-Shrii Kapoor-

The monsoon breeze swept through the open window of my bedroom, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and jasmine-my favorite kind of melancholy.

Rain painted silent rivers across the glass, and thunder murmured low in the sky like a lullaby from the underworld. My laptop glowed against the shadows of my bedroom, the cursor blinking at the end of the last line like it was breathing.

"He didn't kiss her like she was a girl he loved.

He kissed her like a punishment he needed to taste."

I whispered the words into the quiet, letting the weight of them hang in the air.

Click.

Saved. Done.

I leaned back in my chair and exhaled the kind of sigh that comes after surviving something.

Another chapter.

Another sin dressed in silk and spilled ink.

Another man breaking at the altar of the woman he swore he'd ruin.

I should've felt proud.

I didn't.

I felt... watched.

Ridiculous, right? I was alone in my room. Four walls, a glowing screen, and the steady rhythm of Mumbai's rain outside.

Still, that cold tickle at the base of my neck wouldn't leave. That feeling I always got after finishing a particularly dark chapter-as if I was less the writer, and more the vessel. Like the story wasn't something I created...

...but something I remembered.

I stood up and stretched my arms, twisting my spine till it cracked. My anklets jingled faintly where they still clung to my feet, relics of my dance practice earlier in the evening.

Bharatanatyam was discipline.

Kathak was grace.

Kuchipudi was fire.

Dancing made me feel alive in a way nothing else could. It was the only time I ever felt completely real.

And in that moment, I felt none of it.

"Babe, you seriously need therapy."

Rhea's voice cut through the tension like a blade, followed by the unmistakable staccato of her heels on tile. A second later, she burst into my room like she owned it-wearing a high-slit pencil skirt, eyeliner sharper than her tongue, and balancing two mugs of chai in one hand and a packet of hide-and-seek biscuits in the other.

"My dark little cave goblin," she greeted, dumping her bag onto the floor.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," I replied dryly, accepting the mug.

She fell back onto my bed like a dramatic Bollywood queen, sighing like her soul had left her body. "Another intern called me 'ma'am' and tried to flirt with me by quoting Drake. I swear, I'm this close to quitting corporate life and selling feet pics."

"You've said that every Monday since October."

"I mean it this time."

I snorted into my tea.

This was routine. Sacred. My real world.

Rhea Kapoor-my best friend, roommate, codependent disaster twin. HR executive by day, dark romance addict by night. She was the only one who knew about my double life as a faceless Wattpad author with millions of readers drooling over obsessive, violent, sin-soaked men.

And no, that wasn't an exaggeration.

She leaned over and snagged my diary. "So, what's this mafia man's name, huh? Let me guess-Dante? Alessandro? Demon Daddy?"

"Don't-"

"I'm guessing he growls. Probably says stuff like 'mine' before he even knows her middle name."

"Rhea."

"And I bet he's emotionally constipated. Like can't say 'I love you' but will commit war crimes if someone touches her elbow."

I launched a pillow at her face. She caught it and cackled.

"You're insufferable."

"You're obsessed," she countered, propping herself up on her elbow. "Come on, admit it. You write men you secretly want to be kidnapped by."

I sipped my chai slowly, giving her a deadpan look. "I write morally complex men."

"Who chain women to beds and call it affection."

"I said what I said."

We both laughed. Loud. Unfiltered. The kind that leaves your stomach warm.

And for a few minutes, it was just us. Two girls in an apartment in Mumbai, drinking tea while the sky cried outside.

But deep inside me-beneath the tea, beneath the laughter-something ached.

A question whispered where no one could hear.

Would someone ever look at me the way my characters do?

With fire in their eyes, like I'm their only goddamn universe?

Like just breathing the same air as me makes their lungs feel alive again?

Will someone ever hold my face like it's porcelain and sin all at once,

kiss me like I'm the prayer they've waited their whole life to answer?

Will there ever be a man who'll stand in the rain just to see me smile,

who'd pick fights with fate itself just to keep my heart beating safely in his hands?

Someone who won't run when I break. Who'll stay when I shatter.

Who'll love the scars, the silence, the chaos.

Who'll say, 'You're mine' like it's not just a promise, but a damn oath written in blood.

God, will someone ever trace the outline of my pain and kiss it anyway?

Will someone ever pin me to a wall and whisper, 'I choose you-over everyone, every time'?

I write these men... perfect, broken, tender and violent in their love.

But do they exist outside my pages? Outside the lies I bleed in ink?

Will I ever be loved like there's no tomorrow?

Like the world's burning and I'm the only salvation left?

Will someone ever love me like they mean it... like I'm not just a fantasy, but the goddamn destination?

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I was so lost in the tangle of my thoughts, drowning in silent questions only my heart dared ask...

And just like that, the fragile branches of my daydream snapped-

shattered by Rhea's sudden voice, dragging me back to reality.

"So... you finally said yes to lover boy?"

Rhea's voice came sharp and suspicious through the steam rising from her chai. She narrowed her eyes over the rim of her cup like I'd just confessed to plotting a bank robbery.

I paused mid-biscuit dip, groaned, and gave her the side-eye. "Oh God. You already know?"

"You posted a dancing reel with Coldplay in the background and a cryptic caption. Of course I knew. That's basically Desi girl code for 'someone is making me feel feelings.'"

"Rhea," I warned.

"Shrii," she mocked, tone full of sarcasm, "tell me you didn't actually agree to go on a date with that human beige flag."

I blinked. "Human what now?"

"Abhinav." She spat the name like it tasted bitter. "The guy who follows you around like a lost puppy with a Spotify playlist."

I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the headboard. "He's not that bad."

"He's a walking WhatsApp sticker, Shrii."

I choked on my chai.

"He quotes Rumi with wrong grammar. He called me 'dude bro' the last time we met. I'm telling you, the universe is warning you in seven languages."

I laughed despite myself. "Okay, look. He's harmless. And I'm just... giving it a chance."

Rhea stared like I'd grown a second head. "After one and a half years of ignoring him? You suddenly wake up and decide to throw him a bone?"

"He's been consistent. Sweet. Polite. And he's never crossed a line."

"He wears socks with sandals."

"Stop it!"

"I'm just saying! Your standards are mafia-writer-level. You write men who'd burn the world down for you. Meanwhile, you're going out with a guy who wouldn't survive a single paragraph in your novel."

I tried not to smile. "Maybe that's the point."

She tilted her head.

"I mean," I continued, "all these years, I've been pushing everyone away because I kept thinking... what if someone finds out who I am? What if my worlds collide? What if I end up in a situation where reality feels more dangerous than fiction?"

"And now?"

"And now I'm tired," I said softly. "Abhinav... he's normal. Predictable. A spreadsheet in human form. Maybe I need that."

Rhea didn't say anything for a moment. She just watched me with that unnerving intensity she reserved for HR interviews and breakup interventions.

"Okay," she finally said. "Let's say he is safe. Let's say he's not a complete idiot, and that maybe he's even capable of growing a personality. What then?"

"Then nothing," I shrugged. "It's just one date."

"And if he falls harder?"

"He already has."

"And if you don't feel anything?"

"Then I'll tell him the truth."

Rhea chewed her lip, annoyed but silent. She hated when I made sense.

"It's not that deep, Rhee," I added. "I'm just trying to let something good in. For once."

She folded her arms, still not fully convinced. "I just don't want you wasting time on someone who isn't even worth a Pinterest board."

I snorted. "That's your criteria now?"

"Absolutely."

I laughed, shook my head, and set my empty mug on the windowsill. Outside, the rain had quieted, leaving behind fog-streaked glass and a thick, heavy silence that clung to the night.

Somewhere in the city, Abhinav was probably planning a dinner spot, thinking of flowers, drafting texts he'd never send.

And here I was, debating his viability with a woman who believed fictional hitmen made better partners than actual engineers.

Normal.

Simple.

Safe.

That's what I told myself.

But for a moment-for just the briefest flicker of instinct-I swore something in the darkness shivered. Like the world didn't like my choice. Like something else... or someone else...

was watching.

Waiting.

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