I didn't sleep that night.Or the next.
When I closed my eyes, I kept seeing her face — not the one that cheated, not the one in the videos, but the one that used to fall asleep beside me. Soft breath, tangled hair, that small, lazy smile.It haunted me now, like a ghost I couldn't bury.
The internet had moved on to its next scandal by morning, but not her. Her name might have fallen off the trending list, but the whispers stayed. Once the internet eats you, it never spits you out completely.
She barely spoke anymore. Just sat there, scrolling through ruins of her life, reading the comments she should've ignored. People were crueler than I ever could be. They called her names, laughed, dissected her body, her choices, her face. Some pretended to pity her — but even that pity came wrapped in disgust.
And I had done that.
I'd started the avalanche, and now I was watching her suffocate under it.
At work, things got stranger. People looked at me differently. No one said anything directly, but gossip has a smell. Maybe it was just paranoia, but sometimes, I swore someone was whispering as soon as I walked past.
Even my reflection started to feel like a stranger's.There was this emptiness in my eyes — cold, hollow, quiet.I'd thought revenge would make me feel alive again, but it didn't. It just dug a deeper hole inside me.
One night, I found myself sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at her as she slept. Her body was curled up, fragile, trembling even in dreams. She'd stopped wearing makeup, stopped smiling, stopped being the woman who once lit up rooms.
And I wondered — was this what I wanted? To win? Or to destroy?
I whispered to myself, "You did it, Dhruve. You fucking did it."But the words didn't sound like victory. They sounded like rot.
The guilt came in waves. Some nights, it hit so hard I almost confessed — to her, to the world, to anyone. I even drafted a message to the blogger:
"Take it down. It's gone too far."
But I never sent it.Because I knew it wouldn't change anything. Once something's out there, it's eternal.
And maybe deep down, I didn't really want to undo it.Maybe I wanted to see how far it could go.
That scared me more than anything.
A few days later, I came home early. She was on the balcony, staring down at the street, motionless. For a second, I froze — my heart stopped.I thought she might jump.
"Hey!" I shouted. "What are you doing?"
She turned slowly. Her eyes looked glassy, distant."Nothing," she said softly. "Just… thinking how easy it would be to disappear."
Something in me cracked right then. I walked up, grabbed her shoulders — maybe too hard. "Don't you dare," I said. My voice sounded strange, desperate.
She smiled weakly. "Why? You'd be free then, right?"
That hit harder than any insult.
I let go and stepped back. I wanted to say something — anything — but my throat locked up. So I just stood there, watching her, realizing the depth of what I'd done.
This wasn't revenge anymore. It was cruelty dressed as justice.
That night, when she finally slept, I sat outside on the cold floor, staring into the dark. The streetlights flickered like dying memories.
I lit a cigarette — the first in years — and whispered to no one,
"She fell from her throne… but so did I."
The smoke curled upward, twisting like the past — ugly, heavy, and irreversible.
And for the first time since that day in the bedroom, I cried.Not because I loved her still…But because I realized revenge doesn't give closure — it just passes the poison around.