The city lights looked like dying stars — flickering, confused, uncertain whether to burn or fade. Dhruve sat at the café window, staring at the reflection of himself in the glass more than the world outside. His eyes didn't look like his anymore. They had that strange emptiness — like they were watching from behind a curtain.
He'd started noticing things about people lately.The way they smiled when they wanted something. The slight twitch in their eyes when they lied. The rhythm of breath that changed with interest or discomfort. It fascinated him. Maybe it was because his emotions had become too heavy to carry — so instead, he began studying others'.
Priya sat across from him, stirring her coffee in small circles. Her eyes lifted occasionally, trying to catch his, then falling again. She didn't know what to say. No one did anymore. Dhruve had become harder to read — too calm, too polite, too… empty.
"So, you've been quiet lately," she said, forcing a small smile. "You working on something?"
He looked at her — not answering, just letting silence fill the air.She shifted uncomfortably. He could feel her heartbeat picking up.
"Sorry," she said softly, "I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," he interrupted, his voice low, measured. "I just like listening more now. You can learn a lot that way."
She gave a nervous laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. "You're weird sometimes, Dhruve. You know that?"
"Yeah," he smiled faintly, "I know."
Inside, though, he was studying her — how her pupils widened when she looked at him, how her lips pressed together when silence stretched too long. He was testing something — not words, not affection, but reaction.
This was his new game.He mirrored her tone, her posture, her expressions — slightly delayed, perfectly controlled. When she smiled shyly, he smiled back just a heartbeat late. When she leaned forward, he did too. It was subtle, almost invisible, but soon he saw the shift — her body syncing to his rhythm.
It wasn't seduction. It was power through empathy twisted into control.And it scared him a little.
"Sometimes I feel like you can read my mind," Priya said, laughing nervously.Dhruve looked at her, expressionless. "Maybe I can."
She froze — half-laughing, half-unsure if he was serious.He sipped his coffee. "Or maybe," he said softly, "I just know what people want to hear."
The words hung in the air, heavy and quiet.
Later that night, he walked home through the rain — the sound of cars hissing by, reflections of streetlights stretching across the wet road. His phone buzzed — messages from another woman, one he'd met a few days ago. She'd texted him nonstop since their first conversation. He'd barely spoken much, just listened, said a few thoughtful things — and she'd opened up her entire life.
It amazed him how easy it was now. People were desperate to be seen, desperate to be understood. And he had become an expert at pretending to understand.
"You have such calm eyes," one of them had texted earlier.He almost laughed. Calm? His mind was a battlefield. But maybe that's why his calm felt convincing — it wasn't peace, it was numbness.
Back in his apartment, he sat in front of the mirror — his favorite new habit.He'd started doing it after everything fell apart. At first, it was just to face the broken man he'd become. But lately, it had turned into something else — an experiment in control.
He would stare into his own eyes and talk to himself like a stranger.Sometimes, he'd smile, just to see if it looked real. Sometimes, he'd whisper words he didn't believe anymore — love, trust, forgiveness. Each one felt like a foreign language.
He thought of Priya again — her soft voice, her uncertain eyes. He could feel her falling. And instead of guilt, he felt… curiosity.Why does affection feel like a trap for them, but a weapon for me?
He leaned back, whispering to his reflection, "You're becoming the same monster you hated."Then he laughed — quietly, bitterly. "No," he said. "I'm just learning how monsters are made."
The next morning, he went to work like nothing had changed. People greeted him, smiled, joked. He responded just right — the polite chuckle, the small nod, the friendly mask. Inside, he watched them all as if they were characters in a slow play.
At lunch, he got another message from Priya — "You free tonight?"He stared at it for a while, then replied, "Maybe."
Then another woman texted, "I miss talking to you."He smiled, typing slowly, "I'm here."
It wasn't love anymore. It was habit — a controlled experiment in emotion.
But somewhere deep inside, under all the numb control and careful manipulation, there was still a voice — small, tired, almost forgotten — whispering, "You're still that man who loved once."
He didn't answer it. He couldn't.
Because if he did, the whole fragile act — the mirror game — would shatter.