Devendra learned something terrifying that night.
The voice didn't need the dark anymore.
He was awake.
Fully awake.
And it was still there.
He sat on the edge of his bed, hands clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and replaced with air that burned when he breathed.
"You're quiet today," the voice whispered.
It wasn't teasing.
It sounded… disappointed.
Devendra shook his head slowly.
"I won't talk to you," he said. "I won't listen."
A pause.
Then a soft laugh—not cruel, not loud.
That's okay, the voice said.
You don't have to listen.
His throat tightened.
I just want you to feel.
Memories began to surface—ones he didn't remember choosing.
Moments of fear.
Moments of loneliness.
Moments where he cried quietly so no one would notice.
Each one rose inside him like a wave and crashed all at once.
Devendra pressed his forehead against the wall.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he whispered.
The answer came close. Too close.
Because you're still holding back.
His breathing grew uneven.
I don't want your body, the voice continued.
I don't want your sleep.
A pause—heavy, deliberate.
I want your tears.
At school, Devendra barely spoke.
A teacher asked him a question.
He stared.
Didn't answer.
Someone laughed somewhere behind him.
And suddenly, the pressure in his chest exploded.
He stood up so fast his chair fell backward.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice shaking. "I'm—sorry."
But he didn't know who he was apologizing to.
He locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection.
His eyes looked older.
Too old.
"You see?" the voice murmured gently.
You're changing.
Devendra's reflection trembled.
"I don't want this," he said. "I just want to be normal."
The voice softened.
Normal people don't survive what you did.
That broke something inside him.
Tears came—not loud, not dramatic—just silent, uncontrollable.
And for the first time…
The voice sounded satisfied.
That night, the dream returned—but it was different.
No running.
No screaming.
Just Devendra standing in the dark, shoulders shaking.
"You win," he whispered.
The shadow did not move closer.
Instead, it said something far worse:
No.
I'm just getting closer.
He woke up exhausted.
Not because of fear.
But because crying had taken everything out of him.
The trauma didn't hurt him directly anymore.
It waited.
And waiting, Devendra realized, was the cruelest part.
Author's Note
There's something I want to say clearly.
When I ask, "If I died, would anyone remember me?"
I'm not saying this because I want to disappear.
I'm not saying this to hurt myself.
I'm saying it because sometimes a thought like this exists quietly inside a person, and it needs to be written somewhere instead of being locked away.
This story is one of the ways I leave something behind—
not a scream, not a goodbye—
but a trace.
If someone reads this and remembers the story,
then maybe that means the person who wrote it was here too.
That's all I wanted to say.
Thank you for listening.