The ceiling is starting to talk to me. Not with words, exactly — but with lines, shapes, little fractures that look like they're trying to form something. Every night I stare up at them, and they shift. Sometimes they look like her face, sometimes like his. Sometimes, they're both laughing.
I don't sleep much anymore. My mind hums like a broken light bulb — always on, flickering. I hear things when it's quiet. Footsteps that aren't there. Breathing that doesn't belong to me. The creak of the floorboard even when she's asleep beside me.
Maybe I've gone too far. Or maybe I'm finally seeing clearly.
She's been quieter than usual. Barely talks, barely eats. Sometimes I catch her standing by the window, staring out like she's waiting for something. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe punishment. Maybe both.
Last night, I heard her whisper again — not in her sleep this time, but awake, trembling."I didn't mean it… I didn't mean to…"
I should've felt satisfied. That's what I wanted, right? To make her confess — to herself, if not to me.But instead, something cold crawled up my spine. Guilt, maybe. Or disgust. I couldn't tell which one belonged to me anymore.
I sat up, staring at her shadow on the wall."Who are you talking to?" I asked.
She jumped, turning around fast, eyes red. "No one. Just— just praying."
Praying. The word almost made me laugh. The same lips that kissed him now calling out to God? Cute.But I didn't laugh. I just nodded, turned away, and said, "Keep praying. You might need it soon."
She flinched like I'd hit her.
The next morning, I found something odd. The bathroom mirror — cracked, a small spider web near the corner.When I asked, she said it must've fallen. But I know she punched it. There was blood near the edge, tiny drops she tried to clean.
That image stayed with me all day. The reflection breaking apart, showing two versions of the same face. Her and her guilt. Me and my revenge. Both fractured. Both bleeding.
At night, the cracks in the ceiling looked deeper. I traced them with my eyes, and they seemed to form words. "You started this."
I blinked. Gone.
But then — whisper. Right next to my ear. A breath that wasn't mine.
"Dhruve…"
I sat up, heart hammering, eyes darting around the room. She was asleep. The house was silent. My skin felt cold.
Maybe I'm hearing things. Maybe I'm losing it. Or maybe… the house remembers. Maybe it's whispering what she won't.
By dawn, I was standing in front of the mirror again.Bloodshot eyes. Hollow face. A stranger staring back.
I touched the crack in the glass. It lined up perfectly with my reflection's mouth — like it was smiling.
I whispered, "Who are you?"
The reflection didn't answer. But it felt like it wanted to.