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Content Notice: This story contains themes of psychological distress, coercion, and emotional trauma. Reader discretion is advised.
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Avni learned how to look normal very early in life.
Not happy. Not fulfilled. Just normal enough that people stopped asking questions.
It was a skill she developed quietly, without instruction or praise. By the time she was old enough to understand that other people felt things loudly, Avni had already learned restraint. She smiled when required. She nodded when expected. She answered questions with just enough detail to sound cooperative without inviting follow ups.
Normal was economical. Normal was safe.
She woke up at 7:12 a.m., six minutes after her alarm, because she always did. Six minutes was her quiet rebellion against a life that ran on schedules decided by other people. She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling fan as it rotated unevenly above her head. It made a faint clicking sound that she had noticed years ago and never fixed. Some noises became part of the background if you lived with them long enough.
Outside her window, Mumbai was already awake. Buses groaned into motion. Vendors called out prices with theatrical urgency. Someone argued loudly about something that mattered deeply to them and not at all to her. The city did not wait for permission. It never had.
Avni reached for her phone.
No notifications.
That was good. Silence was easier to manage than expectation.
She moved through her routine efficiently. The bathroom mirror reflected a woman who looked composed and unremarkable. Her face held no obvious story. Her eyes did not demand attention. She tied her hair back neatly, not because she lacked preference, but because she preferred not to be remembered for trivial details.
At breakfast, her mother slid a plate across the table without ceremony.
"You're late," her mother said.
"I'm within tolerance," Avni replied.
Her mother sighed, the sound carrying equal parts affection and resignation. They had perfected this exchange over the years. Love, in their house, lived in small allowances and unspoken agreements.
Her father sat across from her, reading the newspaper with quiet concentration. Headlines scrolled past his eyes. Scandals. Accidents. Stories that began as distant and ended as warnings. Avni wondered briefly how many disasters started as ordinary mornings.
Almost normal mornings.
She left the house on time. The lift stopped at every floor, collecting people who looked like they were already tired of the day ahead. On the bus, she stood pressed between strangers who smelled of perfume, sweat, and urgency. Conversations spilled into her space without invitation.
A woman complained loudly about her husband. A man argued with the conductor over exact change. Someone laughed too hard at something that was not particularly funny.
Avni stood quietly, holding onto the pole, observing without absorbing.
At work, she did what she was good at. She organised ideas. She refined language. She turned vague intentions into something presentable. Marketing rewarded people who understood perception, and Avni understood it well. She knew how to make things look intentional even when they were not.
"You're very calm," her colleague remarked during lunch. "Nothing ever bothers you."
Avni smiled. "I bother myself privately."
They laughed, assuming it was humour.
It was not.
By evening, fatigue settled into her bones. Not the physical kind. The cumulative kind. The kind that came from holding things in without ever deciding where to put them.
She got off the bus one stop early and walked the rest of the way home. The streetlights flickered on, casting shadows that stretched and collapsed with every step she took. The air felt heavier than usual, though nothing had changed.
Her phone vibrated in her hand.
She stopped walking.
The number on the screen was unfamiliar.
Her heart did not race. Her palms did not sweat. Instead, a slow recognition settled into her chest, the kind that came not from surprise but from something finally catching up.
She unlocked her phone.
Unknown Number:Are you still pretending nothing happened?
Avni stared at the message.
It was not aggressive. It was not polite. It assumed familiarity without explanation, which unsettled her more than a threat would have.
She typed back.
Avni:Who is this?
The reply came quickly.
You don't remember me.
A pause followed.
Then another message appeared.
That figures.
Avni locked her phone and slipped it into her bag.
She stood there longer than necessary, watching traffic pass by like life on a separate track. Cars moved forward with purpose. People crossed roads with certainty. Everything continued as if nothing had shifted.
Nothing had happened.
And yet, something had.
At home, everything was where it should be. Shoes aligned near the door. Lights functioning. Familiar smells drifting from the kitchen. Her mother was chopping vegetables with rhythmic precision.
"You're late again," her mother said.
"I walked," Avni replied.
"Why?"
She shrugged. "Felt like it."
Her mother glanced at her, eyes sharp and knowing, then returned to her task without comment.
Dinner passed uneventfully. Conversation skimmed the surface of safe topics. Relatives. Neighbours. Someone's upcoming engagement. Avni contributed appropriately, laughed softly when expected, nodded when required.
Normal.
In her room later, she finally took out her phone.
The message was still there.
Unread again.
She stared at it longer this time.
Are you still pretending nothing happened?
She replied carefully.
Avni:I think you have the wrong number.
The typing indicator appeared almost instantly.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Her jaw tightened.
The reply came.
You always say that first.
Her breath caught, sharp and involuntary.
Always.
That word did not belong in a conversation between strangers.
She placed the phone face down on the desk. Her heart was beating faster now, not wildly, but deliberately. Like it had recognised something her mind was still refusing to name.
She paced the room once, then twice. The walls felt closer. Or maybe she was noticing them properly for the first time.
You always say that first.
She slept poorly.
Not because of nightmares. She did not dream at all. Her mind simply refused to settle, replaying the phrase without attaching it to a face or memory.
In the morning, she woke with a dull ache behind her eyes and the uncomfortable certainty that something had shifted overnight.
At work, she caught herself checking reflections more often than usual. Glass panels. Dark screens. Windows. She paused midsentence once, unsure why she had chosen a particular word. Small things. Easy to dismiss.
But Avni had learned that big disruptions rarely arrived loudly.
They arrived quietly and rearranged things while you were not looking.
Around noon, her phone buzzed again.
Same number.
She did not hesitate this time.
Unknown:You didn't deny it.
Her irritation flared.
Avni:Deny what?
A longer pause.
That nothing happened.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Avni:I don't know what you think you know.
That's not what you said back then.
Her chest tightened.
Back then.
She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. Her colleague looked up.
"Sorry," Avni said. "Call."
She stepped outside and typed carefully.
Avni:You're confusing me with someone else.
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
You blocked me last time too.
Her throat went dry.
This was not coincidence.
This was memory.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Avni:Stop messaging me.
You said that too.
Her hands trembled slightly.
Avni:This is harassment.
A pause.
Then the reply.
Then you should remember why I didn't stop.
Avni did not reply.
She blocked the number.
Relief followed, thin and temporary.
Blocking was not resolution. It was postponement.
That evening, she opened an old notebook from her drawer. She did not remember why she had kept it. The pages smelled faintly of dust.
She flipped through it absently.
Lists. Notes. Observations.
Then a sentence stopped her.
If I disappear again, it will feel justified.
Her handwriting.
Neat. Familiar.
Her stomach dropped.
She did not remember writing it.
Another page.
Don't confuse calm with certainty.
Another.
He isn't dangerous. Avoidance is.
Avni closed the notebook slowly.
Her phone vibrated.
A new number.
She did not answer.
A message followed.
Blocking me doesn't change what you already know.
Her chest tightened.
Avni:What do you want?
A pause.
Then the reply.
To understand why you decided forgetting was safer than honesty.
Avni laughed softly, without humour.
Avni:You're assuming a lot.
You always hated that about me.
That was too specific.
Too personal.
Avni:Who are you?
The pause stretched.
Long enough to feel intentional.
Someone you trusted when you weren't trying to be untouchable.
Avni stared at the screen.
She did not respond.
She placed the phone down and sat on the edge of her bed, notebook heavy in her lap.
This was not imagination.
This was not paranoia.
This was something she had chosen not to remember.
For the first time in a long while, Avni understood something with uncomfortable clarity.
Forgetting had never erased anything.
It had only delayed the moment when she would have to decide whether she wanted to remember on her own terms or be forced into it.
Her phone buzzed one final time.
I'll give you time.You always needed it.
Avni exhaled slowly.
Time had always been her excuse.
This time, she suspected, it would cost her something.