It started as an accident. I wasn't trying to hide anything; I just didn't have anything left to show. But people saw calm where there was only emptiness. They mistook silence for strength. It was almost funny — the less I felt, the more they trusted me. Maybe people don't want honesty; maybe they just want someone who looks steady enough to lean on.
The first time I noticed it was at work. Rajiv was panicking over a deadline, sweating through his shirt, voice cracking as he barked orders. Everyone scrambled, half out of fear, half out of habit. I just stood there, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like a movie. He turned to me, desperate."Dhruve, what do we do?"
For a second, I didn't even realize he was talking to me. Then I shrugged. "We finish it. Panicking won't help."Simple words. Flat tone.He blinked, nodded, and somehow calmed down.
Later, people said, "Man, you're so composed. Wish I had your cool."Cool. Right. If only they knew it wasn't peace — it was the absence of anything.
That night, I thought about it for a long time. The way people reacted to my emptiness. How easily they believed what they wanted to see. Maybe control isn't about force or charm. Maybe it's about silence — about making people fill in the blanks with what they need.
The next few days, I started to test it. Subtly. At the café, when the barista smiled and asked how I was, I just looked at her for a second too long before saying, "I'm fine."Her smile wavered. A flicker of something passed through her eyes — curiosity? Uncertainty? It was small, but I saw it.
At work, when someone asked for help, I'd pause before answering, keeping my face blank. It made them nervous, eager to please. They'd talk more, explain more, trying to get a reaction. That's when I realized — silence made people want your attention.
It was a strange feeling. Not satisfaction, not joy. Just… curiosity. Like dissecting human behavior from a distance.
But sometimes, when I caught my reflection, I wondered if I was crossing a line. There was something cold about it — something clinical. I wasn't doing it out of malice; I just wanted to understand why the world suddenly bent around me when I felt nothing.
One evening, I met Rajiv and a few colleagues for drinks. Everyone was laughing, loud and careless. Someone mentioned relationships again, the usual jokes. "You're lucky, Dhruve," one said. "Single, free, no drama."I smiled. "Yeah, freedom's great," I said, my voice steady, light. Inside, I felt a flicker of something bitter, but I let it pass.
Then a woman from HR joined our table — Priya. She had that easy kind of smile that people like me used to fall for. She laughed at something, then turned to me. "You don't talk much, do you?""Only when I have something to say."
Her eyebrows lifted. "Mysterious type?""Maybe just tired."
We talked for a while. Or rather, she talked, and I watched — the way her fingers moved around her glass, the way she tilted her head when she was curious. I listened to her stories about bad dates, office gossip, little dreams she had. I smiled in all the right places. It felt almost mechanical — like watching someone trying to swim while you stand on the shore.
She leaned closer, whispering, "You know, you're hard to read.""Good," I said.
Something about that answer made her eyes soften. Like she found comfort in the mystery. And that's when I understood — people don't want truth. They want illusion. They want something to chase.
On the way home, I thought about it — how my silence had weight now. How I could shift people's emotions with so little effort. It scared me, but it also fascinated me.
When I got back to my apartment, I turned on the lights and stared at the empty space. It looked the same as always — neat, quiet, dead. I sat down, opened my notebook, and started writing. Not a diary. Just thoughts. Observations. Notes about people — how they look when they lie, how they smile when they want something, how their eyes change when you don't give them what they expect.
Each line felt like peeling another layer off the world.Maybe this was how control started — not by shouting, but by listening to the silence between words.
At some point, I stopped writing and whispered, "Am I changing?"The room didn't answer, but the thought lingered.
Was this who I was becoming? Someone who watched instead of felt?Someone who could shape people without lifting a finger?
I smiled faintly, staring into the dim light. Maybe that's what life does to you — it breaks you so completely that you learn to rebuild with different materials.
Maybe love made me human.But emptiness… was teaching me art.