It's strange how quietly control slips away.One moment you think you're holding the strings, and the next… you realize they're wrapped around your throat.
That's what Reya was doing.Not loudly. Not with force.She was dismantling me gently.
At first, I didn't see it. She didn't attack or argue anymore. Instead, she listened — carefully, patiently, like she was mapping my thoughts.
She'd call late at night, her voice soft and calm."Rough day?"
"Yeah," I'd mutter.
"Tell me."
And I did. I don't even know why. I told her about the exhaustion, the emptiness, the sleepless nights. Things I hadn't told anyone — not even myself.
She didn't judge, didn't interrupt. She just listened, the kind of silence that made you keep talking because it felt safe.
But it wasn't safety.It was disarmament.
Over time, she learned the rhythm of my moods — when to push, when to pull away.She'd vanish when I needed her most, and return when I least expected it, offering comfort like it was mercy.
Once, I told her, "You have a talent for showing up right when I start to forget you."
She smiled through the phone. "Maybe I don't like being forgotten."
"Or maybe you like being needed."
"Don't we all?" she said softly.
That line stayed with me.
Because that's exactly what she was doing — making me need her.
Soon, it became habitual.When something went wrong at work, I thought of her.When I couldn't sleep, I scrolled through our messages.When I felt nothing, I reached for her voice.
She wasn't a person anymore — she was a drug.And like every addict, I kept telling myself I could quit anytime.
One evening, she came over unannounced. No makeup. No games. Just… quiet.
"You look tired," she said softly.
"Yeah. Haven't been sleeping much."
She touched my hand — light, almost accidental. "You should rest more. You're starting to look human again."
I frowned. "Human?"
She nodded. "You were too calm before. Too composed. It's unnatural. People who've been through hell shouldn't look that put together."
Her words made something tighten in my chest.She was seeing me. The real me — the man behind the masks.
And that terrified me.
We sat in silence for a while, the city murmuring outside. Then she said, almost to herself,"Do you ever think you became the thing you hate just to feel powerful again?"
I didn't answer.
She looked up at me, her eyes gleaming faintly. "You destroyed people because it was easier than admitting you were destroyed first."
"Stop," I said quietly.
"Why?"
"Because you're right."
That was the first time I'd said it out loud — that I wasn't strong, just scared. That everything I'd done since Mira wasn't revenge; it was survival twisted into cruelty.
Reya reached out and placed a hand on my chest. "You don't have to keep pretending you're in control, Dhruve. No one is."
Something broke then — not violently, just a small, quiet fracture somewhere inside.I wanted to hate her for it, but I couldn't.
That night, she stayed.No sex. No tension. Just warmth — fragile, unfamiliar warmth.
I woke up before dawn to find her asleep beside me, breathing softly. For a moment, I almost believed in peace again.
But peace is fragile, and lies disguised as healing never last.
Because even as I watched her sleep, a part of me whispered —She's doing it again.
Not destroying you this time, Dhruve.Rewriting you.
Over the next few days, I started noticing patterns.The way she'd use guilt wrapped in care — "You push everyone away, Dhruve. I'm just trying to stay."The way she'd compliment and criticize in the same breath — "You're strong… but you're so scared of being weak, it makes you cruel."Every word carved just deep enough to leave a mark.
She was playing my own game — empathy as a weapon, affection as control.
And I couldn't even blame her. Because I'd taught her how.
One evening, I confronted her."You think I don't see what you're doing?"
She smiled faintly. "What am I doing?"
"You're manipulating me."
She laughed softly. "Oh, sweetheart… I'm teaching you."
"Teaching me what?"
"How it feels."
I clenched my jaw. "You're crossing a line."
She leaned closer, whispering, "No, Dhruve. You drew the line. I'm just showing you what's on the other side."
After she left, I stood there in the dark, her perfume still clinging to the air, her words looping in my head.
She was right.This was my doing.
Reya was both mirror and consequence — the embodiment of every mind I'd broken, every heart I'd twisted.And now, she was doing it better than I ever did.
The master had become the experiment.
And maybe that's what I deserved.