Devendra woke up slowly, the morning light cutting through the curtains like thin knives. The air was cool, but his body felt tense, like he had been running even while sleeping. For a moment, he lay still, listening—listening for that voice, that laugh, the one that had haunted his dreams for years. It was gone. But the memory lingered, a weight pressing down on his chest.
He got out of bed carefully, his feet touching the cold floor, grounding him. Breakfast was quiet. His mom moved around the kitchen, humming softly, trying to act normal. But Devendra could sense her worry, the tiny crease in her forehead whenever she glanced at him. She didn't speak; she didn't need to. Words wouldn't change what she couldn't see—the horrors he had endured, the relentless cycle of dreams where he had died a thousand times, and the girl who had never let him escape.
He barely touched his food. Each bite felt heavy, laden with the memory of all those nights.
Why am I still here? he thought. Why can't I just… disappear and be free of her?
He shook his head. He knew the answer—she wouldn't allow it. Not yet. Not ever.
By the time he left for school, the sun was fully out. Devendra walked slowly, watching the familiar streets, the children playing, the vendors shouting, the smells of fresh bread and incense. Everything seemed normal, yet his mind twisted it, turned it into a scene from the dream village he had known for so long. He couldn't help but scan every shadow, every movement. Is she there? Waiting? Watching?
In class, the ordinary world pressed against him—the teacher's voice, the scraping of chairs, the rustle of papers—but Devendra felt detached. His friends noticed.
"Devendra, are you okay?" one asked, nudging him lightly. "You look… weird today."
He forced a weak smile. "I'm fine," he muttered, but his hands trembled slightly as he gripped his notebook. He opened it, but the words blurred. I can't focus. I can't think. I can't escape…
Then the whispers came—not outside, not in reality, but inside his head. Soft, sinister, curling around his thoughts: You are mine. You cannot hide. You cannot run.
He clenched his fists under the desk, his knuckles white. His heart pounded like it wanted to escape his chest. He tried to steady his breathing, but it was no use. Memories of being lifted, of the cold touch on his neck, of the girl's laughter in empty halls—everything came back at once.
By lunch, Devendra was nearly shaking. He forced himself outside, needing air, needing space. His friends tried to distract him, but the world felt unreal. Every shadow flickered in his mind, every laugh sounded like hers.
Why am I still alive? Why do I still remember her? Why does she still haunt me?
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sunlight warm his face, trying desperately to ground himself. And slowly, painfully, he realized: he was still here. His body was still alive. His mind was battered, yes, but he was breathing. He was surviving.
And that small truth, fragile as it was, became his anchor.