It's strange how attraction and danger can feel the same.With Reya, every moment carried both.
We'd meet at cafés that felt too quiet, in conversations that felt too sharp. Each word between us was a move — a challenge, a test. It wasn't about affection anymore; it was about dominance.
Who could remain calm longer?Who could make the other flinch first?Who could pretend to care less?
That's what our relationship was — not love, not comfort, but a slow psychological duel dressed in flirtation.
One night, after a tense dinner, she looked at me with that teasing smile. "You analyze everyone, Dhruve. You read them, predict them. But tell me—" she leaned closer, her voice a whisper, "—what happens when someone reads you?"
I chuckled, but my throat was dry. "Then I make sure they never finish the story."
She smirked. "You'd erase them?"
"If I have to."
Her gaze hardened slightly. "You sound like someone who's already done it."
I didn't answer. The silence between us said more than words could.
We ended up in her apartment again. The city lights bled through the curtains, washing her skin in gold and shadow. I watched her pour wine, slow and deliberate, like everything she did had a hidden meaning.
She handed me a glass. "Do you know what I think?"
"No. But I'm sure you'll tell me."
"I think," she said, her voice low, "you didn't start playing games because of revenge. You started because you wanted control — over something, anything — after losing it once."
I laughed quietly. "You think you're the first person to psychoanalyze me?"
"No," she said, smirking, "but I might be the first one who's right."
Her words hit like a blade under the ribs — not sharp enough to kill, just enough to remind me I could still bleed.
I set the glass down and moved closer. "You talk like you understand me."
"I do," she said softly. "Because I've been you."
I stared at her. "Bullshit."
"Try me," she said, stepping forward until her breath brushed my jaw. "Someone broke me once too. I just learned to break back faster."
Her eyes flickered with something raw — pain disguised as poise. And for the first time, I saw the cracks behind her control.
That realization was dangerous. Because I didn't know whether I wanted to fix her or compete with her.
The next few days blurred into a strange rhythm. We'd flirt, argue, vanish for days, then return to each other like addicts.
There were no promises, no explanations — just tension, fire, and the illusion of balance. But deep down, I knew what it really was.
Crossfire.
Two people, both broken, both trying to outsmart their own loneliness.
When we were together, the world felt silent. When we were apart, everything felt too loud.
At one point, Reya said something I never forgot."You know, Dhruve… people like us don't love. We just study the feeling and pretend it's real."
I didn't reply. I just looked at her — this woman who mirrored everything ugly inside me — and realized how terrifyingly beautiful that truth was.
She smiled faintly. "You hate how much you understand me, don't you?"
"Maybe," I admitted. "Or maybe I'm scared of what that means."
"It means," she said, leaning closer, "we're either going to save each other… or destroy each other completely."
I smirked. "Fifty-fifty odds. I'll take that bet."
That night, when I went home, I caught my reflection in the mirror again. My eyes looked… different. Colder, maybe. Or more alive.
I thought about Mira — her betrayal, her lies — and realized how distant that pain felt now. Like an old scar that only itched when it rained.
Reya had replaced pain with something sharper — awareness.
She made me see parts of myself I never wanted to face. The manipulator. The actor. The survivor.
And maybe that's why I couldn't let her go.
Because if she was my mirror, I needed to see how deep the reflection could go before it cracked.
I poured myself a drink, whispering to the empty room,"This isn't love… it's crossfire."
The glass trembled slightly in my hand as I raised it to my lips.Because deep down, I already knew —crossfires don't end with survivors.