I don't remember when the walls started whispering. Maybe it was the night she stopped talking altogether. Maybe it was the moment I stopped needing her to. Either way, I hear them now—soft, muffled, like people talking in another room about things they shouldn't.
At first, I thought it was the neighbors. Thin walls, old building, you know? But then I pressed my ear against the plaster, and I swear the voice said my name. "Dhruve."
I froze. The sound was low, rough, almost familiar. It came from behind the wall, like something breathing right on the other side.
"You did this…"
My pulse thudded in my ears. "Who's there?" I whispered, half-ashamed of how weak I sounded.
Silence. Then a chuckle—light, mocking. Her laugh.
I jerked back, slammed the light on, and the room looked empty again. Just the usual mess—half-drunk water glass, her pillow stained with tears, my phone charging on the nightstand. Everything normal. Too normal.
She was still asleep, curled up tight, like someone hiding from the cold. I stared at her face. The guilt had eaten her features; she looked hollowed out, like a candle that burned too long. Part of me wanted to wake her, shake her, scream, "Look what you made me!"
But I didn't. Instead, I went to the kitchen and poured myself whiskey—at six in the morning. Because why not? Time stopped mattering weeks ago.
As I drank, I kept hearing that laugh echo in the walls. Sometimes close, sometimes distant. I pressed my palm against the plaster and whispered, "You're not real."
But the wall whispered back, "Neither are you."
I dropped the glass. It shattered. The sound woke her.
"Dhruve? What happened?"
Her voice broke whatever trance I was in. I looked down at the shards glittering on the floor like tiny knives. "Nothing," I said. "Just… dropped it."
She walked over quietly, barefoot, and knelt to help pick up the pieces. When her hand brushed mine, she flinched. I don't know if it was fear of the glass or of me. Maybe both.
I wanted to tell her to stop. To go back to bed. To get out of my head. But the words tangled in my throat. All I managed was, "Be careful."
Later, when she left for work, I stood in the living room staring at the walls again. They looked solid, harmless. But I could still feel the voices crawling underneath the paint, whispering truths I didn't want to hear.
Maybe I'm going crazy. Maybe revenge rots the brain before it heals the heart.
That night, as I lay in bed, the voices returned. Louder this time. More than one.
"He's watching.""He knows.""He'll never stop."
I covered my ears, but it didn't matter. The voices were inside now, and no wall could keep them out.
When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of her and Arjun trapped inside the walls—pounding, screaming, laughing. And me, outside, holding a hammer, wondering which side I really belonged to.