The days started blending together. One blurred into another until time itself felt like water — slipping, rippling, disappearing between my fingers. I woke up when the alarm rang, dressed in clothes that smelled faintly of detergent and disuse, and went to work. That was my life now: a routine with no pulse.
When I walked into the office, it felt like stepping onto a stage. Smiles, nods, "Good morning, man," the same tired faces pretending they weren't falling apart inside. I used to be one of them — part of that act. But lately, I didn't even bother to hide the emptiness behind my eyes.
Still, people didn't notice. They saw what they wanted to see — a man who looked fine. Maybe that's the trick. When your heart's dead quiet, the world thinks you're just composed.
"Dhruve, you got a sec?"It was Rajiv, my manager. Cheerful bastard. Always smelled like aftershave and optimism."Yeah," I said, my voice coming out steadier than I expected.
He talked about some client, some numbers, some project I didn't care about. I nodded, typed, replied with the right words at the right times. He smiled, clapped my shoulder, said, "You're a solid guy, Dhruve. Always reliable."
Reliable.If only he knew what kind of reliability that was — the kind where you're so numb you can't even break.
At lunch, a few coworkers invited me to join them. I said yes, for no reason other than that saying yes felt easier than thinking. The cafeteria was loud, full of laughter and gossip. I sat there, eating tasteless food, listening to them complain about deadlines, partners, traffic. Someone joked about relationships — "All women are the same, bro."They laughed. I did too. Too loud. Too fake.It echoed in my head like a bad recording.
When I got back to my desk, I stared at my screen until the numbers blurred. My hands were steady, my pulse slow. It was strange — the calm I felt wasn't peace. It was something colder. Like my blood had turned to smoke.
After work, I went to the bar near the office — not because I wanted to, but because it felt like something I was supposed to do. The bartender nodded, poured my usual without asking. Whiskey. Neat. Burned just enough to remind me I was still alive.
A woman sat two stools down. Red lipstick, tired eyes, pretending to scroll her phone. We caught each other's reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She smiled. I smiled back — or at least, my mouth moved that way.
"Rough day?" she asked."Every day," I said. She laughed softly, like she understood. Maybe she did.We talked — or rather, she talked and I nodded. Her words were just noise. I watched her lips move and wondered if I used to sound like that when I still believed in things.
When she asked my name, I almost said a fake one. Not because I needed to hide, but because Dhruve didn't feel like me anymore. That name belonged to someone else — someone who used to care.
Later, when she touched my hand, I didn't feel anything. Not warmth, not excitement. Just contact. Skin to skin. Nothing beneath it. She leaned closer, perfume filling the air — sweet, heavy. I didn't pull away. I didn't move closer either. Just stayed there, floating somewhere between guilt and apathy.
"Wanna get out of here?" she whispered.I looked at her — really looked — and realized she was probably as broken as me."Not tonight," I said softly. "You should go home."
She blinked, confused, then gave a small nod and left. I watched her walk away, her red heels clicking against the floor. The sound echoed even after she was gone.
When I finally stepped outside, the air felt too thin. The city lights blurred like smudged paint, and for a moment, I didn't feel like I was walking — more like drifting. Everything felt unreal. My body moved, my lips smiled, my voice spoke, but none of it belonged to me.
I touched my chest — heartbeat steady, but faint. That's when the thought hit me:Maybe I'm already dead, and this is just the echo of what used to be.
When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror again. My reflection stared back with that blank calm — no grief, no rage, just nothing. I raised my hand, pressed my palm against the glass. The man in the mirror did the same.
"You look alive," I whispered. "But you're not, are you?"
The silence didn't answer. It never does.I laughed — soft, tired, almost kind. "Guess this is it, huh? My new skin."
And for the first time, I realized how easy it had become to wear it.The ghost skin.The one that smiles, breathes, lives — while the real me quietly fades beneath it.