The email wouldn't leave my mind.That single line — "You think you're the only one who knows the truth?" — kept echoing in my head like a broken bell.
I tried to shrug it off at first. Maybe spam. Maybe a scammer. Maybe… karma.But I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching me.
For days, I avoided opening my laptop. But every time I did, the inbox stared back like an open wound. No new messages — yet I couldn't stop checking.
Every few minutes.Every few seconds.
Just in case.
At work, my hands wouldn't stop shaking. During meetings, I caught myself scanning faces — coworkers, strangers, clients — wondering if any of them knew. If someone had found out.
Every conversation felt loaded. Every laugh sounded directed at me.
Then I started noticing small things.My chair slightly moved. Papers out of place. A faint scent of perfume — her perfume — on my jacket that I hadn't worn since that day.
Coincidences, right?That's what I kept telling myself.
But logic didn't feel real anymore.
At night, I couldn't sleep. The apartment felt… wrong. Too quiet, too still. I'd hear faint clicks from the kitchen, whispers of movement from the hallway. Sometimes, I'd find her awake too — sitting on the couch, staring into nothing.
One night, I asked, "Why are you up?"
She turned to me, eyes empty. "Can't sleep. Feels like someone's here."
That made my blood freeze."Someone?"
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. Watching. Waiting."
We stared at each other for a long moment — neither of us saying what we were both thinking.
The next morning, I got another email.This time, the subject read: "Hello, Dhruve."
No sender. No trace. Just words.
"You did it, didn't you? You think hiding behind an anonymous email makes you safe? Don't worry, I'm not here to expose you… yet."
I felt the blood drain from my face. My heart hammered so loud I could barely breathe.
I read it again. And again.Then deleted it. Then emptied the trash.
But it didn't matter. The words were burned into my skull.
Someone knew.
All day, I kept replaying scenarios in my head — who could it be? The blogger? Arjun? Someone from work? Or maybe… her.
Could she be pretending not to know, just to mess with me?The thought made my skin crawl.
I started checking her phone when she wasn't looking. Nothing suspicious.But paranoia doesn't need proof — just imagination.
That night, while she was asleep, I opened her laptop. Her social media was silent — all deleted, wiped clean. But her emails… one caught my eye.Unread. From an unknown sender.
My pulse raced as I opened it.
"Do you know what your husband's been doing behind your back?"
I froze.The words felt like a gun pressed to the back of my skull.
My first thought was to destroy it — delete everything. But she could've already seen it. Or someone else could've sent more.
I wanted to scream.Instead, I slammed the laptop shut and walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face.
When I looked up, I saw my reflection in the mirror — wide eyes, pale skin, trembling lips. I didn't recognize the man staring back.
He looked guilty.Exposed.Cornered.
The next few days were a blur. I started checking behind doors, under the bed, the windows. Once, I even tore apart my desk looking for hidden cameras.
I'd become the kind of man I used to pity — the paranoid, twitchy, broken ones in news stories.
One night, she asked, "Dhruve, are you okay? You've been… weird lately."
I forced a laugh. "Weird? I'm fine."
She frowned. "No, seriously. You keep looking over your shoulder, talking to yourself. You're scaring me."
"I'm fine," I snapped, too loud. The look on her face—fear mixed with pity—made me want to disappear.
After she went to bed, I checked my inbox again.
Nothing.
Then, just as I was about to shut my laptop, another email popped up.
No subject.Just one line again:
"You can delete messages, but not guilt."
My vision blurred. My breathing turned ragged. I felt the walls close in, the air thinning.
I slammed the laptop shut, grabbed my coat, and stumbled out of the apartment. The night air hit like ice.
I walked aimlessly through the city — neon lights bleeding into my thoughts, laughter echoing from distant bars. Everyone looked happy. Free.
And there I was, the man who wanted justice, now hunted by his own revenge.
Maybe this was it.The real punishment.
Not exposure.Not prison.But being trapped inside my own guilt, forever waiting for someone to pull the trigger.