Navi
Hours dragged on, and still, there was no end in sight. The investigation officer's biggest blunder was becoming painfully clear: he was trying to shove words down my throat, words he wanted me to parrot back as if they were my own confession.
To give him some credit, he managed to maintain a mask of calm, but it was obvious that his frustration was bubbling just beneath the surface. You could see it in the weight of his sighs, the tightness of his jaw, and the restless flicker in his eyes.
Every now and then, he would rise from his chair, towering over me as if his mere presence could intimidate me into submission.
At times, he would slam his hand on the table, the sharp sound slicing through the air like a whip, making it clear just how displeased he was.
Other moments, he would storm out, only to return minutes later with a new strategy, a fresh approach to try and break me down—to force me to admit to a crime I had no part in.
And through it all, I sat there, clutching the scattered pieces of my fading memories, delicate and blurred, desperately trying to stitch them back together before they vanished completely.
Finally, the inspector stood up. "That's enough for tonight. We'll pick this up tomorrow." He snapped the photos into a folder and leaned in closer. "You better start remembering, Navi. Because right now, all the evidence points to you."
Then he called out, "Geeta," summoning the same constable who had locked those cold handcuffs around my wrists. "Take Madam to the cell."
The constable stepped forward and dragged me down the narrow corridor. Our footsteps echoed against the stone walls, each sound amplified by my rising fear. Behind me, the officer's presence loomed like a shadow I couldn't shake off.
***
Hours crawled by. The station grew quiet, swallowed in a heavy silence. I curled on the hard iron bench, but my eyes refused to close. Sleep felt like a luxury that no longer belonged to me. Instead, an unspoken dread seeped into my bones, whispering the same question again and again—Would I ever walk out of this place alive?
They had proof. Solid, damning proof—enough to lock me away forever. My tears refused to stop, blurring my vision until everything dissolved into a haze. The air grew dense, suffocating. My breaths came shallow, as if someone had stolen the oxygen from my lungs.
Desperate, I rose from the bench and staggered toward the left wall, where a small barred window sat. Pressing myself against it, I inhaled, clinging to the faint illusion of freedom it offered. Perhaps this window was all I had left—a slit of sky, the last thread tying me to the world outside. Perhaps, for me, freedom would only ever mean looking out through these bars.
Beyond the window lay a blanket of impenetrable darkness. Only a single streetlight glowed faintly in the distance, waging a hopeless battle against the black night.
And then it happened.
What I saw—or thought I saw—shattered every boundary between dream and reality. Even now, I cannot tell whether it was a hallucination or truth. But the pounding of my heart, the way my nails dug mercilessly into my palms—those are proof enough. This was no dream.
Through the small barred opening, I caught a glimpse of him.
And my blood turned to ice.
Yes. It was him.
Across the road, half-hidden in the shadows of the opposite building, a man stood watching the police station.
He was Tall. Broad-shouldered. The faint glow of a streetlight caught the edge of his jawline. His stance was steady, almost too steady.
My heart slammed in my chest.
Although I had never seen Nihal Malhotra in my life. But I had seen his photo, his lifeless body on the inspector's table.
The man in the shadows looked exactly like him. Alive. Breathing. Watching me .
Watching me
My lips parted in a silent gasp. If Nihal is alive… then whose blood was on that floor?
The figure vanished into the darkness before I could call out. I stumbled back, clutching the bars with trembling hands, my mind unraveling.
What is happening to me? What did I just see?
Is this yet another whirlpool—layer upon layer pulling me deeper into its grip?
Nihal… he's alive.
The very man whose existence I had been oblivious to… the man whose name now chains me inside this cell with the weight of his blood on my hands.
And here I am, caged in darkness, shivering breaths scraping through my chest—accused of murdering someone who still walks the earth.
The cell was silent except for the faint dripping of a leaking pipe. I sat upright on the bench, my knees drawn to my chest, eyes locked on the tiny barred window where I had seen him.
Nihal.
Alive. Watching me .
My breath came shallow, every nerve in my body screaming. It couldn't be him. It couldn't. The inspector had shown me photographs—his body, blood pooling beneath him. Dead. And yet… I knew what I saw. The shape of his shoulders. The sharp line of his face. The way he stood so deliberately still, as if he wanted me to notice him .
But now, the street outside was empty. Only the hum of a flickering streetlamp remained.
"Am I losing my mind?" I whispered into the dark.
***
Hours passed like years. By the time dawn bled into the sky, my eyes burned with sleeplessness. An officer came to escort me back to the interrogation room.
This time, the room was brighter. A cup of tea sat waiting on the table. The investigation officer was already there, flipping through notes, his expression unreadable.
"Good morning, Navi," he said softly. "Did you sleep?"
Did I sleep ?
A bitter laugh came on my face "Do you really think anyone can sleep in a cell after being accused of murder?"
He looked at me with a gaze laced in sympathy, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Well, look, Navi…" his words faltered, swallowed by the groan of the door as it creaked open.
A man entered—he was in his late forties, his eyes steady yet unreadable, a worn leather satchel hanging from his shoulder. Though his steps were calm, something about him carried a weight, an aura that unsettled more than it soothed. The air didn't soften—it shifted, charged with a quiet tension.
"This is Dr. Arvind Sen," the inspector introduced. "A psychiatrist. He'll have a word with you before we proceed."
I frowned. "A psychiatrist?"
Why ? Why do I need a psychiatrist?
I'm not crazy—"
"No one said you were Navi ," Dr. Sen interrupted gently, pulling out a chair. His voice was steady, almost soothing. "But sometimes, our mind hides things from us. Let's just talk about it huh , Navi. Just you and me."
I swallowed hard, eyes brimming with tears. "I don't understand what's happening. One moment I was at home, and now… they're saying I killed someone."
Dr. Sen's gaze lingered on me, steady and unblinking, as though he were trying to read the very layers of my soul.
For a moment, silence stretched across the room—so dense that the only sound I could hear was the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat. Yet even in that fragile stillness, the eyes of the officer beside me, and Dr. Sen's sharp, unwavering stare, remained fixed on me.
And then, Dr. Sen's voice cut through the silence, low and deliberate.
"So, Navi… do you ever find yourself waking up in places you don't remember going to? Or perhaps feeling… an emptiness, as if time itself had slipped through your fingers?"
What …
My lips parted, betraying hesitation. A flicker of memory rose unbidden—shadows draped across a dim room, the lingering warmth of someone close, the faint, haunting trace of cologne. What is this ?
I shook my head quickly, as though to banish the thought.
"No… I don't think so."
But even as the words left my mouth, doubt coiled inside me —sharp, persistent, gnawing at the edges of my denial.
Dr. Sen leaned forward, voice low. "Navi, you may be suffering from a condition called sexsomnia. It's rare… a disorder where people unconsciously seek intimacy, sometimes even with strangers. They don't remember afterward. Does this sound familiar?"
Sexsomnia?
What was this? How could Dr. Sen says that with such unnerving certainty, as if he already knew aspects of me that I hadn't even ventured to reveal?
How did he carry the tidbits of information he knew about a secret I didn't even know as my own truth?
Really, who was this man?
My mind started to race with questions like restless shadows, but the most important thing was this: was he correct? Were his words laced with truth?
If not, what was that glimmer of memory that I couldn't get rid of—the faint feeling of warmth, the faint scent of cologne that clung to me like it was from someone I had known well intimately ?
My body betrayed me. A shiver ran beneath my skin, my stomach lurched, and my breath snagged in my chest. I could feel the change, and from the way both men kept their gaze locked on me, I knew they could see it too.
A terrifying thought struck me, sharp and merciless.
Could it be possible? Was Nihal not a stranger at all—but someone my body had already sought in secret, while my mind had chosen to erase the memory?
Before the thought could fully form, a voice shattered the silence.
"So you admit it? You were his partner?"
The inspector's words cracked through the room like a whip, dragging me violently out of the shadows of my thoughts.
What ..
"No!" I cried, slamming my palms on the table. The handcuffs rattled against the metal. "I don't know him! I don't know why my things are there, or why it looks like I was… with him. I can't remember any of it!"
The room went silent. Only the ticking wall clock marked the seconds slipping away.
For the first time, I realized this wasn't just about proving my innocence. It was about proving my reality.
And right now, even I wasn't sure what the truth was.
"Could it be true… that Nihal Malhotra had been my partner in the most intimate of ways?"