There's a certain thrill in being watched — especially when you know exactly what they're seeing.
By now, I'd mastered the art of it: the deliberate pause before speaking, the half-smile that hinted at mystery, the quiet eye contact that made people lean in closer.It wasn't arrogance. It was choreography.
Every move was intentional.Every silence was a hook.
And I had learned one universal truth — people don't fall for love; they fall for curiosity.
It started small — a few new coworkers who lingered too long near my desk, a barista who always remembered my order, a woman from HR who "accidentally" brushed my arm when handing me files.
Before, I might've been flattered.Now? It was data.
I studied them the way a scientist studies reactions — coldly, curiously, without moral hesitation.Each smile, each glance, each nervous laugh — all variables in a quiet experiment called control.
The first "subject" was Meera — ironic name, right?A junior analyst, maybe twenty-five, with too much enthusiasm and not enough armor.She liked talking. I liked listening.
Listening, I learned, was the most potent weapon.You make someone believe you understand them, and they'll give you everything — their trust, their secrets, their heart.
After a few days of casual conversation, she started texting me after work. Memes, jokes, then more personal stuff — family problems, insecurities, the whole script.And all I did was respond with calm empathy.
No flattery. No promises.Just silence — timed perfectly between words.
By the end of the week, she told me I made her feel "safe."
Safe.The most dangerous word in my dictionary.
One night, after a late office project, she stayed behind. We sat together, the hum of computers filling the silence. She said softly,"You have this… energy. Like you've been through hell, but you don't mind walking others through it."
I laughed. "Maybe I'm still there."
Her hand brushed mine — not accidentally this time.And I didn't pull away.
For a second, I thought about Reya.How she used to look at me like she could read my mind.
But Meera didn't see through me — she saw into me.And that's what made her dangerous.
So I did what I always do when someone gets too close —I made her fall harder.
Then I disappeared.
The messages came fast."Did I do something wrong?""Why are you ignoring me?""Please just tell me if I made you upset."
Each text was a ripple in the water — proof of my effect.Proof that I still had control.
I read them all, never replying.Each word fed the part of me that needed to feel superior, wanted, untouchable.
But at night, when the noise faded, I'd catch myself staring at the phone — not proud, not satisfied, just empty.
Because every person I broke reminded me of the one who broke me.
A few weeks later, Nisha showed up again."You're playing games again," she said.
"Games?"
She scoffed. "You think I don't see it? The charm, the distance, the quiet manipulation? You treat people like puzzles."
I didn't deny it.I just smiled. "Maybe puzzles are easier than people."
She sighed. "You know, Dhruve, someday you'll meet someone who'll play better than you. And when you do… it'll destroy you."
"Maybe that's the point," I said quietly.
That night, I couldn't sleep.Her words kept echoing — "Someone who'll play better than you."
And for the first time, I wasn't sure if I wanted to win anymore.Because every victory left me emptier.
The thrill was fading.Control didn't feel like power anymore — it felt like a cage I'd built for myself.
The next morning, I walked past the mirror again.The man inside still smiled — confident, calm, unreadable.But behind his eyes was fatigue.
The kind that comes from pretending too long.
They say a butterfly can't see its own wings.Maybe that's why it's drawn to the flame — chasing warmth, mistaking it for light.
I was the flame now.And every butterfly that came near me —I burned without guilt.
But sometimes, when the night was quiet enough,I wondered if I was just another butterfly —circling the fire that was still her.
Reya.
The ghost I never buried.