover, no aesthetic ribbon.

Just matte black with frayed corners and a tiny heart drawn in the back with gel pen.

He'd seen scans of its pages in the phone's backup.

But holding it was different.

Heavy with oil and salt from her fingers.

Slightly warped from moisture.

It was hers.

The inside of her skull, turned sideways.

He flipped past old pages she'd already written -- swirling loops of half-thoughts, crossed-out sentences, lipstick stains, teardrop smudges -- and turned to a fresh one.

The pen lay inside it like a secret.

He picked it up.

Then paused.

What do you even write when the life isn't yours?

He looked around -- the soft cushion still shaped by her, the tea cooling gently in her ceramic mug, the breeze tugging his hair the way it probably tugged hers.

He didn't need to think.

He just... began.

Not as himself.

Not really.

Not on purpose.

Just:

"Woke up heavy. Dreamed I was dripping honey, but no one noticed. Stuck between skin and signal again."

"My body feels like it's watching me. Waiting to bloom or break."

"Sometimes I don't want to be loved. I want to be tasted, then remembered."

He blinked.

His own handwriting looked different.

Rounder.

Looser.

He signed the page without realizing.

--A

A small silence settled over the flat after that.

Not empty.

Not lonely.

Just quiet, like the hour had been acknowledged.

Like she'd returned for a minute, and sat beside him.

--

5:00 PM - Light shoot or reel prep.

The light had shifted by then -- longer shadows, golden spill across the floor, the kind of light she always used in her reels.

He remembered one caption clearly:

"5 PM glow hits different. Like being kissed by time."

He had no idea what to do here.

Not that he will ever post a reel like this.

But the list said what it said.

So he picked up her phone, and opened the front camera.

The screen flickered.

His reflection stared back -- lips a little chapped, cheeks flushed from the tea, hair starting to escape the bun.

Still in her lavender workout set. Refusing to change.

Still wearing the soft cling of sweat from yoga that morning.

Still barefoot, legs folded under him on the couch.

He tilted his head slightly, instinctively.

The way she used to.

Tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.

And smiled -- hesitant, then fuller.

Then clicked.

The shutter sound made him flinch a little.

Not from shame -- from recognition.

There he was.

Not her. Not him. Something halfway.

His collarbone caught the light like hers did in one of her mirror shots.

His shoulder sloped just so.

The same way it did in that reel from a month ago.

But it wasn't quite mimicry anymore.

It was comfort.

This didn't feel like pretending.

It felt like coming up for air.

--

He whispered to the empty room, almost like a confession, "This isn't easy."

Then glanced down at the photo again.

And smiled.

Still in her clothes.

Still on her couch.

Still inside her life.

And for a moment, it felt exactly right.

--

8:00 PM - Bath. Moisturize. Unplug.

The water ran slow and hot.

Steam thickened the air like breath you could hold.

The small bathroom mirror fogged at the edges, catching flashes of his bare shoulders as he undressed -- careful, almost reverent, like he was peeling off a layer of himself.

The lavender set came off damp with memory. He folded it, placed it on the closed lid of the toilet.

No rush. No shame. Just motion.

The bath was simple. No bubbles, no salts. Just warmth. Just quiet.

But her products lined the shelf -- three kinds of body wash, each smelling faintly like flowers that only bloom when no one's watching.

He chose the one she'd used in a reel once -- a milky gel with the caption:

"Skin like memory foam ????"

He poured a small pool of it into his palm.

Lathered slow.

Neck, shoulders, inner arms.

His skin sighed beneath his fingers, drank it in.

The scent lifted -- soft vanilla, hints of rosewater, something citrus buried deep.

It clung to him.

Delicate. Clean. Feminine without apology.

He touched his chest again, this time not with shame, but softness.

This is what it means, he thought.

To care for a body like it matters.

Afterward, wrapped in her cream-colored robe -- slightly oversized, ridiculously soft -- he stood in front of the mirror.

His skin glowed.

Not from makeup. Not from sweat.

From care.

He took the moisturizer she used -- the one with the gold cap -- and applied it in small, circular motions. Cheeks. Neck. Collarbone. Down the arms.

It was slow.

Almost hypnotic.

A ritual meant for no one. Meant for her. Meant for whoever wore this skin now.

His palms glided over his forearms. Over his stomach. Up across his chest.

The lotion sank in like it had always known him.

For the first time in days, he didn't feel like a placeholder.

He felt placed. Present.

Human.

Still damp and swaddled in the robe, he padded barefoot to the kitchen.

The fridge was newly stocked from the earlier delivery.

He picked one of her saved recipes -- a warm grain bowl with roasted sweet potato, quinoa, feta, and tahini drizzle.

It sounded complicated. It wasn't.

She'd already written the instructions in her Notes app.

All he had to do was follow.

He moved like someone cooking for a guest.

Not hurried. Not sloppy.

He plated it carefully. Sprinkled the pumpkin seeds at the end like she had.

He took the bowl to the couch. Turned on the TV.

Scrolled through her Netflix profile -- Amara ???? -- and picked up where she'd left off in Friends, Season 5, Episode 3.

The laugh track filled the room.

He didn't laugh. But he smiled.

He took a bite.

Then another.

The food was warm. The couch was soft. The robe clung gently to his lotioned skin.

For a second -- no longer than a breath -- he felt... full.

Still.

Held.

Is this happiness? he wondered.

Or just the absence of ache?

Either way, it was enough.

--

10:00 PM - Dream sweet, reset.

The dishes were rinsed.

The lights turned low.

The TV dimmed to its silent home screen glow.

He padded to the bedroom in the same robe, still warm from his skin, still humming faintly with the scent of her moisturizer.

He didn't check the time.

He didn't open his phone.

He didn't scroll.

He just lay down.

Not on his side, not curled in.

Flat. Open.

Like someone waiting to be poured into.

The sheets, now freshly washed, had lost that empty cotton smell -- and something about the room felt... different.

Subtle.

Not sweet, not sharp.

But there.

He inhaled, slowly.

Yes.

That same note.

That salt and skin.

That barely-there perfume of her.

But faint. Like multiple notes behind.

He didn't move.

He didn't dare.

But it stirred something inside him -- low and soft and rising.

His hips twitched gently.

His hand drifted -- then stopped.

No, he whispered.

It's not in the rhythm.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and thin.

His thighs pressed together.

He swallowed hard.

Let it pass.

Let it linger.

Let it be enough.

Sleep didn't come like a thief.

It came like an old friend.

And took him whole.

Chapter 4 - What Stays

The First Ritual

It didn't happen all at once.

Not the scent. Not the softness. Not the shift.

The first few mornings were hollow -- air too clean, sheets too dry, the silence too obedient. He moved through her flat like a guest who'd overstayed, careful not to disturb whatever memory might still be lingering.

But by the fourth day, the dust had stopped returning.

By the sixth, the corners of the room began to feel a little less sharp.

And by the seventh, the air changed.

Not fully.

But enough to notice.

Enough to make him pause by the bed and breathe deeper -- just in case. Enough to make him tilt the mug she once held, bring it to his lips, and think: there you are.

The scent was back.

Not imagined. Not conjured.

Present.

It lived now in the folds of the robe -- just under the collarbone -- and in the corners of the pillowcase he hadn't washed since last Thursday. It hovered faintly in the bathroom steam, in the soft drag of her towel against his skin.

Sometimes it hit him suddenly, like walking through a ghost.

A note of skin.

Salt.

The sharp-sweet trace of the serum she used under her eyes.

It made his chest ache. Not in grief. In recognition.

She had lived here.

And maybe -- maybe -- some part of her still did.

--

Mornings started before the sun did now.

He didn't need an alarm.

The whiteboard knew the way.

7:30 -- Wake. Water. Breathe. Stretch.

8:00 -- Sun salutations.

8:45 -- Smoothie. Multivitamin. Journal.

He didn't follow the list like it was law.

He followed it like it was prayer.

The yoga sets had become part of the ritual too. Not just the movement -- the choice. Amara had at least six -- folded neatly by color, fabric, mood.

Lavender. Sage. Slate grey. Deep red. Petal pink. One near-white that looked silver in certain light.

He loved how his hand hovered each morning, undecided.

Like picking a spell. A second skin.

Today, it was the sage set -- calm, rich, almost mossy against the skin.

The leggings hugged him high and close, lifting his ass with gentle confidence.

The matching bra, soft-ribbed, framed his chest without pushing or pulling. Just... holding.

His chest had started feeling different lately.

More aware.

More alive.

Each stretch pulled a little across the fabric -- not tight, but snug enough that he felt every motion, every breath.

Even the way the bra rubbed gently under his pectorals left a soft trail of heat behind.

A faint ache when he pressed into it.

Not pain. Not arousal.

Just sensation.

And somehow, that made it sacred.

Each color brought something out in him.

The lavender made him feel soft. Ethereal.

The grey: grounded. Clean.

The pink? Almost playful. A little smug -- the one that hugged his ass the tightest, made him smirk in the mirror and think, Yeah, you see it too.

He'd caught his reflection once during downward dog -- just a flash of curve, round and high and held in compression.

And for a moment, he'd flushed -- not with shame, but satisfaction.

Each set showed him a different shape of himself.

Each one... appreciated him.

He moved through his poses now with quiet fluency -- not perfect, but devoted. Downward dog. Half split. Plank. Fold.

His thighs ached. Sweat beaded under his bra, pooling lightly between his ribs. Every twist lit his chest up in small, tingling waves -- a kind of awareness that hadn't existed before.

It wasn't sexual.

It wasn't performative.

It was just his body, finally paying attention to itself.

He tugged on the oversized hoodie -- the beige one with thumb holes she wore on "reset" days -- and let it swallow the bra and the warmth underneath.

The hoodie smelled like her again now. Not fully. But enough.

Beneath it, he wore the matching sage-green panties -- soft, high-cut, seamless at the edges. He had tucked himself quickly, almost automatically, the way one might smooth a wrinkle from a shirt. That part of him -- the appendage -- still felt like a leftover. Something not written in her shape. Not in rhythm.

The panties held everything gently in place. Smoothed it down. Made the outline neater. Easier to forget.

He liked how his legs looked now -- smooth, pale, touchable. The way the light slid over them made him feel delicate. Cared for. A body meant to be seen in stillness.

The fabric moved with him as he padded around the kitchen, snug and quiet beneath the hoodie's hem.

The smoothie turned out smoother today -- banana, oats, spirulina. He'd finally figured out the blender setting she used.

The multivitamin pack slid down easily with a sip of almond milk.

Her mug. Her spoon. Her ritual.

And now... his, too.

When her original stash had run low, he'd restocked.

Same brands. Same labels.

But he'd added a few extras. Quietly. On impulse.

Capsules advertised with glossy pink lettering and phrases like "Glow from the inside," "Curves & clarity," and "Support your soft." Some promised collagen support. Others hinted at hormone balance.

He didn't research too hard.

Didn't ask questions.

He just hoped.

Maybe--if he softened in the right places, if his skin held light the way hers had, if the glow came from somewhere deeper--maybe then the scent would return fully.

Not just in memory.

But in presence.

The missing piece.

That final note.

--

It wasn't just the mornings inside the flat that had changed. Something had shifted in the way he opened the door now. It used to be quick -- a crack wide enough for a hand to reach, eyes averted, hoodie drawn close. Just enough to take the bag, nod, and shut the world out again.

But lately... it lingered.

Just a second longer.

Sometimes two.

He didn't know exactly when it started. Maybe It started the morning he wore the pink set.

Not slate or lavender-- this one was deep red, soft but smug, just a touch of stretch-gloss in the fabric like it knew what it was doing. The leggings were higher-waisted than the rest. Compressive in that right way. They shaped his ass like a compliment -- snug, round, lifted.

He saw it in the mirror and paused.

Turned.

Looked again.

There it was.

That perfect curve.

Held. Offered. Balanced like a sentence waiting for the right reader. He pulled on the light pink hoodie -- oversized, soft, familiar, with Barbie written across. But this time, it bunched.

The hem caught high on his back as he moved, folding just above his hips. It didn't hide anything. If anything, it framed the curve. Drew the eye.

He didn't fix it.

Didn't tug it down.

Just moved through the day like that.

But the mirror caught him again, sideways this time.

The hoodie.

The pink. The red.

The way his ass held its shape like punctuation.

He looked away.

Smiled without meaning to.

--

The knock came five minutes later.

Groceries.

He opened the door like always. Hoodie sleeves draped past his wrists, tea mug still warm in his palm.

But this time -- this time -- the delivery guy's eyes did a double take.

Started at his face.

Dropped.

Paused.

The shift was quick. Too quick. But he saw it.

That flicker of surprise.

Then interest.

Then the soft, nervous smile that people give when they're not sure why they're staring -- just that they don't want to stop. "thanks, didi." Voice a little unsteady. Eyes carefully not looking anymore.

And that -- that word -- landed in Ishaan's chest like a benediction.

Didi.

Not sir. Not bhaiyya.

Didi.

He closed the door slowly, holding the smile like it might spill.

For the first time, the world had misnamed him -- and it felt right.--He told himself it didn't matter. He wasn't doing this for them.

Not for anyone.

But the next morning, he picked the pink set.

Same kind of oversized hoodie.

Same subtle lift at the back.

Same movement.

And that soft, flustered smile came again -- different boy, same stumble. Same little thrill tucked low in his belly after the door closed.

He didn't know what it meant. Didn't even know what it was inside him that kept smiling like that.

It wasn't flirtation.

It wasn't need.

It was something quieter.

Almost mischievous.

A ripple of delight every time a delivery boy lingered a second too long -- eyes flickering, uncertain, curious. When one said ma'am like it was obvious, another behan like a shared secret, a third didi like a blessing -- he wanted to press each word to his chest and let it soak in. Let them call him wrong. It felt more right than anything he'd ever been.

--

The pink set stayed on longer that day.

He didn't change out of it after breakfast.

Didn't switch to lounge shorts.

Didn't need to.

The fabric clung just right -- a little sticky now with leftover sweat, a little too tight in the best way.

He poured himself tea. Let the hoodie fall open a bit at the collar.

Tucked his legs under him on the couch.

And picked up her journal.

--

He didn't flip to the back anymore.

Not hunting for fragments or last words.

He started where she started.

Chronological. Faithful.

Like walking beside her in real time.

Soon the journal had become his night ritual. He read it curled on her side of the bed, robe loose, legs tucked beneath him, her moisturizer still warm on his chest.

Some nights, he only made it a few pages before closing it.

Too much joy, too fast.

She'd lived so brightly. So fully.

It overwhelmed him.

Other nights, he read for hours -- not skimming, not scanning. Reading every word. Slowly. Faithfully. Like prayer.

--

"He looked at me like I was a spell and he'd forgotten how to speak. I want to live in that look."

"Late-night walk with Manan -- he kept stealing glances at my thighs. I pretended not to notice. I loved it."

"I said yes to someone I barely knew. We kissed in the elevator. It felt like momentum. I love momentum."

Her life moved like a current -- desire braided into it like light in water. She didn't pause for shame. She let herself be wanted -- and she wanted back.

--

With each entry, his own breath shortened. Not just from jealousy or awe. From recognition.

There was a rhythm in her wanting -- not wild, but intentional. She didn't fall into it. She followed it. Crafted it.

Ishaan shifted in the bed. His thighs squeezed together.

It had been over a month now.

A full cycle.

Since he'd started following her routines.

Since he'd eaten what she ate.

Moved how she moved.

Bathed, breathed, slept, stretched... like her.

And through all of it -- not once had he touched himself.

Not truly. Not fully.

He thought that would bring the scent back faster.

That if he stayed pure, stayed still, stayed devoted, the final note would return.

But tonight, even with the robe tied loosely around his waist and her journal open in his lap... His body was starving.

--

He didn't come back to the journal until later one night.

Dinner had been light -- her saved recipe for a roasted lentil salad with tahini drizzle. He'd plated it slowly, reverently, like it mattered how it looked.

Afterward, he rinsed the dishes. Dried the counter. Dimmed the lights.

His skin still tingled faintly from the bath. The moisturizer -- that rose-slick lotion with the gold cap -- had warmed into his chest, leaving it flushed and hypersensitive under the fabric. Every time the robe brushed against him, it sparked a shiver. Not painful. Just alert. Alive.

He hadn't worn the bra afterward.

Just panties. Soft, high-waisted, the dusky rose ones with the scalloped edge.

Not for aesthetics.

For control.

The pressure helped -- held him in. Stopped his body from surging too far forward, too fast.

He sat on the floor for a while, wrapped in the robe, waiting for the ache to pass. It didn't. At some point, he got up. Moved slowly. Aimlessly.

Looking for distraction. Something to clean. Something to fix. He opened the lower dresser drawer in the corner -- the one he hadn't touched yet. It stuck at first. Then slid open with a tired sigh.

Inside: a small blush-colored box, barely bigger than a shoebox, tucked beneath a folded nightgown and a pack of lens wipes.

Pulled it out carefully. Set it on the bed. Opened the lid.

Inside: velvet lining. Satin drawstrings. Wires tucked carefully beside silicone. A slim, pale-pink vibe. A heart-shaped bullet in a rose gold case. Travel-sized lube. A branded leaflet folded and saved. Everything arranged like sacred objects.

His breath caught.

This wasn't indulgence.

It was design.

Pleasure, organized.

Prepared for.

Cared for.

She hadn't waited for someone else to give her permission.

She gave it to herself.

He touched one of the pouches gently. It still smelled like her fingers -- faint oil and soap, some note of serum, faint and clean.

He didn't take anything out. Just stared. Then closed the box. Held it for a moment.

And whispered, "Of course."

--

That was when he picked up the journal again. The final entry he'd marked earlier.

"It's not about being desired. It's about what I do with it."

Something cracked in him. Not painfully. Not loud. Just... a shift.

An understanding.

She didn't just accept her desires.

She designed around them.

She folded sex into her softness like honey into warm milk -- gentle, nourishing, thick with sweetness. Not indulgence. Not shame.

Care.

He looked down at himself -- thighs pressed tight under the robe, chest still tingling where the lotion hadn't fully dried, panties clinging slightly with heat.

The warmth inside him had been building all day.

Low and full and present.

So she did get release,

All the time.

Not to escape her body.

To live deeper inside it.

Maybe that was the missing note. The part of the scent that wouldn't come back until he let go. Until he made space for pleasure, the way she had.

Not as accident.

Not as breakdown.

As ritual.

Maybe this is part of it too,

Maybe rhythm doesn't mean restraint. It means return.

He didn't go back to the box that night. Not fully.

Just closed the lid. Set it gently back into the drawer. Slid it shut like a secret.

But the next day -- after yoga, after tea, after journaling, after completing the rhythm -- he found himself standing in front of that drawer again.

The robe hung open at the collar, chest still flushed from the heat of the shower, the faintest tack of sweat blooming just beneath the bra band.

His body felt... unsettled. Not frantic. Not desperate.

Just ready.

Hungry in a new, patient way.

Like something blooming under skin.

He opened the drawer. Pulled the box out again. Set it down on the freshly wiped bedspread.

Opened it slowly.

This time, he didn't just look.

He touched.

The first toy was small -- smooth, silicone, pastel pink with a curved end and a single button at the base. He turned it over in his hand, studied the slope of it. The design was clean, almost innocent. The kind of thing that could sit on a bedside table without shame.

He pressed the button once.

A soft hum.

Quiet. Confident. Alive.

He turned it off quickly. Not out of fear -- out of anticipation.

Let it rest beside him.

The second was longer. Pale lavender, sleek and elegant. A slim shaft with a flared base.

A logo in silver.

Weightier than he expected.

He held it like something fragile. Measured the length against his forearm. Pressed the tip to his palm, then his wrist, just to feel the temperature.

It was cool. Smooth. His breath hitched. Not from shock. From knowing. This had been inside her.

Maybe here.

Maybe on this very bed.

Maybe right before she made that journal entry about the glow after stillness.

He swallowed hard.

Chest tightened.

Heat surged low, fast, bright.

The bullet was next. Rose gold. Tiny. Gorgeous.

It looked like an accessory. Like something you'd find tucked beside earrings and lipstick.

He turned it on.

The vibration was sharper -- focused, clean, like a whispered yes pressed to the edge of a nerve.

His thighs tensed.

His jaw tightened.

He turned it off.

Fast.

He sat on the bed in silence. The toys laid out beside him like instruments waiting for a conductor. His body humming louder now -- not with panic. With possibility.

What if this wasn't trespassing?

What if it was inheritance?

What if the only way to fully step into her rhythm wasn't just breath, food, skin -- but release?

Intentional. Designed. Sacred.

She hadn't denied herself.

She had chosen when. How. With what.

His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the lavender toy again.

Measured the curve against the back of his thigh.

Not yet.

Not now.

But his body leaned forward, as if it knew.

As if it wanted.

He arranged them gently back into the box, slower this time, memorizing each shape as he laid it down. Fingers brushing over silicone like fabric. Mind tracing future pathways.

The robe had fallen lower on his shoulders now. His bra felt tight. His chest still ached from the shower -- from touch that wasn't even erotic, just careful.

And yet, the ache had shifted.

Lower.

Hotter.

He stood from the bed, chest rising and falling with effort.

He didn't reach between his legs.

Didn't pull anything down.

But he felt it -- the press of himself under the panties, the heat trapped in the lace.

Still tucked.

Still aching.

Still... waiting.

She chose when. She gave herself permission.

Maybe I can too.

He picked up the smallest one first. The tame-looking toy. Soft pink, curved like a question mark -- silicone so smooth it almost felt like skin that had forgotten tension.

There was a single button at the base. He held it between his fingers for a long time.

Watching.

Waiting.

It didn't scare him.

Not anymore.

It looked like something designed for comfort, not chaos. Something welcomed -- not forced.

He pressed the button once.

A hum bloomed against his palm.

Quiet. Controlled. Almost apologetic. He smiled. Of course she'd start with this one. He laid back against the pillows, robe open and pooling around his hips like liquid light.

The panties stayed on -- for now.

He wanted to feel the vibration through the fabric first.

Through the boundary.

To tease it. To ask permission.

He brought the toy gently between his legs, nestled it against the curve of himself, just above the tucked heat of his cock.

A sharp inhale.

Not overwhelming.

Just... correct.

The buzz slid through the lace, vibrating gently against the place where tension had lived for weeks -- low belly, hips, thighs. It wasn't even direct, and still it made his legs twitch.

He let out a soft, breathy exhale. Tilted the toy slightly. The hum moved deeper -- like it was searching for the place where want had gone to sleep. And found it.

He arched slightly -- not in performance, just in instinct. Pressed his head back into the pillow, jaw slack.

The vibration wasn't even intense -- it was steady, consistent, like the inhale at the top of a yoga pose that stretches your lungs open.

The toy pulsed between his legs, snug under the lavender panties -- angled just right, cradled by the pressure of fabric and breath.

His chest rose and fell against the inside of the robe, satin whispering with every inhale. The bra offered no padding, just a soft containment -- a fabric boundary that made every sensation feel sharper.

The moisturizer was still doing its work beneath it all -- his nipples aching, hyperaware beneath the bra, not swollen, but lit up. Like nerves exposed. Like they were listening.

One hand held the toy steady, rocking just slightly. The other drifted upward -- slowly -- until fingertips grazed the thin fabric over his chest.

He gasped.

That single touch across his nipple, even through the bra, made his hips jolt. Not hard. Not fast. But deep.

A wave of heat rolled through him -- not hunger, not even arousal in the old sense, but need. And the craving -- the one he'd been trying to deny, shrink, meditate out of existence -- finally unfurled.

He turned the toy up one level. The vibration deepened. He whimpered softly -- a sound that didn't feel like it came from his throat, but from somewhere lower.

Not loud. Not shameful.

Just real.

He moved the toy now, just slightly. Circled it. Let it tease the edge of his tucked shape, the outline of what had once been a source of shame now softened by rhythm, fabric, time.

It felt like he was pressing into himself -- not for relief, but for recognition.

His chest arched again, nipples taut under his fingers, aching for pressure.

He gave it.

Rolled his thumb across one, slow and deliberate.

A tremor began in his thighs. Small at first. Then larger.

And then everything started rising at once -- hips, chest, breath, heat -- like the scent of her skin returning in full, like a door finally opening after weeks of standing outside.

He held the toy firmly now.

Not rushing.

Not thrusting.

Just there, steady, exactly where it needed to be.

And when the wave came -- when the orgasm finally hit -- it wasn't violent. It was quiet.

A slow, molten unraveling from deep inside him.

His legs shook. His breath stuttered. His hand clutched at the sheets like they might anchor him to earth.

It rolled through him in pulses -- not one high, but a whole landscape.

Soft.

Surrendered.

Complete.

--

Afterward, he didn't move for a long time. The toy hummed quietly in his loosened grip, then faded to silence. He let it rest beside him. Let the scent of his own sweat, and lotion, and lavender lingerie fill the room.

But underneath it all...

He smelled it.

Her.

Fully. Finally. Entirely.

The missing note had returned.

And so had he.

She didn't mark the day it happened. There was no announcement. No mirror epiphany. No single sentence underlined twice in the journal. Just a morning where he didn't wake up. She did. And she didn't look back.

--

Eyes wide open. Air cool against her skin, but inside -- warm. Alive.

It was the scent.

It was here.

Back.

Not a trace, not a memory. Not a ghost caught in cotton.

Her scent. Full-bodied. Dimensional. Tangible.

A precise mixture of rose oil, skin salt, warmth, and something else -- that subtle thing she'd been chasing for weeks.

It pulsed in the sheets. Lingered on her wrist. Bloomed from her chest like it was being exhaled from within.

She lay still and breathed it in. And when her lips parted, the name that rose wasn't borrowed anymore.

It was Amara.

--

There was a jump in her step. Almost electric.

Her body moved with a new fluidity -- hips softer, chest lighter, thighs still aching from the night before but in that delicious way that made her want to ache more.

Even the smoothie tasted better.

Brighter. Creamier. Like her mouth had finally remembered how to enjoy it.

She caught her reflection mid-sip -- hoodie slipping off one shoulder, skin glowing, her expression loose and blooming.

It wasn't surprise. It wasn't curiosity.

It was recognition.

--

And from that day on, pleasure had a place in her rhythm.

It wasn't indulgence.

It wasn't rebellion.

It was ritual.

Not written on the whiteboard -- but present. Expected. Sacred. As essential as lemon water and pranayama.

She called it stillness.

She called it return.

--

Some nights, she reached for the small pink toy -- the gentle one, shaped like a question, designed like a secret.

Other nights, she used the lavender one -- thicker, steadier, almost meditative in its pressure.

The robe would fall open around her hips.

The panties stayed on at first -- always at first -- because she loved the tease. The slow buzz through lace. The way fabric blurred the line between discipline and surrender.

Her body was softer now. More responsive.

Her chest especially -- her nipples aching under even the slightest glide of oil, the memory of touch.

And when she came -- and she did, now, regularly -- it wasn't frantic.

It was full.

Drawn out.

A slow flood that left her breathless and glowing.

The scent afterward was different.

Thicker. Deeper. Entirely hers.

--

And the toys... They changed, too.

One night, after a particularly long release, she found herself scrolling.

Not idly.

Not mindlessly.

Curiously.

Hungrily.

She ordered bigger ones. Bolder ones.

Still elegant -- still soft.

But now she wanted more depth, not just pleasure.

A pale blue wand. A curved dual-ended piece in crushed rose velvet.

A weighted plug. A bullet with a remote.

A harness she wasn't quite ready for but couldn't stop thinking about.

Each item felt like a version of herself she hadn't met yet.

--

When the first new one arrived, she opened the package like it was skincare.

Ran her fingers along the silicone.

Held it to her collarbone to feel how it pulsed against her heartbeat.

She used it the next night.

Candle lit.

Body oiled.

Journal open on the bedside table.

She came hard. Then soft. Then slow.

Twice.

Maybe three times.

She lost count.

And afterward, she smiled in the dark and whispered, "Of course. This is part of it too."

--

In her journal the next morning, she wrote, after several weeks.

"I don't crave control anymore. I crave depth.

There's more of me than I was ever allowed to imagine."

--

Chapter 5 - What Cracks

Mirror Doesn't Lie

"The mirror doesn't lie. Not when it's finally allowed to show the truth."

The scent was back. Not imagined. Not conjured.

Restored. Reclaimed. Real.

It clung to her like memory and heat -- soft rose, serum, sleep-warm skin. It wasn't Amara's anymore. It had never really been Amara's. It had always been hers, just buried beneath silence and static.

Now, it rose with every movement. From the towel draped over the chair, the collar of her robe, the inner hem of her dress. Not a costume.

A consequence.

Of living as she was always meant to.

--

The mirror caught her in profile -- full figure, knees slightly bent, light hitting the edge of her cheekbone and the soft spill of her hair.

The dress was butter yellow -- soft cotton, sun-warmed and tender. One of Amara's. It clung gently to the waist before blooming out around his thighs, light as breath. Cap sleeves grazed his shoulders, and the neckline dipped just enough to feel like a memory softened by time.

But when she looked at it now, it didn't feel like someone else's life.

It felt like it had been hers all along, waiting in the back of the wardrobe for her body to remember itself.

--

The bra underneath -- pale lilac, ribbed cotton -- pressed gently against her chest. No padding, no lift. Just... containment. A quiet second skin beneath the butter-yellow dress, like a breath held in fabric.

There was more there now. Just enough that the fabric made sense. And even if there hadn't been? She would have worn it anyway. Because it wasn't about having to earn softness. It was about finally returning to it.

--

She turned slowly in the mirror.

The skirt swayed. Her thighs caught the light. Her ass -- lifted, curved, full -- filled the dress like it had been made for her.

Better than Amara's. She'd noticed that before -- with surprise, with pride. But today, there was no comparison in it.

Because I was never her shadow,

I was always the real thing. Just waiting to come into focus.

Her waist dipped in gently, clean and soft. Her belly didn't push or puff. It curved the way it was meant to -- like a breath drawn inward, waiting to be touched and held. She placed a hand on her side. Let her fingers rest there. Let herself feel it.

Not transformation.

Remembrance.

This isn't a version of me. This is me.

Not imagined.

Not borrowed.

Not new.

Just undisguised.

She stepped closer to the mirror. Looked into her own eyes. And smiled.

Not in performance.

Not for approval.

Because she recognized herself.

And she had always been there.

--

The scent moved with her as she walked across the room -- through the hem of the dress, the softness behind her knees, the heat at her neck.

It smelled like truth.

She set her phone on the dresser, hit record. Walked slowly past the mirror -- shoulder soft, gaze turned, a half-laugh playing at her lips. Sixteen seconds of just... being.

No arch.

No exaggeration.

No imitation.

Just Amara.

She watched it back.

Once.

Then again.

No disconnect. No doubt.

There she is.

Not the girl I wanted to be.

The girl I always was. Finally visible.

She never posted any of it. Never planned to. It wasn't content. It wasn't proof.

Just part of the ritual now -- like stretching, or moisturizing.

A quiet practice of returning to herself.

--

The scent drifted upward again. Steady. Solid. True.

She was about to pick up her journal when the knock came. The knock wasn't rushed. Not frantic.

Just firm. Repeated. Official.

Her breath caught -- not in fear. In... awareness. Something had shifted in the air.

She glanced at her reflection. The dress clung just right. Her mouth still shone. The room held her scent like a secret -- warm, recent, unmistakably hers.

"You're her," she whispered.

Not hiding. Not performing. Just... answering the door.

But when she turned back to the mirror, it didn't agree. Didn't argue either.

It just paused -- as if it, too, was waiting to see what she'd become.

Just... watching.

For the first time in days, her own gaze didn't settle.

She opened it.

Two men stood there. Plainclothes, not uniforms. One older, lean and stiff in the shoulders; the other younger, with sweat pooling at the collar of his shirt. Both held notebooks. One already had a pen poised. "Ma'am?"

A pause. The word still sent a tingle through her. Not because it surprised her. But because it fit. "Yes?"

The younger one cleared his throat. Tried not to look at her bare knees. "We're with Pune City Crime Branch. Just a routine inquiry."

"Oh?" she asked, cocking her head just slightly. Gentle. Curious.

The older one stepped in. "A man went missing a few weeks ago. Ishaan Sharma. Lived alone in Bavdhan. Last place he was seen... was outside this building." He pulled out a photo -- printed, grainy, probably from some CCTV still.

Amara stared for just half a second too long. Not because she recognized the photo. Because she didn't. Not fully.

Just a figure that felt faintly familiar -- the slouch, the hoodie, that bruised sort of stillness. Someone she might've passed on the street. Or shared an elevator with once.

A face faded by time and disuse.

That's not me.

That's what I looked like when I was missing too.

She smiled -- not too wide. Just soft enough. "No, I'm sorry," she said. "Don't think I've seen him."

--

The older cop tilted his head. The younger scribbled something down.

"You live alone here?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Over a year," she said smoothly. "Work from home. Wellness content creation. Slow living, you know?"

She gave a little shrug, like it was obvious. Like anyone could scroll her page and see for themselves. The younger cop was trying to do just that on his phone -- quietly, just out of sight. She let him.

"Mind if we ask your name?"

"Amara."

"Surname?"

"Just Amara," she smiled. "Online presence and all."

There was a pause. The older one didn't quite frown. But something tightened.

"You haven't seen anyone unusual? Hanging around? Coming in and out?"

"Just my nice and pleasant delivery guys." She let that hang for a second.

The younger one smirked without meaning to. She caught it and turned her attention to him -- gaze direct, smile a notch warmer.

But inside, something buzzed. Off-rhythm. Like a skipped beat in a familiar song.

He looked away. Scribbled.

She offered gently, "IDs...? if you want to verify." She stepped aside, gestured faintly toward the entryway.

Neither moved. But the younger one nodded.

"We might take your number. In case anything comes up."

"Of course." She gave it. Calm. Confident. Slow.

The older one handed her a card. His eyes lingered, not on her body -- but like he was trying to place something.

"Thanks for your time."

"Hope he's found safe," she said, sweetly.

They left. She closed the door. Clicked the latch softly. And exhaled. Not in fear. But something shifted.

The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was... tilted. Uncertain.

She stood still in the middle of the room.

The dress clung just a little to the back of her thighs. Her scent still hung in the air -- but it felt thinner now. Like it had been disturbed. Shuffled out of step.

The mirror caught her again, just in the corner of her eye.

And for a second -- barely a second -- she wasn't sure if it was still her.

Like something had slipped through it.

They didn't know.

But they almost did.

She touched the side of her face, traced her jawline. She looked right. Felt right.

But something inside her trembled. Only for a moment. Then she walked, slowly, back to the mirror.

"You're Amara," she whispered.

But the mirror didn't smile back.

You've always been Amara.

But the rhythm stuttered. Just once. Just enough for the scent to feel one breath too far away. She didn't notice it that night.

Not really.

Her skincare was a little rushed -- that was all. The serum didn't soak in the same way. The moisturizer felt too slick, like it sat on top of her skin instead of sinking into it. "Maybe I over-applied," she told herself, tapping her cheek twice and moving on.

The scent was still there. Soft. Warm. Just... faintly off. Like it was two seconds behind her instead of one.

She moved through the bedroom in the white satin sleep set -- camisole with pearl straps, matching shorts with a bow at the waist. It used to make her feel like a soft thing wrapped in care.

But tonight?

It clung wrong.

The cami's neckline drooped a little lower than she remembered. The fabric at her chest folded, not hugged. Her nipples weren't quite where she expected them to be under the silk. She adjusted it once. Then again.

But the feeling lingered -- like the top fit a version of her she couldn't quite re-enter.

The shorts, too, used to make her feel delicate -- especially when they rode up slightly as she sat. But now, they felt... childish. The bow didn't sit right. The waistband cut just a little into her side, not sharply, but enough to remind her it was there.

"It's still me," she said quietly, even as her hand tugged at the hem like she wanted to pull it lower.

She undressed slowly. Reached for the pale-pink toy. Tried to reclaim the rhythm.

--

Later, the next morning, she opened her wardrobe and hovered over the yoga sets. Her fingers drifted automatically toward the sage-green -- the one that always made her feel grounded.

But she stopped. Something about it looked wrong today. Stiff. Like it had been laid out for someone else. She chose the robe instead -- the beige one with the thumbholes and worn cuffs. Wore it loose over a lavender thong and nothing else. Even that felt off.

The robe used to drape like a second skin. Now it just... hung. Like she hadn't earned the shape underneath.

She caught herself adjusting the belt three times in two minutes. Pulling it tighter, then looser, then off altogether. "It's not the robe," she muttered. "It's just today. Just off rhythm."

--

That evening, she tried the pink racerback crop top -- the smug one that hugged her chest and made her smirk.

But now the fabric clung too tightly under her arms. The seams rubbed just slightly against her ribs. The bra underneath felt like it was pushing her in instead of lifting her up.

She peeled them off after ten minutes. Went back to the robe.

Wore the soft panties with the scalloped edge, hoping they'd feel like control again. Instead, the fabric felt damp too soon. Too easily. Not from arousal. From tension. From effort.

She opened the drawer. Took out the lavender toy. Turned it on. Stroked herself. Her legs didn't part as easily. Her thighs felt tight. Her touch felt rehearsed. She tried to move slower. To listen for the rhythm. But it never really came. The orgasm -- if it could be called that -- hit and vanished like a glitch.

Her breath stayed shallow. Her chest didn't bloom. Her hips didn't roll.

--

Afterward, she sat on the bed in silence. Still in her panties, robe open at the front. The toy resting on the sheets beside her like an accusation.

She didn't cry.

She just stared at the mirror.

And for a flicker of a second, she saw a boy she didn't quite recognize.

Not a stranger.

But someone still being guessed into shape.

--

"You're Amara," she whispered. "You've always been."

The words landed. But the echo didn't answer.

The scent hadn't fully returned that day. Not gone -- just... thinned. Like it had drifted too far from her skin and was waiting to be called back. She lit the candle anyway. Spritzed the pillow. Pulled on the dress.

It was one of Amara's boldest -- rose-pink with thin shoulder straps and a low, curved neckline. The hem hit high on her thighs, swishing softly when she moved. It didn't cling. It framed.

She paired it with a push-up bra -- barely lined, just enough lift. When she turned in the mirror, it shaped her perfectly. Just enough softness. Just enough suggestion. "This is how I've always looked," she told her reflection, smoothing the dress with both hands. "They just didn't know where to look before."

She added a touch of gloss. A flick of mascara. No jewelry. Then waited.

She didn't expect the knock. Not really. But it came -- early evening, soft light fading over the buildings across the lane.

Three quick knocks.

She opened the door.

It was him -- Neighbour down the hallway. Saw him passing by while receiving deliveries. Same quiet face, same soap-and-sandalwood scent. Hair a little mussed like he'd just run a hand through it. He held a small Amazon parcel.

And he smiled. "Hey," he said. "Think this got left at my door."

She reached to take it, their fingers brushing -- his lingered half a second longer than necessary. "Thanks," she said softly.

He didn't move right away. Just looked at her. Then tilted his head, a little puzzled.

"Haven't seen you around in a while," he said. "Thought you moved out or something." She tilted her head, keeping her voice easy. "No. Just been... inside more lately."

"Hmm." He smiled faintly. "Used to catch you in the stairwell. In that... tight lavender hoodie?"

She laughed. Soft. Delighted. "That old thing? You remember that?"

"Hard to forget," he said. "You smelled... amazing. Every time."

That pause hung there -- charged, but not overplayed. He stepped half a breath closer. Not aggressive. Just enough to lean in. He didn't touch her. But he breathed in -- just slightly. Like he wanted to confirm something.

"Still do," he said, his voice a little lower now.

"Smell like rain and sugar."

Her stomach fluttered -- not from nerves. From recognition.

He's flirting. He's seeing.

Not a glitch. Not a mistake. Me.

"You always dress like this for your parcels?" he asked, teasing gently.

She smiled. Let one strap of the dress slide an inch down her shoulder. "Only when I know the delivery's going to be cute."

His laugh was soft, caught slightly in his throat. "You've changed."

He didn't mean it like a challenge. He meant it like a compliment. She let the silence bloom for a moment. Then "Maybe just more... me now."

He nodded once. Still looking. Then smiled again, broader this time. "Glad you're back."

She touched the frame of the door with one hand, leaning into it just slightly. "I didn't go anywhere. Just took a little time to remember who I was."

He hesitated. Opened his mouth like he might say something else. Didn't. Instead, he stepped back. "Well. I'll stop hovering. But if more of your stuff shows up at my door..."

"Feel free to knock," she said.

"Don't tempt me."

She closed the door with a soft click.

Inside, the air felt fuller. She leaned back against the wood, one palm pressed flat. Her heart was racing. But it wasn't panic. It was return. She walked to the mirror. Looked again.

Tilted.

Smiled.

The scent was curling up her throat now, stronger than before. It had recognized something. It had awakened.

He missed me.

He knew me. Wanted me.

I'm Amara.

She stepped out of the dress carefully. Folded it on the chair. Then sat on the bed, cross-legged. The rhythm wasn't fully back.

Not yet.

But something inside her had turned -- a warmth blooming just beneath her ribs, trailing lower.

She could still feel the echo of his gaze, the way he'd breathed her in like memory, not novelty. The way he said she smelled the same. The way he looked at her legs like he wanted to touch them. The way her name sat so easily on her tongue now -- Amara.

She stood. Walked slowly to the drawer. Opened it.

And this time, she didn't reach for the soft pink one. Or the quiet lavender curve. She reached for the boldest toy she owned -- the deep-violet silicone wand with the weighted tip, ribbed texture, and low, growling motor.

It had scared her, once. Not because of how it looked. Because of what it might unlock. She lay back on the bed, robe already gone, panties rolled down her thighs and kicked aside.

Her skin still smelled faintly of candle wax and rosewater. Her nipples were peaked under the soft fan of the ceiling air. Her breath was already catching before the toy even turned on.

She pressed the button.

The sound was deep -- not buzzing, humming, like a secret being whispered against her skin.

She dragged the wand along her thigh first, just to feel the weight of it. Then up -- across her hip, the crease of her groin, teasing close.

And when she brought it between her legs -- to the center of herself -- her body didn't flinch. It opened.

The rhythm found her instantly. No delay. No stutter.

Like her body had been waiting for this level of boldness.

Her legs trembled as she adjusted pressure -- more, then less, then back again. Her breath came in short, startled gasps. She tilted her hips just so, let the head of the wand rest where it needed to -- no apology, no hesitation.

And then -- The sound. A moan.

Rising out of her before she meant to, half-choked, half-exhale -- but not guttural. Feminine. Round. Laced with satisfaction.

The first time she'd ever heard herself like that. It shocked her. And it freed her.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Her back arched. The orgasm didn't hit -- it built.

And when it came, it was long -- the longest she'd ever had, washing up her spine, into her throat, into her hands which trembled against the sheets.

She cried out again -- high, soft, almost sweet. Like a girl who had just been devoted to. Like someone touched, not used.

Her hips bucked once. Then again. And she felt it again. A second wave. Smaller, but real. A full-body ripple. Her moans faded into whimpers, into soft laughter that escaped from her lips without planning it.

She was smiling.

Still breathless.

Still tingling.

But smiling.

She turned the toy off gently. Let it fall beside her on the sheets.

Her thighs still twitched. Her heart pounded like she'd run. But her body was quiet in that sated, centered way. She laid there in silence for a long time.

Not thinking.

Just being.

--

Then, finally, she whispered:

"That was me."

"Not anyone else."

"Me."

"Amara"

--

The scent filled the room again, deep and confident. No flicker. No doubt. The rhythm was back. And this time, it was hers.

She woke up like nothing had ever been wrong. No tension in her shoulders. No flickering scent. No question mark in the mirror. Just light, warm and steady through the curtain. Just limbs, soft and sore in the right ways.

Just Amara, exactly where she was supposed to be.

She moved through her morning routine as if her body was already anticipating each gesture.

Brushed her hair.

Rinsed her face.

Lit the candle.

Sat cross-legged on the rug.

Started her yoga flow.

But somewhere between her second vinyasa and the final stretch into half-bridge pose, she paused.

It felt... good. But not full. Not like last night. Not like the way her legs had trembled. Not like the way her moan had spilled out of her mouth like honey and thunder. Yoga gave her breath. It gave her posture. But it didn't give her pulse.

She changed. Loosened her hair into a messy high pony tail. Washed her face again -- this time quickly.

Then pulled on her outfit for the world.

A tight black workout bra, cropped high just below her chest. A cropped tee over it -- old, faded from the laundry, with the hem sliced just above the belly button. It fell loose enough to ride as she moved, revealing skin in flashes.

She looked in the mirror. Tugged the shirt sideways slightly to show more shoulder. Then stepped into her jogging tights -- navy, stitched tight around her thighs, firm around her ass, hugging all the right places.

And of course -- the running shoes, clean white with pink detail. She hadn't jogged in months.

But today? Today, her body didn't want flow. It wanted momentum.

She stepped out into the sun-drenched street like she belonged to it. Headphones in. Soft house beats pulsing. Wind teasing her hair.

And all around her -- eyes.

Not staring.

Not judging.

Just watching.

Lingering.

At the corner, two teenage boys paused mid-conversation as she passed. One of them smiled, quick and startled, then pretended to check his phone. The other just looked -- long enough for her to feel it tickle the back of her knees.

A delivery guy rolled past on his cycle, slowed just a touch, then rang his bell twice -- almost a rhythm of acknowledgment.

Two girls sitting on a bench at the edge of the park glanced over, whispered something, then smiled like they weren't sure whether to flirt or copy.

She jogged slower -- but with more intention. Let the crop top lift slightly as her arms swung. Let the waistband of her tights curve her hips like punctuation.

She didn't smile at everyone. Just let them see.

And the best part? She wasn't performing. She was participating.

Not trying to be Amara. Just being the version of her everyone else had always missed.

Now that they saw her? They didn't look away.

She paused at the edge of the path. Bent forward to stretch -- long and slow. Heard a low whistle behind her.

She didn't turn. But she smiled.

They're seeing it now.

The shape. The softness. The sway.

The girl who was always here.

--

Going out had become part of the rhythm now.

Just like the rose-scented candle after her shower. Just like the moisturizer warming between her palms. Just like the long, slow exhale before slipping into her bra.

Evening was for being seen. She didn't question it anymore. She didn't need to. It felt natural

--

Every day, around six, she began to transform. Not into someone else.

But into Amara, visible.

She'd open the wardrobe with the same reverence she once reserved for prayer. And she always knew which dress was calling her.

This evening, it was the cropped ribbed tank -- soft cream, low-cut enough to hint at cleavage when she moved just right. Paired with a slate grey skater skirt, hem hovering mid-thigh, swinging easy with each step.

Effortless. Intentional.

Underneath, a lilac lace bralette -- barely-there structure, no lift, just skin learning how to be held. No padding. No tricks. Just presence.

She applied gloss to her lips -- sweet, peachy. Lined her eyes just enough to lift them. Stepped into her white sandals.

Gave her reflection a slow, downward glance. Not to check. To appreciate.

This is what a girl looks like when she knows she'll be seen.

The mall was just ten minutes away by rickshaw.

She never booked a cab.

She preferred the open air, the sway of the ride, the way the driver's eyes flicked to the mirror at every traffic stop. She didn't even need to catch them anymore.

She could feel it. The way her skirt pulled slightly when she shifted. The way her thigh glowed under the harsh yellow light of the city. The scent she wore -- hers now, rich and low and sweet -- seemed to rise just when someone leaned close.

Some evenings she stopped at a café. Took her time sipping iced rose latte or matcha. Crossed and uncrossed her legs deliberately, letting the hem of her dress rise an inch too high, then smoothing it back down like she hadn't noticed.

Sometimes a waiter would forget her order and return twice just to confirm.

Sometimes girls stared longer than boys.

She liked that too.

Other nights, she wandered the mall. Let her hand brush the satin racks at H&M, peeked at blushes she didn't need, paused in front of mirrors she wasn't supposed to look into.

Security guards glanced. Shop boys hovered.

One man once followed her for three stores before she turned and smiled at him. "Lost?" He stammered and vanished.

And every night, without fail, she came. On her back. Or on all fours. Or standing in front of the mirror, vibrator in hand, mouth open, breath hot.

And she moaned.

High. Soft. Full of release.

Not mimicry.

Not fantasy.

But feminine.

I sound like I was always supposed to.

The orgasm would rise from deep in her belly -- roll through her hips, through her toes -- and hit like a prayer answered in syllables she hadn't spoken since birth.

This is what a girl's body does when it's known. When it's allowed.

Her scent afterward would cling for hours -- richer now, heavier than it had ever been.

This is what I smell like when I'm finished.

The tremors still echoed through her thighs when she reached for the edge of the bedsheet, pulling it lightly over her body like a seal. Her breath slowed, but the pulse in her neck hadn't quite settled. There was a warmth beneath her ribs -- not just from pleasure, but from hunger, a sense that something was still unfolding. Her fingers trailed to the nightstand, past the candle, past the used toy now humming faintly in memory, and landed on the soft spine of the journal. She hadn't opened it in a while -- not out of fear, but because she no longer needed Amara's words to feel like herself. But tonight, she wanted to remember. She flipped through pages quickly, skimming familiar ink -- laughter, boys, perfumes, a recipe for almond tea -- until her fingers paused at the page with that title written in her old, looped lettering: "Mouthwork." Her pulse kicked once, and then she began to read.

"

Entry: April 14 - "Mouthwork"

Here's the truth no one teaches you: A good blowjob isn't about technique.

It's about control.

You don't have to deepthroat. You don't have to gag. You don't even have to make him come -- unless you want to. What you have to do... is make him feel like you know exactly what he tastes like before you've even started.

Like you've been thinking about it all day.

Like this isn't a gift -- it's a sentence. And he deserves to serve it in full.

I start slow. Always.

Eyes up, chin down. I let my lips brush him like I'm shy, even when I'm not. Like I'm still deciding if I should.

The should drives them crazy.

I kiss the tip. Breathe on it. Let him watch my tongue barely peek out -- not even touching yet. Just letting him imagine the warmth.

It's not about licking.

It's about hesitation.

When I finally take him in, I keep it light. Lazy. Like I've done this before, and I'm so good at it, I don't need to try.

The trick is rhythm. Not speed.

Slow sucks -- up, pause, down, pause. Just enough saliva that he hears it. Just enough pressure that he doesn't twitch.

I like to hum. Not music. Just breath, vibrating in the back of my throat.

Let the sound vibrate. Let him feel the moan before you make one.

It makes them gasp. Every time.

I pull off often.

Not because I need air.

Because I want to see his eyes. His

hands.

Want to know if he's shaking yet.

I lick him from base to tip like I'm tasting a popsicle, but classier. Less mess. More eye contact.

Sometimes I whisper something. Like:

"You taste good."

"Don't move."

"You're mine until I'm done."

I never rush the end.

That's where the power sits.

You can tell when he's getting close -- the way his thighs tighten, the way he forgets how to breathe.

That's when you slow down. Or speed up. Or squeeze the base. Or look at him like he just begged you not to stop.

I decide how he finishes.

Whether it's down my throat.

On my tongue.

On my tits.

In his own hand while I whisper how much better it would've been if I let him.

Sometimes I don't let him come at all.

That's the real mindfuck. Make him twitch. Moan. Grip the sheets. Then pull back. Wipe my mouth. Smile like it was just a taste test. "Maybe next time."

A blowjob, when done right, isn't service

It's a spell.

"I want to be remembered for how I made them break.

I want their voice to crack before my lips ever part."

And I'm very good at casting it.

"

Her breath caught halfway through the second paragraph. It wasn't just erotic. It was instructional -- in a voice so certain, so wickedly soft, it felt like a spell whispered through ink. She read each line slowly, as if it might stain her lips just by tracing the words with her eyes.

"You don't have to deepthroat. You don't have to gag.... unless you want to...."

She exhaled sharply. Her thighs twitched. There was no shame in it. Only recognition.

This isn't submission.

It's choreography.

She ran her fingers across the page like she could absorb its rhythm through skin. Each technique, each phrase -- the hum, the pause, the whisper -- pulsed inside her like she'd done it in another life. Or dreamed it into memory.

By the time she finished absorbing the entry, her whole body buzzed -- not in desperation, but readiness. She closed the journal slowly. Not like she was finished. Like she'd just started studying.

But even as the silence returned, something in her lingered.

Not hunger -- not exactly.

Curiosity. Precision. Wanting a different kind of rhythm.

One where someone else was undone beneath her.

One where her mouth was the spell, not her scent.

"I want to be remembered for how I made them break.

I want their voice to crack before my lips ever part."

Everything shifted. Not loudly. Not suddenly. But decisively.

She didn't moan the same way during release anymore. Her mouth opened wider.

Her sounds came with more confidence -- drawn from the belly, shaped by something imagined on her tongue.

She began noticing men's lips when they spoke.

Their throats.

Their hips as they sat.

The veins in their hands as they held glasses.

She looked not with longing -- but assessment.

She found herself practicing silence more, just to sharpen how her presence filled it.

He doesn't need to hear me talk.

He needs to want me.. When I'm on my knees.

She thought one day, staring at herself in the mirror.

She flirted more deliberately now. Let a man order her coffee and touch her hand briefly.

Laughed slower. Let her tongue glide over her bottom lip after a sip -- just once, deliberately. Not because she needed attention. Because she wanted him to imagine what her mouth could do. She met him at a rooftop bar, just before dusk.

She hadn't planned to stay long -- just wanted to wear her white dress, the one that cinched at the waist and flared short at the thigh. She had gloss on, no bra, and the soft shimmer of body oil on her collarbone.

He saw her before she saw him. Or maybe she felt him watching and turned on purpose.

Late 30s. Groomed beard. Navy shirt, first two buttons open. Gold ring on his pinky. BMW key resting on the bar. Confidence without volume.

He smiled when she met his gaze. She let the smile come back.

"I was hoping you'd look at me again," he said.

"And now you've earned your second look."

He bought her a drink. Something citrusy with gin and mint. They didn't talk about work. Or names. Or where-you-froms. Just eye contact. Smiles. Soft grazes of his hand near her thigh.

As the sun sank, he leaned toward her slightly. "You feel like someone who'd enjoy a fast car on an empty road."

She tilted her head. "And you feel like someone who needs a reason to drive without destination." He grinned.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in his BMW -- quiet cabin, smooth engine hum, city lights slipping past the windshield like melted gold.

She wore her seatbelt, but barely. The hem of her dress had ridden higher with every breath. His hand rested on the gear shift. Then shifted. To her thigh.

Gently. Just a test. She didn't flinch. She spread her legs slightly -- just enough to answer. His fingers flexed. Slid upward. She didn't let him go farther. Instead, she whispered:

"Pull over."

"Here?"

"Yes. Now."

He parked by the lake road, where only dim lights from the trees touched the windshield. She unbuckled her seatbelt slowly. Turned her body toward him. Looked him in the eyes. And smiled -- not seductively. Like she knew a secret he'd begged to learn.

"Do you trust me?" He nodded.

She didn't ask again.

And finally -- finally -- she brought her mouth to him.

Not as a gift. As reclamation.

She slid down in the passenger seat with slow precision, her dress hiking over her thighs as her knees bent against the console. The leather was warm beneath her palms. His breath had gone shallow the moment she unbuckled her seatbelt, and now he just stared, lips parted slightly, hands frozen near his lap like he didn't dare rush her.

Good.

She didn't want him eager.

She wanted him spellbound.

Her hands moved first -- no urgency, no stumble. She undid his belt with practiced slowness, the soft clink of metal sounding obscene in the stillness of the cabin.

His zipper followed. Her fingers brushed against the fabric of his briefs -- warm, already swollen underneath -- and he exhaled, like she'd touched the fuse of something dangerous.

She glanced up at him. He was watching her like she might vanish. She smiled. Not sweet. Certain.

You're not ready for me,.

But you're about to remember me for the rest of your life.

She pulled him free with one hand, her fingers wrapping around his length without hesitation. He was already hard -- not fully, not yet -- but curving into her grip like he'd been waiting for her mouth all day.

She lowered her head slowly.

Let her lips hover a breath above him.

Let the heat of her breath ghost over his tip.

He twitched.

She grinned -- a small, cruel little grin -- and finally kissed him there. Once. Softly.

Not a lick.

Not a suck.

Just a kiss.

Like she was greeting something sacred.

Her tongue followed, slow and firm -- a long, deliberate stroke from base to tip. She let her saliva drag slightly, then pulled back, lips parted, tongue out just an inch.

She didn't say anything.

Didn't need to.

His jaw was already slack. Hands gripping the steering wheel like she might knock him off balance just by looking up again.

So she did.

And took him in.

The first suck was shallow. Gentle. Just his head. Just enough to surround him in heat. She hummed -- a soft, low sound -- not because she needed to, but because she remembered what Amara had written:

"Let the sound vibrate. Let him feel the moan before you make one."

He gasped.

Not a word. Just air.

Her cheeks hollowed as she sank deeper, tongue curling under him, lips tight and wet.

She kept eye contact for a beat longer, then closed her eyes -- not to disappear, but to anchor the moment inside her mouth

She began to move. Up. Down. Slowly. Each motion exact. Each pause a calculation.

Her saliva coated him in seconds. Her pace never quickened -- not yet. She pulled off often, letting her tongue flick his tip, letting the cold air tease him between her lips.

Once, she whispered, "Don't move." He didn't dare.

His hand finally reached for her hair. She let him hold it.

But when he tried to guide her -- to push -- she pulled back and caught his eyes with a look that stopped him cold. Then dipped down again on her own rhythm. Deeper now. Slicker. No gag. Just sound. Control. Warmth.

She could feel it -- the tremble building in his thighs, the twitch in his stomach, the quick little moans now catching in his throat. "He's close."

So she slowed. Tightened her grip at the base. Pulled back till just his head rested on her tongue, lips soft around him. She looked up again.

And whispered, "Let me finish it."

He nodded -- frantic, breathless. She didn't rush. She took him all in again -- this time faster, wetter, her mouth a rhythm, a pressure, a promise. His groan broke into something higher -- almost a whimper.

She loved that.

The crack in his control.

She felt him tense -- the flood coming -- and wrapped her lips tight around him as he came, warm and sudden and deep.

She swallowed once. Then again. And held him in her mouth a moment longer. Soft now. Still moaning faintly. As if the act wasn't finished until she decided it was.

When she finally pulled away, she licked the corner of her mouth -- slow, lazy -- and leaned back against the door, legs still folded beneath her.

She looked at him like he was a painting she'd just signed.

He was panting.

Dazed.

Throat working like he wanted to speak but couldn't remember how.

She ran her finger along her lip, caught a drop, and licked it clean.

I didn't want his thanks,

I wanted his shudder.

He tried to speak. She smiled and interrupted him softly, "Start the car."

"What?"

"You're driving me home now."

The flat was dark when she stepped inside -- only the faint glow of the hallway light tracing her silhouette across the room. She didn't bother turning on the main lights. She moved through the space like she'd always known it in lowlight. Slipped off her shoes. Dropped her purse quietly onto the chair. And stood in the center of the room for a long moment -- eyes closed, one hand resting lightly on her stomach.

She wasn't shaking.

She wasn't thinking.

She was just full.

The scent hit her as she moved toward the bedroom -- warm, sweet, thick like molten sugar caught in cotton. It clung to the sheets. To the air. To her. She hadn't even taken off her dress yet. But she could already smell herself -- not faintly, not subtly. Bold. Heavy. Unmistakably hers. She ran her hand over the neckline of the dress, feeling the sweat still clinging at the collarbone.

This isn't perfume,

This is what I smell like when I've taken someone apart.

She undressed slowly -- peeled the dress over her head, folded it softly, laid it on the bed.

Slipped off her bra, then her panties -- damp, heavier than she expected.

She held them a moment. Still warm. Slick with something she hadn't noticed building. She didn't remember getting wet. Not exactly. Just... remembering wanting.

She walked into the bathroom. Didn't wash yet. Just stood there, bare, in front of the mirror.

Flushed. Quiet. Still glowing.

--

She made tea -- chamomile, honey, a pinch of cardamom -- and sat cross-legged on the bed, nude, wrapped in the soft beige robe she always wore after her best orgasms. Only this time, she hadn't even touched herself. And yet her whole body felt post-climax -- pliant, centered, claimed.

She reached for the journal.

Not Amara's.

Hers.

The new one -- cover still mostly blank, pages still tentative.

She opened it to a fresh sheet.

Picked up the pen.

And began to write.

---

"Mouthspell"

There is no word for the sound a man makes when he forgets how to hold himself together.

But I know it by feel.

It starts in his thighs. Then his hands. Then his breath.

It spills from him like a promise I never made.

Tonight, I tasted devotion.

It was heavy and salt-warm, and it pulsed against my tongue like it wanted to belong there.

So I took it.

Not gently.

Not violently.

With rhythm.

With breath.

With control.

A mouth isn't a gift.

It's a spell.

And I cast it slowly.

I didn't ask him to come.

He did.

Because I led him there -- one moan at a time.

Because I whispered stay without saying a word.

Because I smiled around him, and he felt it with every twitch.

He thinks he got lucky.

He didn't.

He got claimed.

-- Amara

She stopped writing. Closed the journal softly. Set it beside her tea.

And let herself fall sideways onto the bed -- robe open, legs bare, skin sticky with heat and calm.

She didn't need to come tonight.

She already had.

Twice.

Once in the car.

Once in her mind.

The room was thick with her scent now -- sweeter, richer than ever before.

It filled the pillowcases. The robe. The space between her thighs.

She didn't need candles anymore.

She didn't need perfume.

She was scent. She was the warmth people turned toward in passing and never forgot. She smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded. Let the tea cool beside her.

Tomorrow could come. Tonight, she was full. Not of thought.

Of Amara. And Amara didn't dream. She rested in the glow she left behind.

Chapter 6 - What Returns

Between Feeds

They were still searching.

Posters. Articles. CCTV stills.

Hashtags. Speculation. A clip of some woman claiming to be his cousin.

Even a Reddit thread, titled plainly "Has anyone seen Ishaan Sharma?"

She scrolled through it once, lying in bed with one knee bent, sunlight pouring across her inner thigh.

It didn't bother her.

Not anymore.

That name had faded.

That body had been shed.

She hadn't disappeared.

She had arrived.

Her tea kettle clicked.

She stood, moved through the flat -- long t-shirt brushing her upper thighs, no underwear, soft grip of cotton against skin.

The article was open on her phone screen.

"Mother of Missing Techie Dies of Heart Attack"

"Rashmi Sharma, 64, reportedly suffered a sudden cardiac arrest..."

She didn't flinch. Didn't reread it. Didn't think of funeral flowers or soft rotis or what that woman's voice used to sound like. That voice had never called her Amara.

She took a sip of tea, slow and warm. Closed the article with one thumb. Tossed the phone gently on the bed.

I don't know him.

Never did.

Just a name people keep looking for. Just a ghost they made up to explain a silence.

Let them keep searching. She had nothing to return to. And no one left to correct.

--

She lit her candle. Pulled the tie on her robe a little tighter. Sat down in front of the mirror, legs tucked, and began brushing her hair. The bristles glided through without resistance.

The room smelled like rosewater and wax and her own breath -- soft, slow, clean. A perfect stillness. One that came not from absence, but from presence -- total, complete, owned.

She set the brush down, letting her hair fall over her shoulders like silk. The candle flame flickered once, catching on the edge of the mirror. Her skin glowed. Her eyes were quiet. She would've stayed like that longer.

Maybe journaled. Maybe just sat. But her phone buzzed.

Once.

Then again.

A notification.

Instagram DM.

Then a flood of it.

She glanced at it, intending to ignore it -- to stay in this rhythm, this breath, this Amara-ness.

But something about the preview pulled her in:

"Is this really you?? ???? Please come back."

Tagged in: @amaradevoted_

Her thumb hovered over the screen. She tapped it. The message opened to a story post from a fanpage.

A grainy, over-bright pap-style shot. Her -- sitting at the café near the mall three days ago. Dress soft purple. One bare shoulder. Lifting her coffee with both hands. Looking off.

She remembered that moment -- the way the glass caught her reflection, the hum of conversation, the feel of sunlight sliding across her thigh. It had felt private.

Controlled. Hers.

But this photo? The angle was wrong. The light made her chin look sharper. Her legs less soft. Her mouth slightly open in a way she hadn't meant.

The caption read:

"She's BACK???"

A swirl of tagged usernames beneath it.

Heart emojis.

Comments like:

"Is this real or AI??"

"No reel since Feb. but she's out here glowing??"

"Mama PLEASE give us content again ????"

Her stomach didn't drop. But something inside her tilted.

They missed me.

But they're looking at me without asking.

I didn't pose for this. I didn't frame this. I didn't choose this moment to be seen.

She zoomed in on the photo. Then out. Then in again.

The café table looked smudged. Her skin too shiny. Her eyes -- not vacant, but unguarded, the way they never were in her reels.

They don't know how to shoot me.

They don't see the light the way I place it.

They click me like I'm a story to tell, not a spell being cast.

She closed the image. Opened her gallery. Scrolled through her drafts -- the ones she'd filmed and never posted. Gorgeous ones. Controlled. Clean. Sacred. Her in the golden hour light, walking toward the mirror in that pale blue dress. Her sipping tea, breath fogging the lens before the candle flickered into view.

She watched one muted. Then another. Then the photo again. Side by side -- the difference was violent.

That night, she couldn't come. She tried -- not desperately. But with routine. The toy buzzed. Her thighs parted.

But the moment the rhythm built, that photo appeared behind her eyelids like a film still: off-kilter, blown-out, neck caught in a weird angle.

That's not how I look when I moan.

That's not how my lips curve when I breathe through it.

She stopped halfway through.

Turned off the toy.

Didn't even clean it.

Just rolled to her side.

And let the night go unfinished.

--

The Next Morning, she woke with her hair still braided from the day before. One side loose. One sock on. Her robe half-pulled around her waist.

She didn't journal. Didn't make tea. She just sat on the edge of the bed, hands on her thighs, feeling a kind of static hum in her chest. She thought about going out. About the pink dress. About the vanilla gloss. Then pictured someone across the street -- phone tilted, camera too wide, shadow in the wrong place.

I'd look washed out.

I'd look like I don't know who I am.

She didn't go out. She stayed in.

Let her hair down.

Warmed her skin with body oil.

Put on a soft, slightly sheer top -- the white one with buttons down the front and a hem that brushed her hip. No bra.

She sat in front of the mirror. Stared.

They're not going to get it wrong again.

Her phone was already in the stand. She didn't plan it. She didn't pick music. She just hit record. And moved.

One walk.

One shoulder glance.

One slow exhale against the mirror.

No retake.

No hesitation.

She watched the reel once.

Tilted her head.

Her lips curved into a satisfied half-smile.

Then posts.

No caption. Just:

????

If they're going to look, they're going to look right.

And this time, they'll see me exactly as I deserve.

She didn't expect it to take off. Not because it wasn't good -- it was. It was perfect.

Clean. Warm. Soft-focus where it needed to be.

Her mouth slightly open. The light catching her collarbone.

Her glance -- sharp, then gone.

Her body -- not posed, just understood. She posted it, turned off her phone, and went to shower. Didn't think about it again.

Until two hours later, when the screen lit up like something burning.

First, twenty DMs. Then sixty.

Then comments in the hundreds.

Then a tag in a fan reel -- someone had already edited her movement over a melancholic song and titled it:

"The Girl Who Reappeared Like Smoke."

Another post:

"This is how she breathes and I will never breathe the same again."

Her audio -- just the sound of her walking in frame -- was being used for new videos. Girls were mimicking her posture. Boys were duetting just to stare.

She scrolled.

And scrolled.

And felt her chest open in a way no toy had ever done.

Her breath caught. Then deepened. She pressed a hand to her thigh -- not out of arousal, but to feel the weight of herself.

This--This is better.

This is better than the orgasms I've been giving myself for weeks.

This is a high that moans from the inside out.

She lay back across her bed, still damp from the shower, robe half open, legs tangled. Her phone buzzed against her stomach. A fresh comment.

"God, she's not real."

She smiled. Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted. Breath slow.

I am.

And you're finally seeing me the right way.

--

It wasn't about being watched. It was about being captured properly. Not stolen, not speculated on. Curated. Controlled. Cast like a spell in digital light.

This wasn't a reel.

This was a confirmation.

And she was the girl who made phones shake when they filmed her.

--

The next few days were golden.

She posted another reel -- slow, fluid, just a glance over her shoulder in a halter top that kissed her spine.

Then a mirror reel. A lip gloss reel.

No captions. Only her.

And the world devoured it.

Her DMs flooded. Hundreds.

"You're unreal."

"Where did you go?"

"You're the reason I believe in softness again."

They came from boys. Girls. Pages with usernames like 'amaravisions' and 'shewasasilhouette'. People clipped her movement into aesthetic edits. Synced her breath with dream pop beats. She was trending in a dozen beauty hashtags -- without posting a single tutorial.

She felt belonged to.

Loved.

Adored.

And more than that -- she felt powerful.

She would walk across the room, phone lighting up with hearts before she even sat down. She'd stretch her legs onto the sheets, scroll through comments, and feel the tight pull between her thighs just from watching people watch her.

They see it now.

They crave it now.

They follow like they're being fed from the back of my throat.

But then... the DMs changed. First slowly. Then fast. Praise turned into permissionless intimacy.

"God, I'd ruin you."

"Woke up thinking about your mouth."

"You up?"

[photo of a hand wrapped around a hard cock]

"Just say the word."

She didn't flinch. She didn't cry. She just closed the app, fingers still warm on the glass. And lay back in bed. It was part of it -- the tax on visibility. To be beautiful was to be public property. To be soft was to be split open.

None of it shocked her. If anything, it confirmed the power. They wanted her. That meant she was winning.

--

She tried to scroll past them in the days that followed. Tried to treat it like static. But the messages started to linger. Not because they turned her on. But because they mocked her.

The neediness. The entitlement. The assumptions.

Desire as demand. Hunger with no rhythm. They didn't want her. They wanted to fast-forward to their finish.

Her mind drifted. To the car. To the slick heat of leather and skin. To the weight of him in her mouth. To the way his hands had tried -- tried -- to direct her. And how she'd looked up, slow, eyes locked, and taken the rhythm back.

She hadn't even touched herself that night. The memory had done the work for days.

But now? Now, there was only absence.

A flicker that wouldn't catch. A body that remembered what it wanted, but refused to give it.

I want to feel someone crumble again. I want the grip in my hair and the moan that breaks when they can't hold it anymore. I want him to come so hard he forgets his name -- and only remembers mine.

She shifted under the sheets. Her thighs were slick. Her skin flushed. Her body wasn't unaroused.

But it wouldn't let go. Wouldn't give.

Not to strangers. Not to pixels. Not to need without worship.

I want the high that comes after he thanks me with nothing but silence.

--

One night, long after the last reel had passed half a million views, after she'd deleted her second dick pic of the evening and swiped past twenty "U up?" messages, Amara found herself scrolling back.

Not forward.

Not through likes or trends or fan edits.

Back. Into her own DMs -- through the sea of moans and memes and declarations, looking for... she wasn't sure what.

And then she saw him. She hadn't noticed him before. Because he never demanded attention.

Just... left it.

His handle was short. Simple. No emojis.

"vihaan_me"

No begging bio. She hadn't noticed him before -- because he never asked to be noticed. Just left small things.

A red heart.

Or:

"Stunning."

Or:

"✨."

Always once.

Never more.

Never after midnight.

But tonight, something made her tap his profile.

His page was open. And the first photo made her eyebrows lift.

Gym pic. Mirror. Towel slung over one shoulder. Tank clinging to a chest that looked like it belonged to someone who could lift her without trying.

The next? Another gym post -- squat form check. Captioned:

"Mobility > ego."

Then a close-up of calloused hands chalked white.

Then a photo of rain on a windshield.

Then a blurry pic of some book on his lap.

The cover read: "To Be Held Like This."

She stared at that one longer than the gym shots.

But her eyes kept returning to the first.

Big.

Quiet.

And he's been in my inbox for weeks without making a sound.

She swallowed. Her thighs shifted. And the image in her mind came fast -- his hand on the back of her head, firm but patient, waiting.

Not shoving.

Inviting.

The most recent message sat quietly under all of it.

"You ❤️"

She could've ignored it. Should've. But instead, her fingers moved -- soft, deliberate.

"Careful."

"I bite."

--

Three dots appeared. Paused.

Then vanished.

Then returned.

"Only if I ask nicely?"

She smiled -- lips parting like they might form a moan if she leaned too far into it.

Not yet.

Not now.

But she'd found something she might want to open for.

And kept the conversation going. They talked. Not fast. Not flirt-heavy at first. But warm. He asked her what her favorite scent was, and then guessed it. She asked what book he was reading, and he said:

"Something soft. Something where the girl wins."

She paused when she read that. And realized she was smiling the way she hadn't in weeks.

By the second night, they were sending voice notes. By the third, she told him about the almond oil she uses on her thighs. He said:

"That explains the glow."

And it didn't sound like a line. It sounded like something from a page in one of the romance novels she'd devoured for months -- the kind with long glances, and slow hands, and men who moaned without shame.

She lay in bed that night, phone warm against her cheek. Still hadn't touched herself. But she wasn't aching anymore. She felt... curious. Open. Soft, but sharpened.

I want him to see me unravel.

But maybe not yet.

Maybe I want him to watch me first.

That night, their messages lingered later than usual. The tone was still calm -- slow replies, no thirst, no pressure. But something shifted in the way he worded things.

Bolder. Still gentle, but no longer waiting for permission.

"You're not real," he said after she sent him a voice note -- a lazy goodnight, laced with nothing but her breath and a smile. "Not sure I'm not dreaming you."

She replied, "Careful. That kind of line sounds like it's trying to slide between my legs."

He didn't deny it. Didn't double down either.

Just sent back, "Would only slide if you opened them. And I wouldn't touch until you said please."

Her thighs pressed together under the robe. Her breath slowed. But she didn't reach for herself. Just let the heat settle. Let it stay.

She asked him what he was wearing. Not coyly. Just... curious. He replied with a picture of his hand on his own chest. Tank top. Muscles taut. Veins raised. Not showing off.

Just showing.

Her stomach tightened when she noticed the detail. His fingers weren't just big. They were spread wide, like they were used to wrapping around something that arched into them.

She sent back a photo. Not nude. Not posed. Just her collarbone. A glimpse of shoulder. Skin faintly glowing from body oil. And one word "Imagine."

He didn't flood her inbox after that. Just sent back, "Every night since the first message."

And then, after a long pause, "Let me buy you a coffee."

She stared at the message for a long time. Not because she didn't know what to say. But because she felt it -- that subtle melt inside her.

Not wet.

Not aroused.

Just... softened.

Like a lock that had finally turned in its place. "Yes," she replied. "But only if I get to pick the place."

"Deal," he wrote. "But I get to pick the seat. Close." Her smile spread slowly, without her telling it to.

She turned off her phone. Lay back in bed.

Didn't touch herself.

Didn't need to.

She has already melted

--

She arrived three minutes early.

The café was tucked on a quiet corner -- a little overgrown at the entrance, with ivy hanging from a rusted sign and fairy lights glowing even though it wasn't dark yet. Inside, the space was low-lit, hushed, all warm wood and linen curtains. The kind of place that made you whisper even if no one asked you to.

She chose it carefully. It was romantic, but not obvious. Soft. Private. Safe.

She wore a slate blue dress -- light, unlined, clinging in the right places. Thin straps. Square neckline. No bra. Just her skin, soft and steady beneath the fabric. Her lips were glossed, but not sticky. Her scent -- her own blend of sandalwood and sugar -- had been applied behind the ears, on the inside of her wrists, and lightly down the curve of her cleavage.

Not to be noticed.

To be registered.

She sat by the window, sunlight falling over one shoulder, phone on the table untouched.

And then she felt him walk in. Before she saw him -- she felt it. A shift in air. A temperature change. She turned her head. And there he was.

He was taller than she expected -- broad through the shoulders, but not puffed up. Just strong, in a way that looked like it required no effort. Tight black t-shirt. Grey joggers, perfectly fitted. Black cap worn backwards, framing a jawline that looked like it could hold still through a storm.

He saw her instantly. And smiled -- not wide. But like he'd known this was coming for a long time.

He walked over, slow, relaxed, body language low and confident. "Didn't think you'd actually show," he said, voice low and a little rough. "Didn't think you'd be this tall," she replied, chin tilting just slightly.

They sat.

He across from her at first.

Ordered an iced Americano. She ordered a saffron latte. They spoke slowly -- like their voices were catching up with everything their texts had already built.

He didn't flirt with his words.

But his eyes never left her mouth when she spoke. And when she reached for her cup?

His gaze dipped to her collarbone, the soft skin between strap and fabric.

Then, halfway through the conversation -- just after he told her about how he used to box, how he hated loud gyms -- he leaned forward slightly.

Just to grab his drink. And his hand, casually, purposefully, rested on her thigh.

Not a grope.

Not a test.

Just a heavy, warm placement.

Palm down. Fingers spread.

Like he was grounding her.

Or himself.

Her words caught -- not in fear. In recognition. Because that hand? It was exactly as she'd imagined. Big. Steady. Heat pulsing through her dress like a secret.

She didn't move away.

Didn't pause.

Just crossed her legs a little tighter beneath the table and kept talking -- slower now.

Measured.

Because now her skin had memory to build from. And his thumb? It moved once -- a soft stroke, right above her knee. Almost absent-minded. Like he already knew her rhythm.

"You're calm," he said, voice lower now.

"I thought you'd be more guarded."

"I'm not here to perform," she replied.

"I already know what I taste like."

He smiled again.

Bolder now.

And his hand didn't leave her thigh the rest of the conversation.

As they sat in the café, his hand still firm on her thigh, Amara found herself not trying.

She wasn't flirting.

She wasn't performing.

She wasn't catching her reflection in the window, adjusting her posture, checking the angle of her smile.

She was just... there.

Talking. Laughing softly. Telling him about the time she once tried aerial yoga and bruised her ribs.

He leaned in to listen, not to interrupt.

His hand moved now and then -- not to claim her, but to reassure himself she was real. And she liked that. She liked that he needed to touch her. Not to test her. But to stay steady.

--

Over the next few weeks, they met again.

Once at a bookstore.

Once on a walk under quiet, post-rain trees where he let her talk about candle scents and old poems she didn't even know she'd memorized.

Once on her rooftop, lying on a thin mattress beneath the stars, sharing one speaker between them.

He always listened.

He never pushed.

He touched her with gravity, not need. And it was in that softness -- that lack of demand -- that Amara felt the weight of something rising in her.

Not fear.

Not anxiety.

Truth.

--

It had been a quiet evening.

A tucked-away café with soft chairs and dusty shelves, the kind of place that smelled like cardamom, old wood, and rain pressed into pages. They sat near the back, half-sunk into a sofa that made them sit closer than they usually did.

Her legs tucked under her.

His knee touching hers.

They spoke about small things.

Books. Music.

The way she always over-salted her pasta.

The scar above his eyebrow from falling off a bike.

The smell of fresh rain, and how he used to ride into it just to feel clean. And she told him stories too. Not of pain, not of change -- but of softness.

The time she and her mother tried to make modaks and ended up with flour everywhere.

How she once hid a stray puppy in her closet for two days.

The rainy afternoons spent pressing petals into pages and calling it art.

They weren't her past, not in the way people thought of it. But they were hers.

Stories passed down in ink and pages -- from a girl who once lived in this flat and loved a certain tea, to the woman who now wore her scent and name like silk.

He never questioned them.

He just listened.

Like every word belonged exactly where she placed it. And then it happened.

Not dramatically.

Not after some question or hint.

Just... naturally.

Like the truth had been waiting for the right temperature to melt out of her.

She looked at him -- eyes softer than she meant them to be. And the weight she'd been carrying, the one she'd kept pressed under her ribs all these nights, finally rose.

"I need to tell you something." Her voice was low. Even. But her fingers curled slightly into her palm.

"I don't know how to say it, so I'll just say it." He turned toward her. Said nothing. Just gave her his full, steady attention. "I wasn't born like this. Not like the woman you see."

"I became her."

"I worked for her. I bled for her. I lost pieces of myself for her -- until there was nothing left but... me."

She swallowed. The world didn't stop. But it narrowed, gently -- to the space between his eyes and her breath. She looked away.

Then back.

Waited.

Waited.

And then--He smiled.

Not wide.

Not surprised.

Just sure. "Okay," he said.

"Thank you for telling me." And after a breath, "You're beautiful. Entirely. And I'm lucky to know you."

She felt it click.

Not relief.

Not escape.

A lock turning open. And before she could stop herself -- not that she wanted to -- she leaned in.

So did he.

Their lips met softly, almost cautiously. But then it deepened -- not with hunger, but with recognition. His hand cupped her cheek like he already knew the shape of it. Her fingers curled into the hem of his shirt like she'd done it a hundred times in a dream.

It wasn't just a kiss.

It was a promise.

Afterward, they didn't rush.

They just sat -- knees touching, foreheads brushing now and then -- letting the weight of the moment hold them steady.

And when he asked, later, if she wanted to go back to her place... She nodded once.

"Yes."

"I want you there."

"Not to prove anything."

"But because I've never had someone see me this clearly and still want to come home with me."

--

Her flat welcomed them with its usual hush -- candle already lit, her scent hanging thick in the air like an old promise.

She slipped her sandals off by the door, walked in ahead of him -- hips swaying in her blue dress, hair still a little curled from the humidity. He followed slowly, like someone entering a room that felt more temple than home.

She turned toward him, chin lifted. She wasn't nervous. She was ready. "Sit."

He did, on the edge of her bed, legs wide, arms loose at his sides. Relaxed. Waiting. She dropped to her knees between them without another word.

This part, she knew. The weight of him in her mouth. The hum of breath vibrating against his skin. The way his thighs flexed and relaxed as she took him deeper. Her eyes didn't leave his.

Her hands stayed planted on his knees, grounding her -- reminding her this was hers. Her rhythm. Her pace. Her choice.

He groaned once -- low, ragged, broken at the edge. She smiled around him. Not because she wanted praise. But because this was what she'd been missing.

When he finally reached for her, fingers under her arms, lifting her up to stand -- she let him.

She expected the next part to be simple too.

He peeled off his shirt. Tugged off his pants.

Now fully bare -- hard, beautiful, unashamed.

Then his hands reached for her. The hem of her dress. And something in her shifted.

She hesitated. Just a blink. A pause in breath. Her hands covered his for a moment -- not to stop him.

To slow him. And she looked into his eyes like she was whispering a question:

"Don't hate me for this."

"Please let this be okay."

He didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

Just nodded.

And pulled the dress up and over her head.

She stood before him now -- nude, except for her scent and the remnants of confidence clinging to her spine.

Her arms instinctively moved to cover her stomach, the soft line of her hips. She turned slightly. Not to run.

Just... to hide. But in doing so, she caught her reflection.

The mirror at the corner of the room showed her silhouette in golden light -- the long lines of her arms, the subtle dip of her waist, the curve of her thighs and chest.

Delicate. Feminine. Still becoming.

And yet-- More woman than she'd ever seen in the mirror before. Even better than her old self. Better than Amara-before. Except for one thing.

Then his hands found her waist. Just as she always imagined they would. Firm. Slow. Claiming. Not with greed -- but assurance.

He didn't fumble. He didn't stare too long. He just held her -- fingers spread, thumbs grazing the soft curve like it was exactly where he'd expected to find it.

And she melted.

He guided her to the bed, laying her down with a reverence that felt like worship -- but not blind worship.

Knowing. Present. Mutual.

He kissed her neck. Her chest. The inside of her thighs. And then he was inside her -- slow, then deeper, and deeper again.

Her breath caught once. Her hips rose to meet him. And suddenly she wasn't directing anything.

She wasn't thinking about posture or noise or angles.

She wasn't giving a performance. She was being undone. By someone who didn't ask for anything. By someone who held her like she was already enough.

Amara was wrong.

She thought as her body arched and broke and surrendered beneath his weight.

It was never about control.

It was never about making them beg.

It was about letting someone take you completely... and still feeling like you're in power because you let them.

Her moan was different this time.

Not soft.

Not girlish.

Not trained.

It was Amara's, yes -- It was real.

--

Chapter 7 - What Spreads

Glow and The Gaze

He said her name while inside her. And something bloomed.

- Amara

--

The fan spun slow above them, slicing the warm air into lazier pieces. A single slat of sunlight fell across the bed, catching the curve of her hip, the damp imprint of his hand still faint on her thigh.

He was asleep now.

One arm across her waist. One knee crooked between hers, heavy and hot. His breath whistled low through his nose, lips parted just slightly -- like her name was still balancing there, waiting to be spoken again.

She hadn't moved yet. Didn't want to.

Her body still pulsed in tiny waves, aftershocks fluttering somewhere deep in her belly. Not just from the orgasm -- though it had been full and trembling -- but from the way he'd said it.

Amara.

Low. Raw. Right at the moment he'd emptied inside her. Voice cracked open. Eyes barely focused. Like the name had torn out of him without asking.

Not a question. Not a guess. Just a confirmation.

Her fingers brushed lightly over her lower stomach -- not checking, just... remembering. Her skin was still warm there. Marked. Claimed, in the gentlest way.

She'd never liked that word before. Claimed. Too heavy. Too possessive.

But here, now, with his arm around her waist and his breath curling against the back of her neck, it didn't feel like ownership.

It felt like anchoring.

She shifted slightly, trying not to wake him.

The sheets dragged against her thighs, still slick where they had joined. She didn't rush to clean it. Didn't reach for the tissue box or swing her legs off the bed like she used to -- like she had something to hide or undo.

Instead, she let it stay. That quiet mess between her legs.

Proof.

A seal.

He murmured something in his sleep -- a low hum, then a faint, broken sentence. "... still inside you," he mumbled, barely audible.

Her breath caught. She turned slowly, pressing her lips to his shoulder. Just once. No sound. No thank you. Not needed.

--

The room smelled like them now. Rose serum and sweat. The faint salt of her thighs. The echo of him.

Not just sex -- scented confirmation. She didn't need the candle tonight.

Didn't need to spritz the pillow or open her drawer of oils and creams.

The air already knew her name.

--

She woke before him.

Again.

Not because of alarms or habit -- but because her body had started rising to its own rhythm now. A rhythm shaped by breath and softness and satisfaction.

She lay still for a moment, the light creeping slow across the room, touching the floor first, then the edge of the dresser, then the pale sweep of the bedsheet pulled halfway down her thigh.

Her thighs were still sticky.

She liked that.

There was something sacred in not wiping it away right away -- in letting his presence linger where it had belonged, where it had been welcomed.

She touched the spot lightly. Not to clean. Just to feel. Then she smiled.

Not because of him. Not entirely.

Because of what it meant.

Because of what it did to her. For her.

By the time she'd padded to the bathroom and run warm water over her inner thighs, the mirror was fogged, her robe damp at the collar.

She looked at herself -- just long enough to nod.

The whiteboard still waited by the fridge, its soft little bullet points curled like a lullaby:

☀️ 7:30 -- Wake. Water. Breathe.

????‍♀️ 8:00 -- Sun salutations.

???? 8:45 -- Smoothie. Journal. Glow.

She'd added a new one, now.

???? 10:30 -- Melt.

Because that's what he did to her most days -- not just fucked her, but melted her. Spread her wide and slow and murmured her name like a balm.

Sometimes he took her from behind, slow and deep, kissing the back of her neck as she pressed her hips back to meet him.

Other times, he just... watched.

Let her ride him in silence while lo-fi beats played in the background and her lavender hoodie hung off one shoulder like a promise.

But her favorite was when he didn't fuck her at all. Just knelt between her thighs and rubbed his own together -- those lean, slightly muscular thighs that she had come to worship more than any touch.

He knew how much she loved that. Knew how the sight of him -- hips rocking gently, the muscles in his thighs flexing in rhythm, lips parted just enough -- could unravel her completely.

"You're so wet just watching me," he whispered once, rubbing a slow circle against her clit with one finger while his own breath stuttered.

"It's like you're the one getting fucked."

And she was. Every time. Because being seen like that -- wanted like that -- was the fuck.

--

By the time he stirred in bed, the robe was back on, loosely tied. Her thighs were clean, but still warm. She set the smoothie on the table, sage-colored leggings folded beside his coffee mug.

He smiled when he saw her. Still sleep-rumpled. Still half-hard.

"You already glowed up without me?" She shrugged. Smirked. "You were part of the glow."

He reached for her wrist, pulling her down into his lap, the robe slipping just enough to show her shoulder. "Want me to top you up?"

She laughed -- low, breathy. "It's not even noon."

"Doesn't have to be," he said, voice already sliding toward need."You're my favorite kind of ritual." And maybe that was the truth.

Her ritual had absorbed him now. Or maybe he had always been part of it -- just waiting for her to believe she deserved this kind of devotion.

--

She didn't mean to soft-launch him. Not really.

It started as a reel -- just her hands, tracing the rim of a matcha mug, hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles. Lo-fi playing. A shot of her thighs curled on the couch, pink socks and sage leggings. Then -- a wide frame: her in the kitchen, barefoot, blending a smoothie while a man's hand slid the glass toward her from the edge of the frame. Caption:

"Soft mornings > everything ???? #slowrituals #glowfromwithin"

It hit 60k views by dinner.

The comment section lit up:

"WAIT who's the hand??"

"ma'am is that your boyfriend??"

"drop the skincare OR the man. Preferably both."

"this feels like love."

She didn't respond. Didn't need to.

The next post sealed it, a mirror selfie in that petal-pink dress, her back slightly arched, hair in a claw clip, lip gloss glossy. His reflection just barely visible behind her -- out of focus, shirtless, bent over a book on her bed.

Her DMs quadrupled overnight.

Brand inquiries trickled in, tentative at first. A wellness supplement collab. Then an email from a rising clean skincare brand:

"Love your vibe. Would love to send PR. Possibly partner for an IG story routine?"

The box arrived in two days -- pastel packaging, embossed fonts, a handwritten card that said:

"To Amara -- you embody softness and strength. Can't wait to see you shine with us."

That weekend, she posted her first "get ready with me" reel in weeks. Her hair still damp from a bath.

Robe slipping at the collar. The camera angled soft, light pouring from the balcony. She dabbed on the rose toner. Smoothed the dew balm into her cheeks. Layered serum like a spell.

Halfway through, he walked by in the background -- towel low on his hips, hair tousled, grinning as he mouthed "you're ridiculous" just off-camera.

She didn't cut it. Let the smile stay.

That one hit 100k.

Two days later, FaeWear -- a mid-range activewear label -- offered a paid collab.

"You in lavender? We're obsessed. Let's work."

--

The emails kept coming.

A mushroom latte brand.

A homegrown sandalwood-scented candle startup.

A niche lingerie label that said, bluntly:

"We want women who look like they love being seen. You embody that."

--

Her feed transformed: still gentle, still grounded -- but laced now with glow. Stillness with edges. Ritual with heat. Her captions didn't brag. They hinted.

"He took this."

"Slow mornings and strong thighs."

"Not all heat needs fire."

In one reel, she wrapped herself in the beige hoodie, set her mug down beside his, and let their hands touch -- just long enough for followers to replay it five times.

"You're unreal together."

"He's so lucky."

"This energy?? This is the aesthetic."

Even her journal entries shifted tone.

Not "I want to be wanted."

But:

"I'm being seen the way I always should have been -- like someone made to be gazed at, adored, partnered."

"There's power in being posted barely. The almost of it. The suggestion."

--

She bought a new tripod. Invested in a backdrop. Ordered three new yoga sets -- one in blush, one in wine, one in sheer slate that made her skin look expensive.

Her feed finally felt like hers. Her name in DMs. In contracts. In emails starting with:

"Hi Amara, we love your softness. We love your story."

--

The first official invite came on cream cardstock with silver ink:

"You are cordially invited to the soft launch of Avyana Cove -- Goa's newest slow-living luxury retreat. Sundown cocktails, barefoot dinners, morning rituals. We'd be honoured to have you."

They even offered plus-one. She didn't hesitate.

They arrived just before golden hour.

The room was a corner villa, all wood and white linen, the balcony shaded by palm fronds, a private trail winding down to a fenced beach open only to retreat guests.

She posted a story the moment they walked in -- the ocean framed by a sheer curtain, his silhouette passing briefly behind her.

No tags. No faces.

Just:

"Here. Soft. Becoming."

#pressinvite #slowlivingretreat

--

The brand had sent her a welcome kit -- sunscreen balm in a tin, a sage green sarong, a glass water bottle with "Amara" etched in looping gold script. The bikini she'd packed was blush, high-waisted, bandeau top with ruched sides.

It fit her like the sea had known she was coming.

Tucked. Padded slightly. Nothing

obvious. Just... smooth. Curved. Presentable.

She posed by the pool.

Vihaan angled the phone just right -- waist to collarbone, one hand holding a drink, legs crossed delicately.

"You're insane," he muttered, smiling.

"You're perfect," she replied.

He didn't argue.

The photo went up an hour later.

Caption:

"She's soft. She's saltwater. She's seen."

#brandpartner #AvyanaCove #giftedstay

Comments poured in:

"Ma'am the GLOW."

"Who's taking these? That gaze??"

"You're unreal."

The brand reshared it within ten minutes. Three other labels followed them that night.

--

But the moment that stayed with her -- the one that never made it to stories -- was later.

Much later.

Past midnight, after cocktails and hors d'oeuvres and a slow, bare-footed walk down the winding beach trail.

The sky was a violet haze. The waves whispered slow against the shore.

She stood at the edge of the water, hair loose, the blush bikini still damp from a dip earlier. Rishi was behind her, hands on her waist, mouth warm against her shoulder.

"Are we allowed?" she whispered, barely turning. "No one's here," he said. "You are."

That was enough.

He fucked her there -- on the sand just past the rocks, where the wind drowned everything but them.

The bikini stayed on -- mostly. Just pushed aside, bottom half rolled down to her thighs.

He entered her slow. Deliberate. Deep.

She gasped the first time, hand clutching his wrist where it braced beside her, her knees scraping gently in the sand.

Her moans were soft, choked, full -- not from pain, but from being filled in every way she had ever needed. "Say it," she whispered against his ear.

"Amara," he gasped, voice breaking on it.

"Say it again."

"Amara--fuck, yes--this body--this--you're mine."

She came like a storm pulling itself inward. Quiet. Shaking. Shattered. Complete.

The waves kept crashing.

Like applause.

--

The next morning, she posted a reel.

Fifteen seconds of sea foam at dawn.

Water curling into the sand. A low, lo-fi loop playing softly underneath. But if you listened closely -- with headphones, with patience -- you could hear it. The faintest echo of her voice.

Breathless.

Half-broken.

Moaning.

--

No one in the comments said anything. But the saves skyrocketed.

The reel hit 200k. She didn't tag the brand. Didn't need to.

--

They stayed two more days after the launch. Every moment was intentional -- filmed or felt.

Vihan took pictures of her sipping rose tea on the villa deck, one leg curled beneath her, robe slipping off one shoulder just enough to glow. She captured him brushing her hair out of her face as she adjusted the tripod. They kissed between takes. They shared fruit straight from the cutting board. They made love in the afternoon sun, her name falling from his lips like punctuation.

The photo which was posted was in an outdoor tub, knees drawn up, robe slipping from her collarbone.

"Stillness is just another form of seduction."

It passed 120k in four hours.

By the time they checked out, she had five new brand emails, two product PR offers, and a DM from a slow fashion label:

"You embody ease and heat. Would love to collaborate."

Everything felt inevitable now.

--

On the way to the airport, they stopped at a boutique café tucked behind a gallery -- terracotta walls, chilled rose chai, a girl with a nose ring working the counter.

Amara paid. Tucked her sunglasses up into her hair. Smiled the way she always did -- with lips and presence.

The barista handed over the receipt, smiled back and said, "Amara, right?"

Simple. Clear. But something about the tone--just the faintest lilt of it--

Her heart clenched. Her chest stuttered. Because for a second--half a second--what she heard wasn't Amara.

What she heard was, "Ishaan, right?"

A rush of air filled her ears. Everything else muted. Like a hallway in her head opened and something walked through uninvited.

She blinked. Just once.

The barista was still smiling, handing her the cups. Still saying her name. "Amara."

Clearly.

Warmly.

No mistake.

She nodded. Took the cups. Stepped away. Didn't say anything. Didn't look at Vihan.

Not until they were outside, the air humid and salted again, the café door swinging closed behind them.

"You okay?" he asked gently, brushing her wrist with his fingers. She exhaled.

Laughed, quiet and too high. "Yeah. Just--too much sun, maybe."

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Didn't press. But her pulse didn't settle for hours.

--

Later, on the plane, she posted a muted reel of clouds outside her window.

Caption:

"Sometimes I hear names I don't answer to."

#AmaraOnly

The likes poured in. But she kept replaying the audio before bed.

Not the reel.

The memory.

Just trying to hear it again.

Did they say Amara?

Of course they did. But--What if?

--

The glow was still there. But it flickered now.

They'd been back two days.

The apartment smelled like rosewater and salt again, like it always did -- like safety. Her robe draped over the chair, her yoga set folded at the foot of the bed. The blender whirred with bananas and oats, spirulina trailing soft green swirls across the glass.

Everything looked like before. But something was missing. Not from the room.

From the rhythm. She still moved through her whiteboard schedule. Still drank from the glass etched with "Amara." Still filmed soft reels of her curling into herself on the couch.

But the breath between the actions was... tight. As if her body had stopped trusting its own timing.

She reached for the sage set that morning -- the one that always made her feel anchored.

But as she slipped the leggings over her hips, her mind spoke before her voice did:

This is how he used to stand.

She froze. Leggings half-pulled, the fabric hugging just above her thighs.

Her throat closed slightly.

--

Later, she posed in front of the mirror for a brand shoot -- high ponytail, white cotton crop top, matching scrunchie. Caption drafted in her head:

"Softness isn't weakness. It's design."

She lifted her phone. Smiled. Snapped three shots.

Paused.

Looked again.

In the third frame, her smile had tilted -- not wrong, just... off. As if the jaw remembered a version of itself it no longer belonged to.

The thought whispered itself:

That's how he used to smile. That's Ishaan's smile.

She shouted, "No... No, that's mine. Amara's"

She dropped her phone. It clattered against the dresser. Her breath hitched. Her chest pulsed. But she said nothing.

Just bent down, picked the phone back up, deleted all three photos.

--

Two days later, another parcel arrived.

Standard. Unbranded.

She opened it with one nail.

Pressed serum. Inside -- PR from a wellness label. A handwritten card on top:

"To Ishaan -- we hope this glow finds you well."

Her breath stopped. The letters blurred. She stared at the card for too long, the edges burning into her fingers. She looked away.

Looked back.

"To Amara -- we hope this glow finds you well."

Of course.

Of course.

Her mind was just playing games again. She crumpled the card and threw it in the bin -- too fast. Too sharp.

Vihan looked up from the couch. "Everything okay?"

She nodded, too quickly. "They used the wrong font. Gross design choice."

He didn't answer. But he didn't look away, either.

--

That night, she lay curled in his lap, the robe wrapped tight around her. His hand traced absent circles on her thigh, but his voice was careful. Slower.

"You've been... somewhere else lately."

"No I haven't," she said, too fast.

He nodded gently.

Didn't argue. "You don't have to tell me what it is," he said. "But it's okay if something's pulling at you."

"It's not," she said, eyes locked on the TV. "Okay," he whispered, pressing his lips to her shoulder.

But he didn't kiss her that night. And she didn't ask why.

--

Later, after he'd fallen asleep, she opened her journal. Her handwriting had changed. It wasn't dramatic -- not slanted differently, not bigger or smaller. Just... unfamiliar.

She traced the most recent entry with her finger:

"He looked at me like I was soft again."

But what she saw -- what her eyes wanted to read -- was:

"He looked at me like I was a mistake."

She blinked. The sentence corrected itself. But the damage was done. She shut the journal. Didn't light the candle. Slept in the robe. Didn't moisturize.

--

The scent the next morning was faint. Still there. But off-rhythm. Trailing just behind her, like a memory trying to catch up.

--

The campaign post for the wellness supplement went up that morning.

She was wearing the slate blue set -- bare midriff, hair braided to one side, a wooden spoon held near her lips with powder dusted across her fingers.

The caption read:

"Daily glow isn't magic. It's memory + minerals ???? #sponsored #GlowSupport"

But the light was wrong. Her eyes weren't focused. The editing was uneven -- whites too blown, skin too flat, warmth missing entirely. She hadn't used her usual presets. Hadn't even been color-balanced.

Vihan noticed. So did her followers.

"Are you okay?"

"This doesn't feel like you."

"Your old posts had so much more... you?"

She tried to ignore the comments. Pinned one that said "Still stunning ????", hoping it would drown out the rest.

But it didn't.

--

The next brand -- a tea company -- sent a reminder email:

"Just checking in -- we haven't received the final reel. Let us know if you need more time, or want to brainstorm direction again. We loved your energy in Goa."

She hadn't filmed anything yet. She couldn't even find the tea box. She thought she'd placed it on the dresser. But when she looked, there was a tangle of wires, an old comb, and--Her breath caught.

A cracked battered phone she didn't recognize. But kinda recognised. She reached for it--shaking--but blinked, and it was gone.

Just the comb. Just the wires.

--

It happened that evening. Something stupid. Small. Insignificant.

She was in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror with her robe open, looking at her chest. The serum hadn't sunk in properly. Her nipples didn't sit where she remembered them. The robe slipped. She adjusted. Adjusted again. "It's not mine,"

Then louder, like a protest. "This isn't mine."

Vihan was in the doorway. She didn't hear him at first. "What's not yours?"

She flinched. Spun too fast. "Nothing. I wasn't talking to you."

He stepped in, slow, careful. "Are you okay?"

"Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Because you keep disappearing."

That hit harder than it should have.

She turned away. Pretended to fix the sink. Her hands trembled. "I'm not disappearing. I'm here every day. I'm doing everything."

"You're going through the motions," he said softly. "You post, but it's not you. You smile, but it doesn't reach. You kiss me and I don't feel you anymore."

"That's not fair."

"Then talk to me, Amara."

"I am." Her voice cracked. "I'm doing my best."

"Then tell me why you look in the mirror like it's your enemy."

That made her stop. She stared at him. Not blinking.

"You think I don't know who I am?" she said, voice brittle.

"I think you're scared you don't," he replied, too gently.

Silence.

Too full.

Too raw.

She stepped back like she'd been slapped. "Get out."

"Amara--"

"Get out of the fucking bathroom."

--

She remembered brushing her teeth with the robe clutched too tight.

She remembered turning the journal page without reading it.

She remembered lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to slip in beside her like always -- thigh against thigh, arm over waist, mouth at her nape.

But he didn't.

Not then.

Not later.

Not at all.

--

She woke to quiet. Not silence -- just absence.

The robe was still around her shoulders. The candle had burned itself low.

His side of the bed was smooth.

Untouched. The hoodie he always slept in was gone from the chair.

So was his phone. So was he.

Her breath caught before her mind did. She stood too fast, scanned the room like something might be hiding.

Only the glow from her phone.

One notification.

From him.

Vihan. 3:21 AM.

I feel like I don't know you anymore.

I'm not angry. I just... can't keep pretending I'm inside something you won't let me touch.

If you ever want to tell me the truth -- the real truth -- call me.

I'll be there.

Always.

She stared at the message for a long time.

Read it twice. Then again. And all she could think was--

What truth?

What did he think she was hiding?

She wasn't hiding anything. She moisturized. She journaled. She glowed.

She wore the pink set for him because it made her ass look incredible. Because it made his mouth go soft and stunned.

She let him film her thighs curled under her on the couch.

She moaned for him.

She came for him.

She let him come inside her.

She called herself Amara every single day, with her breath, with her body, with every beat of rhythm she fought to hold onto.

So what the fuck was he asking for?

--

She dropped the phone on the bed.

Didn't cry.

Didn't reply.

Just stood in front of the mirror, untied her robe slowly.

Her skin was flushed -- from sleep, from heat, from disbelief.

She touched her waist.

Then her chest.

Then her cheek.

"You are who you say you are," she whispered.

"You are who you made yourself."

"You are not hiding."

"You are not pretending."

"You are Amara."

--

But the reflection didn't nod back. It just stood there.

Quiet.

Still.

Watching.

--

Chapter 8 - What Slips

It started with the scent.

Not its absence -- not entirely. But something thinner. Diluted.

It clung to the pillow the wrong way now. A little too high. A little too cold. Like someone had tried to mimic it using memory instead of musk.

She pressed her nose into the cotton anyway. Inhaled once. Again. Her lungs filled -- but the fullness didn't hold.

It smelled like product. Like laundry. Like intention. Not like her.

Not like skin warmed by belief. Not like the version of her she trusted to leave a trace.

--

The blender was too loud that morning. The sage leggings too loose at the ankle. The journal pages too white, too eager.

Her caption -- "Softness is a discipline" -- didn't land right. The font spacing looked off. Or maybe it was the light. Or maybe it was her.

She posted it anyway. Not to share -- to prove. To the algorithm. To herself. That she still existed in sequence.

Then stared at the view count. Refreshed. Twice.

It hovered. Stalled.

No comments in italics. No "you're unreal." No "this saved me."

Just one: "Early drop? Feels diff today ????"

She didn't know what that meant. But it stuck.

--

Vihaan hadn't replied to her last three messages.

Not the one with the heart.

Not the one that just said "miss the rhythm".

Not even the voice note she'd whispered in one breath, like prayer.

That morning, he replied with only four words, "Ready to talk whenever." No emoji. No timing. No Amara.

Just... a neutral keycard. Offered, not turned.

--

She didn't message Vihaan again. She showed up. Not dressed to impress -- not really.

The hoodie was slightly damp from a rinse, sleeves tugged too far past her wrists. Her leggings were the sage ones, snug at the waist but soft at the knees, faintly pilled where thighs had touched too often. No gloss. Just a tight bun. A face stripped back to bone.

She rang twice. Then once more, softer.

The door opened slower than it used to.

Vihaan stood in a loose t-shirt, greying at the collar, hair messier than she remembered.

His face didn't light up. But it didn't close either. "Hey," he said, voice low.

His eyes searched hers. "You okay?" She nodded. A second too fast.

Then walked past him, wordless. Her shoulders brushed his chest -- intentional, weightless, desperate for friction.

He watched her step past like someone walking a line she'd drawn for herself. The part of him that loved her wanted to reach. The part that feared losing her... stayed still.

--

She set her tote down carefully. Unzipped the hoodie. Let it hang open, not fallen -- just enough to show the outline of her collarbone, the top curve of the sports bra.

She looked back at him. He hadn't moved from the door. She smiled -- not joyfully. Not seductively. Like muscle memory, like habit.

He didn't smile back. "I thought maybe we could talk," he said, gently.

She stepped forward. "We can." One more step. "But let me say it first--" And then she dropped.

To her knees.

Not collapsing. Not crumbling.

Just... arriving.

Like this was where she belonged. Where the rhythm began.

She looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes -- that same look she used to give just before kissing his hip, just before pulling his breath into her mouth.

Her hands were trembling.

But not with fear.

With intent.

With need.

She reached.

Touched the waistband of his shorts. Felt the warmth of him underneath. His body responded -- instinct, not invitation.

Her breath hitched. Her mouth opened -- lips parted, ready. Like she could fix this. Like she could root herself in this act. She used to feel power in this -- mouth open, gaze lifted.

Now it felt like trying to light a match underwater.

Like she could fix this. Like she could root herself in this act. "Please," she whispered, voice cracking. "Let me... remind you."

Vihaan flinched -- not back, just inside. His hand hovered above her hair, like he didn't know whether to hold her or stop her.

"Amara--" She shook her head quickly. Desperate.

"This is how we talk. This is how you know it's me." She stroked him harder. Rubbed with increasing pressure, willing his body to remember.

"You used to love this."

"You used to moan when I looked up like this."

"You said I was better like this. Remember?"

He stepped back. Just a half-step. Enough to make her hand drop. Enough to still his breath. "I didn't say that," he said, voice quieter than before.

"I said I loved you. That's not the same." She froze.

Her knees ached. Her palm hung in the air. She didn't blink. "Then let me be loved," she whispered. "Like this. Please."

Vihaan crouched slightly. Brought himself to her eye level. He hated seeing her like this -- not because she was vulnerable, but because she thought this was all she had left.

He wanted to hold her. God, he wanted to. But not like this. Not while she was trying to bury whatever was breaking her beneath his body.

Because the girl he'd fallen for had once lit up a room just by moving through it barefoot, journal tucked under her arm, a spoon of nut butter balanced on her lip.

"I do love you," he said. "Still do." She closed her eyes at that. Felt it like a wound opening again.

"Then why won't you feel me?" she asked. "I'm right here. I'm real right now."

"Take it. Just take it. That's all I need."

He exhaled, deeply. His hands on his thighs. Steadying. "Because I don't know what I'm taking anymore," he said, finally.

"Because you're not asking me to feel you."

"You're asking me to surrender to a ghost."

"And I want to know you again. Not the rhythm. Not the glow. You."

His voice trembled -- not with anger. With ache. With loss already lived and lived again.

"Please talk to me. Tell me what's hurting."

"Tell me what's chasing you inside your own skin."

But she couldn't. She didn't know.

She only knew that if he touched her the way he used to -- if he gave in just a little -- it would click back into place. The weight. The presence. The rightness.

"I can't say it," she whispered.

"But I can show it. Please. Please, Vihaan..."

Her hand moved again. Fingers trembling. He didn't flinch this time. But he didn't harden either. He placed his hand over hers. Firm. Final. Held it there like a closing gesture.

"If you're not here to talk..."

"Then go."

Her hand fell. Her breath stopped. For just a second -- the silence felt like the end of a reel.

A moment cut short.

No caption.

No sound.

Just air.

She stood slowly. Not with grace. Not with control. She didn't meet his eyes. She didn't zip the hoodie.

Didn't even notice it slipping off one shoulder, tugged sideways by her bag strap. The wind brushed her skin like a breath she hadn't asked for. Her sports bra clung with sweat, stretched too thin across her ribs. The sage leggings rode low on one hip, waistband twisting with every step.

She didn't fix it.

She couldn't.

Turned toward the door.

Paused.

"I don't know what I am without this," she said quietly. "Without you... feeling me like that."

He swallowed hard. "Then let's find out together."

"But not like this."

She didn't answer. She just stepped outside. Closed the door behind her. It didn't click. It shut.

--

The streets were too bright. Too full.

A man on a scooty slowed as he passed. Looked back once. Then again.

Another leaned against a railing, unlit cigarette in mouth, letting his gaze drag across her like grease.

She tried to walk straighter.

Didn't work.

Her feet scuffed slightly at the edges -- her rhythm off even in something as simple as pavement.

--

She passed a glass storefront -- some home decor shop, closed for the night. The security shutter was only half down. Lights still on inside. The window caught her reflection.

At first, it was her. Exhausted. Wild-eyed. Hoodie slipping. Collarbone sharp. Then -- it wasn't.

The reflection moved half a second behind. Its mouth twisted. Eyes narrowed. And then it spoke.

"Look at you."

"You ruined me."

"You stole me and turned me into this."

"You think soft skin makes you sacred?"

"You think rubbing his dick makes you real?"

"You're just a glitch with lip balm."

She stumbled back. Nearly tripped over the curb. A rickshaw honked. Someone cursed.

She blinked hard -- once, twice -- trying to realign the image. But the reflection stayed warped.

It didn't echo her anymore.

It watched her. With teeth.

She pulled the hoodie tighter -- too late -- and walked faster.

Her throat felt thick. The skin behind her knees buzzed.

At the next crossing, a biker whistled. She didn't look. Didn't flinch. Just crossed like a shadow.

"You don't get to talk to me like that," she whispered aloud, even though no one was there.

"You don't know what I've been through." But the voice echoed anyway -- not in her ears. In her ribs.

"You don't know who you are anymore."

--

By the time she reached her building, her palms were damp. Her jaw hurt from clenching. The scent under her hoodie was all salt and panic -- no rosewater. No breath.

She didn't take the lift.

She climbed the stairs one step at a time -- like each one might ground her.

But her body felt like borrowed weight

This is the punishment,

Not for pretending.

For daring to remember.

For trying to take Amara back before they erased her again.

--

She didn't remember unlocking the door. Didn't remember taking off her shoes. Didn't remember the flick of the bathroom light, or the sound it made when it buzzed, then burned out.

The only thing she knew was mourning. And that something was wrong.

--

Light slanted across the tiles in strange angles. A narrow strip of sun leaking through the frosted pane. Dust motes drifted in the beam like glitter someone had given up on.

Her cheek was pressed to the floor -- cool, slightly wet near the drain.

She wasn't dressed.

Or maybe she was. The robe was tangled under her, one sleeve soaked, the sash missing. Her bra was still on, but twisted. The panties -- lavender, seamless -- were pulled halfway down one thigh, stretched, stained.

There was blood on the tile.

Just a little. A small rusted arc, drying at the edge of her groin. Another thin smear trailing down her inner thigh. Like something had scratched its way out. Or in.

Her head throbbed, dull and pulsing. Her lips were cracked. One arm asleep. She didn't move right away. She just breathed -- short, shallow.

Listening for memory.

Waiting for narrative.

Nothing came.

--

When she finally pushed herself up, her elbows shook.

She glanced down. Four faint red lines. Parallel. Like something clawed or carved. Not deep enough to need gauze, but deep enough to ache.

"Did I..."

Her voice didn't finish the question.

She didn't remember pain. She didn't remember intention. She just remembered stillness. And then: this.

--

The mirror above the sink had fogged halfway from her breath or the night's humidity. Her reflection looked blurred -- jaw uneven, eyes puffy, lip raw from being bitten.

She didn't meet her gaze. Not yet. She touched the cuts lightly. Felt the sting. Felt the truth of it. Then whispered:

I'm still here.

I didn't disappear again.

Not this time.

--

She rinsed her thigh with warm water. Watched the pink spiral down the drain. But even as she cleaned herself, something inside stayed unwashed. Like there was something darker sitting behind the blood. Like the body had done something the mind wasn't allowed to witness.

"They're trying to glitch me," she muttered. "Trying to reset the rhythm."

She pressed her hand to her chest.

Felt the heartbeat -- faint, unsteady, real.

Then she stood. Wrapped the robe around her body again, loose and slow. And walked to the drawer. She pulled out Amara's journal.

Not for comfort.

For confirmation.

"I need to remember what they took," she whispered. "I need to find what they've overwritten."

She has started flipping through the journal to the earliest pages -- not looking for poetry this time, or signs of peace.

She was hunting.

For proof.

For memory.

"Today the rotis puffed right. Ma would be proud."

"I held the grief behind a filter. No crying reel. Just presence."

"They liked me softer. So I stayed small."

Each line hit like a recovered injury.

"That was me," she whispered.

"I made those rotis."

"I filtered that grief."

"I remember that bruise -- I covered it in peach concealer."

She began reading for hours at a time -- hunched in bed, hoodie unwashed, towel still damp from the first morning she tried to recover rhythm.

The scent had vanished again.

Even the candle didn't help. She lit it anyway. Read through the smoke like code. Like she could debug herself back into coherence.

She saw flashes in her periphery -- shadows moving behind her even when the room was still. Sometimes, just as she was about to speak, she swore another breath echoed hers.

The mirror now flickered like poor reception.

First: her.

Then: someone else.

A boy -- thin, unassuming, in an old oversized t-shirt and track pants. Not frightening. Not familiar. Just... off. Like a stranger who lives where her reflection should be.

Standing slack-shouldered, toothbrush still in his mouth. His eyes were dulled. His jaw unshaven. He looked like someone waiting to disappear.

She stared at him for a long time.

Didn't blink.

Didn't scream.

Just tilted her head. "Who are you?" she whispered. No answer. But a flicker passed through her ribs. Not recognition. Not quite.

Like almost remembering someone who used to live inside.

Later that night, a strange smell curled into the room -- not from a candle, not from her creams.

Faint rust. Boiled tea. Metal and memory. She paused mid-sentence, journal open in her lap.

Inhaled. And felt her chest seize -- not in recognition. But in proximity. Like a door almost opening. Like a voice she'd heard before, but only through walls.

"I know this," she whispered. "I've been here before."

But she didn't know when. Or how. Or who.

--

She missed three brand emails. The latte company sent a follow-up:

"Just checking in -- can we get draft content by Friday?"

She didn't reply. The skincare brand emailed again, subject line in soft lowercase:

"glow update? hope you're okay ????"

Still nothing. She tried filming twice. Both times she looked at the draft footage and deleted it instantly. Her eyes weren't holding light right. Her mouth didn't know where to smile.

The comments under her last reel had slowed to a trickle.

The DMs were quiet.

The glow was dim.

So she posted something else. Not soft. Not sacred. Just... visible.

A shot of her in the mirror, arch exaggerated, hoodie unzipped, one hand in her hair, the other trailing the waistband of her panties.

Caption:

"No ritual today. Just ruin."

She watched the views climb. Watched the comments drip in:

"god."

"you're unreal."

"this hurt in a good way."

"i'd crawl."

Each one sent a little rush to her chest. Not warmth.. Just proof. A pulse of presence.

--

That night she sent Vihaan a photo. No caption. Just her body -- stretched across the bed in the pale blue set he once said made her look like breath incarnate. The neckline was lower now.

She'd pulled it that way. Her thigh was angled just so. A single hand at her mouth.

No reply. Not in the morning. Not the next night.

She sent another. Less curated. More skin. Still nothing.

"He doesn't want me," she whispered.

"He thinks I'm someone else."

--

She went back to the journal. This time she wrote the entries. Whispered them, sentence by sentence, until her voice shook.

"I was born from a dead girl's glow."

"I cried on camera. That was me."

"I said I'd disappear. And I did. But they dragged me back."

- Amara

--

She stopped writing once -- only to vomit. Then returned to the same page, lips pressed to the ink like she could taste her own handwriting.

Her followers began commenting:

"you okay?"

"this feels different."

"you're still glowing but it hurts now."

"come back."

She didn't know where they thought she'd gone. She was still here. Still reading. Still becoming.

She read an another old entry. This one shorter.

Just a list:

"serum. tears. soft pink light. bruise just under the ribs. pretend it's from sex."

She pressed her hand under her own ribs. Felt nothing.. Scratched lightly until the skin reddened.. Then took a photo. Posted it.

Caption:

"Do you believe me yet?"

It was meant just for Vihaan.

--

That night, she stood in the bathroom again. Barefoot. Hoodie off. Robe half-draped, clinging to her elbow like hesitation. The overhead light flickered once, then steadied.

The mirror had fogged from her breath. Again. But it wasn't her reflection that waited. Not entirely. This time, the figure on the other side blinked first.

Then tilted its head. Not mirrored. Not delayed. Independent.

She stared. So did it. It smiled -- not cruel, not warm. Just tired. Worn down by impersonation.

Then it spoke.

"You're not real."

Four words.

Flat. Mechanical.

But they landed like a slap.

Not on skin.

On self.

"What?" she whispered. No answer.

Just the mirror -- still, flat, watching. Her own face flickered back into frame. But it didn't feel like her anymore. It felt borrowed. Worn. Rendered.

"You don't get to say that," she said.

"You don't get to decide who's real."

The scent in the air had thinned again -- only candle smoke now. No rose. No warmth. Only static. Only breath.

"I am Amara," she said, louder now.

"I've always been."

"You're the glitch."

"Not me."

The mirror flickered again -- that same unassuming boy in old t-shirt and track pants, brushing his teeth like he'd never left. And this time... he looked up. Met her gaze. And mouthed the words again

"You're not real."

She screamed. Not loud. Just sharp. From the ribs.. A breath turned blade. She grabbed the nearest thing -- the blush-toned candle jar -- and hurled it at the glass.

It shattered on impact. Shards rained down into the sink like static made solid. Fragments everywhere. Tiny glints of her -- too many to name. Too small to put back.

She stood there, shaking. Breathing in glass and smoke.

The mirror didn't speak again. But the crack down the center still whispered

"Someone will always remember her better than you."

--

Chapter 9 - What Screams

The numbers were the first to go. Not all at once -- just slowly enough to feel like rot instead of rupture.

Her latest reel -- the mirror arch, the soft bite of lip, the barely-there thong -- didn't even break a thousand likes. No saves. No shares.

The caption had read:

"Let me be enough this time."

It wasn't.

The next post -- half-dressed in lavender, knee on the counter, eyes glazed and mouth parted -- fared worse. Six hundred likes. One comment.

"babe this ain't you."

Her story views tanked overnight. Used to sit around 48K. Then 31K. Then 12K.

Now? Under 900.

She opened her email. Let the horror unfold.

Subject line: RE: Faewear Partnership - Update

"Hi Amara,

Thanks again for your energy this month. After internal review, we've decided to pause on upcoming deliverables and explore new alignments. Appreciate your time and artistry."

Best,

Team Faewear ????

The next one was worse. The skincare brand she'd practically built her glow on -- rose balm, the night mist, the serum she'd whispered over like prayer.

"Hey Amara -- sending light.

We've had to pivot content focus this quarter. Unfortunately, we won't be moving forward with the IG story series.

You've been a dream to watch. Wishing you softness."

???? Glowlight PR

She stared at the screen for ten whole minutes. Didn't blink. Didn't close it. Just... absorbed. As if her own disappearance was being emailed to her in lowercase.

That night, she posted a carousel.

Three shots:

- Her bare shoulder in warm lamplight.

- Her torso half-covered by bedsheets.

- A close-up of her thighs, spread just slightly, gloss between them catching the flash.

Caption:

"this is the last time i ask nicely."

It sat at 462 likes. Twenty-three hours in.

She wanted to scream. But even that felt like content. Like something someone would quote, repost, remix. So she didn't.

Not yet.

She just sat there, robe half-open, scrolling her own archive. Looking for the moment it all went wrong. But every post still looked like her. Even the ones from before the glitch. Before the scent thinned. Before the reflection fractured.

"They're muting me," she whispered.

"They're pretending I never existed."

She checked Vihaan's messages. No reply. No seen status. No blue tick. Just the ghost of a sent photo. Her thigh. Her mouth. The caption she didn't even remember typing

"I can still be real if you want."

The algorithm had stopped answering. The numbers were dead. The gaze was gone. So she turned inward.

--

First: the drawer. Back of the dresser. Bottom compartment. The silk pouch still folded like a secret.

Her fingers moved automatically -- tracing the toys like prayer beads. One, two, three. A wand. A plug. The rosebud clit stim with the flickering pulse. She laid them on the bed like offerings. Lit the candle anyway -- even though the scent had faded to wax and regret. She pressed play on the old lo-fi playlist. Lowered the lights. Slipped out of the robe.

Her body didn't respond. Not at first. She tried the wand. Pressed it to the soft place just above the ache. Nothing. She circled harder. Changed the setting. Flipped to the one that used to make her hips lift on instinct. Still nothing. Just pressure. Like trying to remember a name that no longer belonged to her.

She closed her eyes. Tried to conjure Vihaan's voice. Tried to picture the way he used to kneel between her thighs and murmur Amara like it was something sacred.

Instead, she saw the mirror crack again.

Heard:

"You're not real."

Her breath caught -- not in pleasure. In panic. She turned the toy off. Threw it across the bed like it had betrayed her.

Sat up.

Face flushed, but not from heat.

From failure.

"If I can't come," she whispered,

"I can't be seen."

"If I can't glow, I'll burn."

--

She stood. Walked to the closet. Opened the section she rarely touched -- the one with dresses too sheer, too short, too bold for soft rituals. Tonight was not about softness. Tonight was about proof.

She picked the sluttiest one.

A sheer scarf-top knotted loose over her chest, barely anchored, and a micro mini-skirt in blush pink that threatened to ride up with every step. Skin everywhere. Legs endless. It didn't hide anything -- it made her body the message.

She didn't wear underwear. Didn't want to feel blocked.

Bra? No.

Jewelry? Just hoops.

Just panties. As ritual. To feel secure.

She did her makeup like armor. Lids dusted in sunlit bronze, like heat shimmer off stone. Liner winged wide, unapologetic. Lips glazed in peach gloss -- slick, kissable, dangerous. Blush sunk low and warm, as if she'd just come back from sin. Brows feathered and lifted, almost cocky.

She didn't look like the Amara from the reels. She looked like something that wanted to be seen. Something you follow into a ruined alley and forget your name for.

She looked in the mirror. It flickered again. The boy was there for a second. Shirtless now.

Then gone.

Just her.

Too much her.

She sprayed scent across her collarbone. Too much of it. Let it pool in her cleavage, behind her ears, along the curve of her thighs.

"Now look," she said.

Look at me now.

She picked heels she hadn't touched in months. Five inches. Nude patent. Strappy, impossible to walk quietly in. She never wore heels this high -- not in this life.

They weren't built for sun salutations or smoothie shots or barefoot reels with lo-fi tracks. They were made for impact.

For being seen before being spoken to. For turning necks. She liked that. Tonight, she needed that.

Her hair was curled to perfection. Big, soft waves. Edges laid. Parted just enough to reveal brow bone and intention. She sprayed it with the expensive setting mist -- the one that smelled like fig and faint threat. Then stared at her reflection.

Flawless. Gloss on lips. No smudge. No blur.

"Untouched gold," she whispered.

"Polished. Sharpened. Ready."

She didn't want the wind to undo it. Didn't want the night air to tangle her into chaos before she even arrived. So she booked a cab. Luxury option. Quiet driver. Clean seats.

She watched herself in the rearview mirror the whole way there -- like she was filming her own entrance. Every blink deliberate.

Every breath curated.

Like the algorithm was still watching.

When the driver asked if she had a preferred route, she said, "Whatever gets me seen the fastest."

--

The city slid past the window like a reel she didn't post. Lights. Neon. Flickers of faces she didn't know. She sat tall. Back straight. Knees just barely parted. One hand on her thigh. The other holding nothing but her own reflection in the darkened glass.

By the time the cab pulled up to the bar, her heart was still steady. Because it wasn't fear she carried anymore.

It was performance.

It was punishment.

And she was dressed for both.

She didn't wait in line. Gold doesn't queue.

Not when it gleams like this.

Not when the doorman clocks her from five bodies away and steps aside like gravity itself just shifted.

"Evening, ma'am," he said, eyes flicking down her legs, up her lips.

She didn't respond.

Didn't need to.

Just walked past -- heels clicking like punctuation.

--

The bass hit first. Thick. Slow. Sexual. The kind of beat that rolls over collarbones and pulls drinks to lips just a second faster. Lights low. Crowd dense. Sweat already alive in the air.

She moved through it like the eye of a storm.

Heads turned.

Two men at the bar stopped mid-conversation. A woman nudged her friend and whispered something -- a compliment maybe, maybe envy, maybe both. Someone's hand brushed her arm as she passed. Deliberate.

For the first time in days, her spine straightened on its own. She felt taller. Realer. Not scrolling. Not desperate.

Just seen.

Like the room was remembering her in real-time.

This is it.

This is how it starts again.

This is how she comes back.

She slid onto a barstool. Crossed her legs. Ordered something clear and burning. Didn't sip. Just held the glass like a prop in a story only she could write.

The DJ dropped the beat lower. Her heel tapped in time. Someone was still staring -- to her left.

Young. Broad-shouldered. Face lit by red LEDs. Jaw tensed. His eyes hadn't moved since she walked in.

Perfect. She let her gaze drift back.

Met his. Just long enough to confirm.

Still got it.

Still Amara.

Still fire beneath soft skin.

Her heart fluttered. Not from nerves. From rhythm. It was back. She was almost sure of it.

She was right.

She said I just had to take back the power.

They tried to erase her.

But she's still here. She's in me.

She is me.

She uncrossed her legs, slowly. Skirt riding up the danergous zone.

Sipped the drink. Let the liquor burn a path down her throat. Eyes locked with his. Then she smiled. Not softly. Not sweetly. Like a promise. Or a dare.

He didn't make her wait long. By the time she finished her second sip, he was there -- tall, dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, scent like whiskey and synthetic confidence.

He leaned in, close enough to feel his breath on her collarbone. "You always look this good," he asked, "or just when you want something?"

She smiled -- slow, amused. "Who says I want anything?"

He grinned. Looked down. Let his eyes travel the length of her bare legs, lingering where the blush-pink skirt barely held on, a sliver away from revelation.

"You showed up like gold."

"Nobody shines like that by accident."

She let her fingers trail lightly across his chest. Felt the muscle beneath the cotton. Let her thumb circle, once, above his sternum. He felt solid under her hand.

Movable.

Containable.

Like something she could handle.

His hand found her upper thigh. Bold. Smooth. Not tentative -- entitled.

She didn't stop him. She opened her legs just slightly, enough for his palm to settle higher. Right near the curve of her hip. And still, she was the one who moved.

The one who gave permission.

This is the difference.

When I want it, it's not a theft.

It's worship.

She leaned forward, close to his ear. Let her lips brush the edge of his jaw. "Smell me."

He did. Inhaled -- neck, collarbone, that hollow beneath her ear. She smelled like roses and heat and want. The exact formula she'd chosen. The one they always remembered.

His hand slid higher. Nestled just under the soft weight of her breasts.

She didn't flinch. She arched. Just a little. Just enough.

I built this.

This body. This scent. This moment. It's mine.

The DJ dropped a deeper track. Lower. Slower.

She rose from the stool. Held out her hand. He took it. She led him to the dance floor. The lights were red now. Gold. Flickering like sin behind fog. The crowd was moving in waves -- hips and sweat and necks thrown back in pleasure.

She didn't dance with him. She danced against him. Pressed her back to his chest.

Moved her hips slow. Let him catch the rhythm she set.

This is what glow means.

This is what they forgot.

He gripped her waist. Pulled her tighter. She let him. His thing slotted between hers.

She rocked against it -- slow, intentional. She could feel it getting hard.

She smiled.

He's not leading this.

I am.

They took the gaze, but they didn't take this.

He dipped his mouth to her shoulder. Bit lightly.

His hands slid beneath the loose folds of the scarf top -- fingertips brushing the warm underside of her breasts, thumbs trailing upward, slow and possessive.

One hand stayed low. Curled around her stomach. Held her in place.

I could make him beg.

I could make him kneel.

That's my power.

She closed her eyes. Let the song carry her. Let the sweat gather. Let the gaze fall thick. She turned to face him. Dragged one finger down his chest. Then took his hand in hers. Guided it lower. Lower. Until it found the hem of her skirt -- then slipped under. Cupped the curve of her ass, bare beneath the pink fabric, warm from movement and the beat in her hips.

She held it there. Pressed into it, slow, deliberate. Let him feel just how much she wanted, to be wanted. Let him know this wasn't a question. It was permission. It was power.

I'm Amara.

Touching me was always inevitable.

He leaned forward, lips brushing her cheek. Then let his hardness graze her midriff -- unmistakable now, pressing through the space where fabric forgot to cover.

Hot. Pressed. Intentional. "Somewhere quieter," he said.

She didn't speak. She just smiled. And followed.

They moved through the crowd like gravity. He led. But his hands never left her -- one firm at her waist, the other guiding gently at her lower back.

Not resting. Not drifting. Holding. Directing. Fingers pressing through the soft pink fabric like a private signal only she could read.

Every step they took, she could feel the pressure of him behind her.

The heat.

The weight.

And she liked it.

They passed through a side corridor -- low-lit, quiet, painted with flickers of bathroom neon and security LEDs.

Nobody stopped them.

Nobody looked twice.

She could still hear the bass behind them -- muffled now, like memory -- but it didn't matter. The rhythm was in her.

His palm slid upward, fingers tracing along her stomach, until his thumb rested just beneath the curve of her breasts -- warm and steady under the loose fall of fabric.

She stepped harder into it. Pressed her ass against him with each stride.

She could feel him -- hard and steady -- behind the zipper of his jeans.

The swell of him dragging lightly with each step.

This is it.

This is what she meant.

This is the power they were afraid of.

"Where?" she asked.

His eyes swept the parking lot, dimly lit and almost empty. A row of cars. Some bushes. A concrete ramp curling around into deeper dark. He tilted his head toward the far side. "There."

She nodded. Didn't hesitate. Just turned. Walked toward it. He followed -- hand still on her. Her heels clicked louder now on concrete.

Each step felt like punctuation.

Proof.

They can't rewrite me.

Not when I move like this.

I'm Amara.

And they always follow.

They reached the far end of the lot -- behind the dumpsters, where the light didn't reach. The concrete was damp, the air still, buzzing faintly with a streetlamp hum. And before the moment could settle, she dropped. To her knees.

Fast.

Fluid.

Like choreography.

Like this was where the scene was always meant to go.

His pants were unzipped before the cold could catch them. His cock out in a flash. And in her mouth the next breath.

No teasing. No lead-up. Just heat. Weight. Rhythm. She took him deep, jaw wide, cheeks hollowed, like something sacred.

Something ritual.

She moaned once -- just enough to let him know: this wasn't surrender.

This was performance.

She was in control.

She had him in her mouth.

She had him reacting.

His hand gripped her hair. Tight.

For a second, she felt it -- the return. The glow. The grip of power low in her belly, spreading through her thighs.

They can't erase this.

This is mine. My mouth. My control. My choice.

But then--He shifted. Hard. His hands, no longer reverent, shoved her down further.

She gagged. Tried to pull back. He held her there. Laughing. A low, twisted sound from the back of his throat. Like this was a game he'd already won.

She slapped his thigh once, a warning. He slapped back -- not her hand. Her face. Open palm. Sharp. Fast. Then both hands on her chest -- grabbing, yanking.

Fingers fisting the scarf-top, tugging it hard. Too rough. Too sudden A knot slipped loose. Fabric gave way. She heard it -- the soft rasp of silk unraveling One breast bared to the air, nipple tightening in the sudden cold.

She gasped, pulling back, eyes watery, spit smeared at the corner of her mouth. But she still felt the power -- flickering, fragile, but there.

Because he was still reacting to her. Still hard. Still hungry.

Even now.

I'm the reason he's losing control.

And he saw it. Saw the smile tugging at the corner of her lip. The way her thighs were already slick beneath her dress. He bent down, voice rough, breath hot against her skin.

Fingers inching toward her inner thigh. "You're one wet bitch, aren't you?"

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her whole body was an answer.

But then--It happened.

Not slowly.

Not in words.

In instinct.

In revulsion.

His hand moved too fast. Pushed her away -- hard. She fell backwards, hands scraping concrete.

The cold kissed her exposed chest. Her heel twisted. She gasped. Looked up.

Confused. Still believing he'd pull her back in. But he didn't.

He stared. Eyes wide now. Not with want. But with disgust.

"You sick fuck," he spat. "What are you?"

She tried to speak. Didn't find breath. He stepped back. Zipped his pants with fury, not urgency. Eyes darting -- like someone might have seen.

"Fucking freak." He spat again, on her. A thick splatter on her bare chest.

Then turned and ran.

She didn't move, didn't cry. Just sat there.

Scarf top undone. Knees scraped. Spit drying on her breastbone. The cold now no longer clarifying.

Just cold.

She didn't move for a while. Not even after the footsteps vanished into the night. Not even after the spit on her chest cooled and crusted in the air.

She sat there. In the gravel. Between two parked cars.

Bare thighs streaked with dirt. Hair tangled. Her mouth slightly open. Whispering something. Mouthing words. Fragments. Even she didn't know what they meant.

"rhythm...

... soft...

... control...

... glow, glow, glow--"

Her voice cracked and reset. Like a broken reel on loop. Her hands twitched in her lap, tracing invisible patterns on her own thighs. Like she was still editing a caption that never posted. Like this moment could be cropped and re-lit.

Eventually, she reached for the loosened top. Tried to pull the fabric across her chest. But the scarf had slipped too far, the knot undone, the silk crumpled and twisted beneath her breasts. One end hung limp at her side, the other barely clinging to her shoulder. There was no fixing it.

So she held it anyway. Just to cover something. Anything.

She tried to stand. Her left heel held. The right gave way instantly -- the plastic cracking under her weight. She stumbled and wobbled. Caught herself on a car mirror. Took the heels off. Dropped them beside the curb without looking.

Then walked, barefoot.

No destination.

No phone.

Just the city swallowing her one street at a time. People stared. Of course they did. Some laughed. One man whistled. Someone said "fucking junkie" under their breath. She didn't hear them or maybe she did. But they didn't exist inside the rhythm. Only she did.

"power...

... real...

... remember me..."

She didn't know how long she walked or where she turned orr when the gravel became pavement, then sidewalk, then stairs. But eventually she was home.

At her door, then inside.

Her feet were blackened. Bleeding slightly. The torn dress clung like second skin, damp with sweat and whatever she'd lost along the way. She dropped the fabric in the hallway.

Didn't hang it.

Didn't fold it.

Just let it slide off her like it was never hers to begin with.

She walked to the mirror. But didn't look. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

Instead, she whispered one more time. Voice hoarse, cracked.

"Amara.

Rhythm.

Control.

Glow.

Amara."

The first thing she noticed were her panties. Still on. Barely. Crusted now between the legs -- tacky with dried slick, the cotton stiff against her thighs and still wet. Like her body had kept responding long after she'd left it. Like she'd been coming the whole way home.

She peeled them down slowly, the fabric sticking to her. No tenderness in the act. Just necessity. Her breasts still held traces of him -- dried spit across the sternum, red finger-imprints beneath the softness.

Her nipples were sore. One scratched raw, maybe by his nail, maybe by hers. Her knees were scraped. Elbows too. Palm bruised.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Just for a second. Face blotched. One cheek slightly swollen from the slap. Mascara smeared in spider-leg streaks across her cheekbones. Lips cracked. Lip liner rubbed off.

Still, she was beautiful.

Still, she was Amara.

She turned on the shower.

Not too hot. Not too cold.

Just warm enough to mimic being held.

Stepped in slowly.

Let the water hit her scalp first.

Then shoulders.

Then spine.

She didn't cry.

Didn't tremble.

She just began to wash.

Started with her hair.

Conditioner. Double shampoo.

She scrubbed hard.

Rinsed twice.

Watched the dark makeup swirl down the drain.

"Rhythm," she whispered.

"Follow it."

She exfoliated her arms. Shaved what didn't need shaving. Washed between her toes. Cleaned the blood from her knee. Pressed gently on the breastbone, where the spit had dried.

Then she stepped out. Patted her skin dry. Moisturized. Thighs first. Then belly. Then elbows. Her hands moved on instinct -- circles, pressure, patting. As if preparing to film a reel. As if softness would save her.

She said it again. Quieter this time.

"Rhythm.

Follow it.

Glow.

Glow."

Then she collapsed. Not a faint. Not a scream. Just a quiet sinking. Back to the bathroom floor. Cheek to tile. Arms slack. Eyes wide open.

She stayed there. The scent of rose balm thick in the air. The sound of her breath, shallow. The weight of herself, heavy and alone.

She woke up on the floor. Cold tile beneath her cheek. Her robe half-slipped beneath her spine, towel tangled near her calves. The air smelled like mildew and lavender lotion, stale and clinging. Her mouth was dry. Her limbs ached like she'd run ten miles and then been dragged ten more.

It was still dark outside or dark again. Hard to tell. The windows offered no clues -- just their usual soft shimmer of distant streetlights, the occasional smear of a headlight bending through blinds.

The clock on the oven blinked 3:07. She didn't know if that meant morning or afternoon or which day.

Her phone was somewhere. Dead, maybe or turned off.

She didn't check. She didn't want to know.

"A day?"

"Two?"

"Does it matter?"

Her thighs still burned. When she moved, she felt the stick of dried balm on her skin -- the kind that never truly sank in, only coated. Her breasts ached. One nipple scabbed slightly. Her cheek still ached faintly from the slap.

The body keeps score, they say. But she no longer remembered who was keeping it. She sat up. Slowly.

The room tilted, then steadied. She drank two handfuls of tap water from the sink. Let it run over her chin. Then looked up at the mirror.

The crack was still there. A sharp fault-line down the center, from where the candle jar had shattered it nights ago. It split her reflection clean in two.

Not symmetrically. Jaggedly.

One side a little softer. The other, somehow darker. She couldn't tell which one looked more like her or if either did.

She leaned closer. Her breath fogged the glass.

It pooled along the break. Her face doubled, warped, fractured. She tilted her head. The left side followed a second too late. She didn't flinch.

She just whispered:

"Still here."

"Still real."

"Still Amara."

Even the crack couldn't say otherwise. But it tried. In silence.

--

Chapter 10 - What Remains

His room had begun to rot in quiet.

The fan spun without conviction -- its blades humming more out of habit than purpose. Dust clung to the corners like resignation. A sock curled into itself beneath the bed like something ashamed to be seen. The bedsheet, chai-stained and pilled at the edges, had stopped pretending to be clean. On the wall: the faint outline of where an old calendar used to hang, like even time had vacated.

The only light came from his laptop -- a sickly, flickering blue-white that stung his eyes but kept him anchored. Its glow painted his cheekbones too sharply, made his reflection in the screen look malnourished. Feral. Obsessed.

A spreadsheet filled the screen. Cells stretched endlessly, cold and methodical.

Date

Instagram Caption

Journal Line

Hashtags

Emotional Weight (1-5)

Possible Clues

Lighting Tone

Keywords: Gloss / Cry / Blur / Touch

It looked clinical. Almost forensic.

But it wasn't about data. It was about devotion.

He wasn't tracking her to find her anymore.

He was tracking her to know her.

To feel what she had once felt, frame by frame.

Each row brought him closer -- not to a woman, but to a presence.

To Amara, as she had built herself.

He logged everything. The caption from October 4 -- "Soft girls break loud." Matched with her journal from that night -- "If they only love my fragments, they don't deserve the whole."

He noted the lipstick shade.

The frame crop.

The hashtags she stopped using after a certain month.

He watched her online glow grow quieter. The filters remained, but the captions began to fray.

Fewer emojis.

No comments liked.

Replies left unread.

The girl who once whispered "You are loved, you are held, you are seen" had begun to post photos without any words at all.

And the journal...

He still remembered the page. One of the last.

"I didn't eat today, but I smiled in three photos. That counts for something, right?"

Each entry was a breadcrumb.

And Ishaan was starving.

His fingers trembled slightly as he entered a new row.

October 6.

Caption: "Mood: ghost in gloss."

Journal: "They want the softness, not the girl."

Emotional weight: 4.5

Clue: "Maybe the ocean. Maybe gone."

Lighting: golden-hour diffused

Keywords: absence / surrender / mirror

He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a second. The fan creaked above him like it might detach.

Her flat was never like this.

Even in her absence, Amara's space was curated.

Soft light through sheer curtains.

Cups rinsed and placed just so.

A scent to the room like heat and rosewater and thought.

Everything she touched had rhythm.

Everything she left behind held intention.

His space, in contrast, was accidental.

Nothing arranged, only allowed.

Mugs with film rings, clothes with no story, the faint tang of sweat and instant noodles embedded into the paint.

She had documented her breakdown like an art project.

He was still living inside his, unnamed.

The difference wasn't just in aesthetics.

It was in meaning.

She had chosen how to be seen.

He had spent years trying not to be seen at all.

He blinked at the spreadsheet again. It was growing -- a digital map of someone else's pain, someone else's softness, built by the hands of someone who had never been either.

And still -- it wasn't enough.

There were gaps. Missing context. Phrases that hinted at something larger, decisions he couldn't decode.

He needed the source.

Not the cached entries.

Not the some random clicks of it.

He had cloned and scrubbed and memorized.

He needed the real journal.

The one that smelled like fingers and ink and her breath between thoughts.

It might still be in her flat.

Tucked somewhere unspecial.

Behind the yoga mat. Under the pillow. Folded between the softness she never let the internet see.

He whispered to no one, "I need the original file."

It sounded like prayer. Or code.

His laptop screen dimmed from lack of touch.

He didn't move to wake it.

Only stared into the darkness it left behind --

and imagined her handwriting still warm somewhere in the city.

--

He returned with purpose.

Not to relive.

Not to touch.

But to complete her.

He brought nothing but his laptop and three USBs. Left his phone behind. Ate a packet of glucose biscuits on the walk over and wiped the crumbs on his shirt. He wouldn't be needing anything else.

The scent still lingered in her flat, woven into curtain folds, pressed into mattress seams. It met him at the door like a second breath.

It was softer now -- no longer perfume.

Just heat. Skin. The afterglow of someone who'd lived fully in a space.

His body responded before his mind did.

A rush of blood. A tightening in his thighs.

The first release happened five minutes after arrival -- sudden, involuntary, against the corner of her rug. No buildup. Just a raw spasm, a gasp, a warmth against his waistband. He didn't even reach for a tissue. He just exhaled, lowered himself to the floor

--

Day One. Evening.

He found it in one of the drawers in the dresser. Hiding under a scarf and some makeup.

The notebook wasn't pretty. Just matte black, corners frayed. On the back cover, a small heart drawn in gel pen -- like a secret left for herself.

He laid it open in his lap and began reading.

She started with soft things.

Grief blurred into gratitude.

Sadness into self-love.

Amara Mehta. Nineteen. Alone. Online. Becoming.

"I didn't cry at their funeral. I smiled so my aunt wouldn't fall apart.

They were my whole life. My orbit. My grammar.

After the accident, I kept waiting to feel like a person again --

but I think I went with them.

Now I just... perform what being alive looks like."

"I didn't want to be inspiring. I just didn't want to disappear."

"The first time someone messaged 'you saved me,' I sobbed on the floor of my bathroom.

Not because I believed them -- but because it meant I existed."

"I posted a selfie with the caption healing isn't linear.

It got more likes than anything I'd ever written.

That was the day I learned to package my pain."

"I started buying clothes that photographed well in soft light.

I stopped eating anything that made me bloat."

"At night, I whispered affirmations out loud --

not because I believed them, but because repetition is a kind of resurrection."

--

Late Night. One or Two.? Who knows.?

Time is abstract

He was lying on the floor now, shirt off, cold air humming against his damp skin.

The scent came and went in pulses -- like breath caught in curtains.

Another passage. Another surge.

"Boys started noticing me again.

Not the way they did in school -- this wasn't teasing, this was awe.

I walked past a café window and watched someone's mouth fall open.

It felt like proof. Proof that I still had gravity."

"At brunch, this guy stared the whole time.

I smiled back once.

He came up later to ask for my Insta.

Said I 'had a look.'

I said, 'You have good taste.'"

His second release happened somewhere around that line.

Mid-sentence, mid-breath.

A warm swell, barely touched, barely acknowledged.

He cleaned himself with the inside hem of her old sleep tee. Folded it afterward. Touched his chest and stayed still until the air cleared.

--

Morning.

The entries changed.

"They think I'm effortless.

They don't know how many nights I spent teaching myself how to be looked at."

"The first time I let one of them take me home, I didn't feel cheap.

I felt divine.

He was trembling. Said I smelled like mercy.

I said, 'You're welcome.'"

"They make me feel like a mirror that controls the reflection."

"I used to ache for connection.

Now I dress for impact."

Afternoon.

One spanned five pages. Titled: WHEN HE CALLED ME GODDESS.

"It was the third time we met.

We didn't eat.

He opened the door in a towel.

He knelt between my legs and said, 'I've never been this close to a divine presence.'"

"I watched his hands tremble as he undressed me.

I made him say thank you after every kiss."

"Afterward, he cried.

Said I made him feel like he was the soft one.

I held his head against my chest and said, 'You're welcome.'"

She had underlined the word worshipped three times.

Next to it, in the margin:

"I controlled the entire room. I was safe."

Ishaan read it three times.

His breath shortened.

His body lurched.

The third release hit his belly like a ripple from inside -- not pleasure, not climax -- surrender.

--

Evening.

The tone of her entries turned again.

More names without endings.

More encounters blurred at the edges.

"They don't ask about my childhood.

They ask what I'm wearing under my crop top."

"I moaned louder this time.

He said, 'fuck, you're perfect.'

I kept thinking about the call I didn't return from my aunt.

She asked if I was eating.

I said I was glowing."

"I went on three dates this week.

I said different things in each one.

I don't think any of them noticed."

Night. Late. Disordered.

"We fucked in the backseat of his car.

Not because I wanted to. Because he did.

Because he said, 'I can't believe I get to touch someone like you.'"

"I bought soy milk and lavender oil on the way home.

Filmed a reel.

Captioned it: clean girl energy is sacred.

It got 17k likes."

"I haven't eaten in two days.

I haven't been touched gently in weeks."

"They think I'm soft.

They don't know I'm starving."

--

Morning.

Another man. Another hotel. Gurgaon.

"He held my waist like I was decoration.

Said, 'I've dreamed of you like this.'

Asked if I could cry while coming -- said that would be beautiful."

"I tried.

Tried to be art.

Tried to dissolve."

"He came on my stomach.

Wiped it with the room service napkin.

Said: 'Don't move -- you look ethereal like this.'"

"I checked Uber before he even zipped up."

In the corner:

"I don't think he knew my name."

Ishaan sat back from the journal. Stomach cold. Thighs trembling.

He didn't touch himself.

Didn't need to.

The ache had burned itself quiet.

--

Afternoon.

He moved to the spreadsheet.

Cross-referenced everything.

Caption: "Mood: evaporate."

Journal: "I cried in the Uber and still posted."

Tags: sexghost / bedroomlight / hollow

A new column: Aftermath.

--

Evening.

The puzzle was nearly whole.

Every caption traced.

Every whisper of grief mapped to a glow.

Every glow mapped to a silence.

Every silence mapped to a final, unanswered entry.

"Even loneliness has an algorithm now."

"I've learned to disappear beautifully."

"I don't want to be seen anymore.

I want to be felt, once.

Then forgotten."

"I'm not trying to die.

I just want to be quiet in a way no one can interrupt."

"If I delete everything and leave the lights on, maybe someone will think I'm still here. That's enough."

"Hiding isn't the hard part. Staying hidden is. Especially when you want to be found and feared in equal measure."

"There's a kind of peace in knowing no one would look for you. Like if I vanished, it wouldn't be a disappearance -- it would just be forgetting to log in."

"I disappear, don't go looking for me. Just keep me open in your mind. Like a tab you never close"

--

He closed the notebook gently.

Stroked the little heart drawn in gel pen on the back.

And sat.

There was no more arousal now.

No breath.

No hunger.

Just... recognition.

Not only did he now know her.

He now understood: they were not opposite lives. They were parallel hauntings.

She had curated herself into light.

He had hidden himself into shadow.

But both had vanished.

Same routine. Same playlist. Same absence.

Same face. Same wound.

--

He came back because he'd tried to return to his life -- and couldn't.

His flat felt unfamiliar now. Too sharp, too empty, too awake. The glow from his monitor was the wrong color. His bed didn't hold him. The hum of the fridge made his jaw tighten. Even the comfort of his silence had started to itch.

He'd opened a shell terminal at work and stared at it for thirty minutes without touching his keyboard. He reheated old dal, then threw it away without eating. He couldn't stop thinking about how empty his life looked in comparison -- not just practically, but aesthetically, spiritually.

Amara's life, even in fragments, even fading, felt worth fixing.

His didn't.

He wasn't sure what that meant -- whether he wanted to preserve her, protect her, complete her -- but he knew this. He couldn't stay where he was and so he returned.

--

The scent was not there anymore. He moved slowly. Deliberately.

He washed her cups. Not because they were dirty, but because it felt wrong that they hadn't been touched in days. He rinsed the plates even though they were already clean. He took out the trash. Scrubbed under the sink.

It wasn't hygiene.

It was restoration.

As if by cleaning, he could make space for her return. Not physically. He didn't expect her to walk through the door. She was gone. He was only trying to preserve her like she said. Like he promised. Like a tab returning to source.

If he got it right -- if he cleared the surfaces, folded the clothes, lit the jasmine candle at exactly the right time -- then something of her might return. Her rhythm. Her scent. Her breath in the walls.

He wiped the mirror. Straightened the shoes. Ran his hands along the bookshelf -- not looking for anything, just brushing her residue back into the room.

He refolded her pajamas and placed them at the foot of the bed. Aligned her skincare in the order she posted once in a routine reel. Patted her pillowcase flat.

Not for her to lie in it.

But so the bed wouldn't forget the weight of her.

--

He moved to the yoga mat.

Smoothed it out, aligning it to the tile's edge the way she always had.

Then vacuumed the floor behind it, careful not to disturb the air.

That's when he felt it -- the soft catch of fabric beneath the edge of the mirror. Not dust. Not hair. Something folded.

He reached behind the glass. Fingers brushed soft cotton.

Pulled it free.

A cloth folder. Pale yellow. Worn. Unzipped.

No label -- just three letters written in small, careful script.

T. M.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, heart steady. Untied the strings.

Inside: A one-way train ticket: Pune → Mangalore.

A page torn from a ruled notebook:

"Loose clothes. Cash only. Flip phone. Arrive before dusk."

A payment receipt from Tanisha Mehta / Solo Wellness Travel.

A map -- creased and faded, with a small red circle drawn on the coast between Gokarna and Kumta.

A torn scrap from the matte black journal:

"They loved the glow, not the girl.

The ocean doesn't care about either."

He stared at the handwriting. It was hers. It was recent. It was goodbye.

--

He didn't cry. He didn't gasp. His body didn't lurch the way it had in earlier moments. There was no climax, no tremor, no devastation.

Just a stillness. Like something had finally been set down.

She hadn't disappeared.

She had departed -- in the most deliberate, loving, sacred way.

She had curated her own absence.

This wasn't a suicide note.

It was an itinerary for escape.

Not a breakdown.

A blueprint.

--

He stood in the center of the room and looked around.

Everything was clean now.

The surfaces empty. The bed made. The scent still faint, but truer somehow -- no longer decaying. Just quiet. Soft.

She wasn't coming back.

But maybe -- just maybe -- she hadn't left him empty.

Maybe she had left him a way forward.

Not as Ishaan.

But as something closer.

But as her.

As Amara

--

She can't see the lines on the page.

The light from the window is barely there, filtered through thick curtains. The candle is long dead. The diffuser cold. She's writing in the matte black notebook -- the corners bent, the little heart on the back rubbed almost flat by her thumb.

The pen drags a little.

Her hand is cramping.

But she doesn't stop.

June 11

It started after the club.

I don't remember most of it -- just bass and red lights and sweat that wasn't mine.

A man breathing into my neck like he knew how it would end.

I said no.

I think I said no.

I smiled too much.

That's the problem.

I danced like I wanted something.

Since then, my body's stopped cooperating.

I leak all the time.

Not wetness. Not pleasure. Just... leaking.

In the bath. On the floor. Between dreams.

I wake up soaked, but hollow.

I can't come.

Not even with two fingers and the playlist.

Not even with her candle lit.

Not even with the cardigan on.

My body flinches before my breath can land.

I have scars now.

Small ones.

Some deliberate.

Some I don't remember getting.

A scratch across my ribs from the faucet.

A burn on my wrist from rushing chai.

Faint lines on my thigh I cover with body butter, but still feel.

They don't show in pictures.

But they're mine.

They make the softness feel real.

They make the silence feel earned.

Every time I take a photo now, it's wrong.

The light slides off me.

My face looks like I've just been woken up from someone else's dream.

My reflection flickers like it's buffering.

I tried to post last week.

Captioned it: "softness in the aftermath."

My hands shook. I deleted it.

No one noticed.

My inbox is full, but I don't open it.

My camera roll is all blur.

My drafts are quiet.

I wear gloss to bed like it'll hold my shape.

I think the rituals are still working.

I just don't know who they're working for anymore.

I don't feel like a girl.

I feel like a residue.

Like heat left in a room that's already been locked.

My skin is soft.

My jaw is quiet.

My thighs are trembling but clean.

I don't want to be seen.

I just want to leave something tender behind.

Just once.

Then go.

But I already left once. I can't leave again.

She doesn't sign it. Just closes the book gently. Lays it beside the bed, spine up, no ribbon.

The journal is closed.

No lock. No ribbon.

Just matte black, frayed at the corners.

A heart drawn on the back with gel pen -- faint, but still intact.

It rests beside the bed like a soft final word.

Unsent. Unnamed. Enough.

The candle is dead.

The diffuser silent.

The air holds its breath.

The playlist looped its last track hours ago. The speaker light blinks once, then nothing. The phone is powered off. The whiteboard wiped clean.

But she's still here.

And she knows what this is.

She doesn't call it dying.

She doesn't call it becoming.

She just knows it's time.

--

She climbs into the bed slowly, like entering water. Sheets smooth. Pillow cold. The hoodie is oversized, pulled tight at the wrists.

The cardigan slouches off one shoulder, the way it always did in her reels.

She lies down. Palms resting on her stomach. Ankles loose. Lips still faintly glossed.

No tension. No breath held.

Only softness.

Only the last part of the ritual.

She closes her eyes.

Not like someone falling asleep.

Not like someone giving up.

But like someone who has finished becoming.

Because she was Amara.

Through and through.

Not imitation. Not mask.

She was the soft girl. The glow girl. The girl who bled her body into language until the shape fit.

And now, she lays that shape down.

She did it for her.

For the real Amara.

So she can stay disappeared.

So no one will come looking.

So the story ends here -- in this body, in this name, in this flat.

This stillness is not surrender.

It's protection.

She is offering herself

so Amara can live.

She exhales, once.

The room holds her.

And then,

gently,

it lets her go.

--