It started with laughter. That kind of soft, bubbling laughter that bubbles up from somewhere deep inside and spreads like sunlight across a quiet room. Simran remembered that sound, even now. him's laugh had been low and rich, like velvet sliding across bare skin. It used to make her feel safe. Protected. Loved.
They were on the terrace garden of his old apartment—a tiny space with mismatched pots, a worn-out swing chair, and those cheap fairy lights he had strung up after their first date. It wasn't perfect. The plants were half-dead, the lights blinked unevenly, and the paint on the railing was chipped. But it was theirs. Their hideout. Their bubble.
Simran lay with her head in his lap, the summer night air brushing against her skin, warm and full of promise. A faint trace of jasmine hung in the air from the garden below. He was twirling a strand of her hair between his fingers, gaze drifting between her face and the stars. Every now and then, his thumb would gently brush against her cheek like he was trying to memorize the shape of her.
Their fingers were laced together, his grip tightening every few seconds like he needed to be sure she was still real.
"I'm gonna marry you one day," he whispered suddenly, brushing his nose against hers.
Her heart did a little somersault. Not because she didn't expect it, but because of how certain he sounded. Like it was already written. Like it had already happened in some parallel universe and now they were just catching up.
"You will, huh?" she teased, lifting an eyebrow.
He grinned, that boyish grin that used to undo her—
Out of the nightmare
She sat up straight in bed, heart racing, chest heaving, fingers clawing at the sheets.
Her throat was dry. Her skin damp with sweat. The room was dark but safe — not a terrace, not his lap, not a fairy light in sight. Just the familiar cracks on her ceiling and the soft whirr of the fan above.
A dream.
A goddamn dream.
But it hadn't felt like one. It had felt real — like she had time-traveled, slipped into some cruel past life where his touch still felt tender and his promises still held weight. Like the nightmare had wrapped itself in nostalgia and tried to make her forget.
Forget what he did.
Forget who he became.
Forget who she became.
She pressed her hands to her face and breathed slowly, grounding herself. Inhale. Exhale. You're here. You're safe. He's not.
But her heart didn't get the memo — it still thudded like he might appear any second.
She hated how real it had felt. The jasmine. The swing. The way his fingers played with her hair.
She hated that even now, after everything, he could still show up in her dreams like he had any right.
She sat there, knees pulled to her chest, letting the silence soak into her bones. The moonlight filtered in through the half-open curtain, casting silver across her bedsheet. For a second, she could almost hear his voice again. That same velvet tone, whispering forever.
But the illusion didn't last. Not anymore.
She got up, padded into the bathroom, and splashed water on her face. The cold helped. Not enough, but enough to remind her of this moment — this body, this breath, this now.
She stared at her reflection for a long time. Her face wasn't the same as it had been when she loved him. Her eyes held more stories now. Her skin carried memories, good and bad, and her lips didn't tremble at the thought of his name anymore.
She was healing. Slowly. Quietly. Bravely.
And healing, she realized, isn't always loud. Sometimes it's just choosing not to cry after a nightmare. Sometimes it's looking at yourself and knowing — truly knowing — that you survived.
She curled back into bed, pulling the blanket around her like armor. Her mind was still racing, but her body was calming. The worst had passed. It always did.
She thought of that girl on the terrace. The one who believed in promises. Who thought love was enough.
She loved that girl. But she was not her anymore.
She was stronger now.
He wasn't always the villain.
But he became one.
She survived him.
He wasn't always the villain.
There was a time she clung to him, called his name like a prayer. him wasn't just someone she loved; he was her escape, her secret, her shelter. When the world felt too loud, when the ache in her chest felt like it would never quiet, it was him she ran to. She thought he'd save her — turns out, he was the storm. The one that tore through the safe space she thought she'd found, leaving nothing but shattered glass and broken promises in its wake.
He didn't just hit.
He manipulated.
He made her feel like it was her fault. Like she had pushed him too far. Like she had broken something inside him. Even when she bled, he asked her why she made him do it.