Ashray never googled her. Not really.
Until now.
One late night, too wired to sleep and too paranoid to ignore the photo, he searched her name. Ira Sharma. Nothing. No social media, no columns, no traces. Just a common name buried beneath LinkedIn ghosts and wedding registries.
Then he remembered her telling him once, between wine and war stories, "My words are braver than I am."
So he searched Sameera.
That's when he found the blog.
A quiet WordPress account. No bio. Just titled: "When I Can't Be Heard."
Fiction, but barely.
Short stories. Dark. Erotic. Claustrophobic. One about a woman who leaves her diary in a cab on purpose, just to see who reads it. Another about a man who falls in love with a voice on a suicide helpline—and keeps calling even after she dies.
But it was the latest entry that made his stomach drop:
"He thinks I'm only lying about my name. But I've lied about more than that. He thinks I'm just bored. But I'm building something. Quietly. Delicately. And he'll either love me for it—or hate me when it's done."
Posted two days ago.
No likes. No comments. Just one anonymous repost.
He read it twice. Then again.
She'd written about him. Or someone terrifyingly similar.
He didn't know what scared him more—the fact that she used him for art…
Or the fact that he still wanted her more than ever.