At first, I didn't notice it.The shift was small — like a soft breeze before a storm.
Reya stopped replying instantly.She stopped asking. Stopped explaining.The woman who once matched my rhythm now moved on her own tempo.
And for the first time in a long time… I was the one waiting.
It began one evening after work. I sent her a message — something casual, something meaningless.
"You free tonight?"
No reply.
An hour passed. Then two. Then six.The silence crawled under my skin like static.
By midnight, I tossed my phone aside, laughing bitterly. "Well played, Reya."
But the truth? It stung.Not because I missed her — but because I didn't like losing control.
When she finally texted back the next afternoon, it was short.
"Sorry. Busy."
No emoji. No warmth.Just that cold, polite tone I'd used on so many others.
It was almost poetic — to taste my own game.And damn, it was bitter.
A few days later, I saw her at a client event. She was radiant, confident — laughing with some guy I'd never seen before. Something twisted inside me.
I walked over, masking my irritation behind a calm smile. "Didn't expect to see you here."
She looked at me like I was part of the background. "Work event, Dhruve. Not everything's about you."
Her words hit like a slap — not loud, but deliberate.
The guy beside her chuckled, oblivious. Reya placed her hand lightly on his arm, her eyes glinting at me for just a second.
Message received.
That night, I couldn't sleep.I kept replaying that scene — the way she smiled, the way she ignored me.
It wasn't jealousy. Not exactly.It was humiliation.
For months, I'd been the puppeteer, pulling strings, watching people dance.Now, I was the one dancing — and she was watching.
The mirror had turned.
The next day, she called me."Miss me?" she said, voice playful but sharp.
"Didn't notice you were gone," I lied.
She laughed softly. "You're a terrible liar."
"Then why call me?"
"Because you're fun when you're off-balance."
"Is that what this is?" I asked. "A power trip?"
"Maybe. Or maybe," she said, her tone shifting to something almost tender, "I just wanted to see if you could feel again."
Her words lodged somewhere deep. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," she whispered, "I wanted to know if there's anything left of the man you used to be — before all the games, before the hate."
Then she hung up.
For hours, I stared at my phone.That call wasn't manipulation — not fully. It was something worse: truth.
She wasn't trying to hurt me.She was testing my humanity.
And the terrifying part? I didn't know what she'd find if she looked close enough.
Over the next few weeks, Reya began setting the rhythm — disappearing for days, appearing when I least expected, controlling the distance like she'd memorized my pulse.
Once, she showed up at my place unannounced."You look tired," she said, walking in like she owned the place.
"I've been working."
"Liar," she said with a small smirk. "You've been thinking."
I laughed. "About you?"
"About losing."
She was right again.
She always was.
We sat in silence for a while, the air thick with something unsaid. Finally, she leaned forward and whispered, "You know what I realized, Dhruve? You and I are mirrors, but one of us has to break first."
I stared at her. "And if neither of us does?"
She smiled — slow, dangerous, beautiful. "Then we both shatter."
After she left that night, the apartment felt colder.I looked at the empty glass she'd used, the faint trace of her perfume still in the air, and realized — she wasn't just in my life anymore. She was inside my head.
Every silence felt like her laughter.Every dream turned into her face.
Reya wasn't mine to control anymore.She was becoming something else entirely — a force that mirrored every dark, broken corner I'd tried to bury.
And maybe… I deserved it.
Because this was my creation.My reflection.My punishment.
As I stood by the window, watching the city flicker like dying stars, I whispered, "Your turn, Reya. Let's see how far you can go."
But deep down, a quiet voice whispered back —She already has, Dhruve. She already has.