Pranati’s POV

The air on the rooftop had always been my quiet place.

It had seen the best of my childhood—mosquito nets strung like soft cocoons, cousins sprawled across mattresses, whispering ghost stories and dreams.
Nights when Maneesha and I would trace Orion with our fingers, naming the stars after the boys we liked and the futures we dared not speak aloud.

But tonight?

Tonight the air was crackling.
Heavy.
Like it could split open with a single word.

Shravan’s footsteps had stopped just behind us, but it felt like a scream.

And me—
I stood frozen.
Caught between the heat of Siddharth’s palm on my waist, and the cold metal of the engagement ring Shravan had slid onto my finger only days ago.

My lungs didn’t know how to breathe. My skin didn’t know which touch to react to.

Siddharth didn’t move.
His fingers stayed where they were—firm but not possessive, steady but burning.

Shravan didn’t blink.

His voice cut through the night like a knife.
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

His words weren’t loud. They didn’t have to be.
They were loaded with something heavier than anger—something sharp, wounded, territorial.

Siddharth didn’t flinch.
His eyes, always composed like still water, narrowed just slightly. “She’s not a toy, Shravan. Neither of us get to play.”

Shravan stepped forward. Just once.
The rooftop lights caught the edges of his jaw—tight with rage. His eyes, though… they were more than angry. They were betrayed.

“You think because you had her first—because you touched her—you somehow own her?”

The words lodged like thorns in my throat.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My hands trembled at my sides.

Siddharth’s jaw clenched. A muscle flickered near his temple.

“I never claimed ownership,” he said, voice low, but piercing. “But you? You want her like a prize you couldn’t win in childhood.”

Shravan’s nostrils flared. His hands curled into fists.
“She was never a prize. She was my choice.”

“And yet,” Siddharth said, stepping closer, “she keeps coming back to me.”

My breath hitched.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was suffocating.

I wasn’t even sure my heart was beating anymore. It just pounded like a drum made of guilt, shame, and truth I didn’t know how to name.

Shravan looked at me then.

And his voice—
It softened in a way that broke me.
“You’re hurting her, Anna,” he whispered. “Look at her. She’s shrinking.”

I couldn’t take it.

I turned away, blinking rapidly. The tears were too close.

Siddharth’s hand slipped from my waist. The warmth that had anchored me was gone, leaving a chill in its place.

Shravan walked up to me slowly. He didn’t touch me. Just stood a breath away. Close enough for me to hear the pain in his voice.

“You don’t have to choose now,” he said. “I’ll wait. But don’t let him keep you in confusion just because he can’t decide if he wants your body or your heart.”

His words clung to me like smoke.

And then he left.

His footsteps echoing down the stairs—firm, angry, retreating.

The silence he left behind wrapped itself around me like chains.

Siddharth didn’t say anything.

He just looked at me.

But not like before.
This time, he was looking at my hurt. My cracks.
Like he was trying to memorize the way I was breaking, so he could carry the burden himself.

I couldn’t stand it.

I turned and walked away. Not because I didn’t want him. But because I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I didn’t know how long I wandered.

The house had quieted. The aunts were asleep. The cousins tucked into bed, lulled by the weight of rituals and gossip.

I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want to be held.

I just wanted to feel something real that wasn’t confusion.

My feet led me behind Padma akka’s house—towards the old well. The one our parents always warned us to stay away from after dark.
“There are snakes,” they said.
“Spirits,” some whispered.
But tonight, the darkness there felt safer than the storm in my chest.

And then I saw them.

Pages.

Torn from my diary.

Flapping at the edge of the well like wounded birds, dancing in the wind.

My knees buckled. I dropped to the earth and reached for them, heart hammering.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Mine.

But with words I hadn’t written.

Red ink. Bold. Obsessed.

“You smiled at him. But I saw the way your eyes searched for someone else.”

My fingers trembled as I picked up another.

“You wore lilac today. You knew it’s my favorite, didn’t you?”

My stomach twisted. I fought the urge to throw up.

Another one lay crumpled near the mossy stones.

“He doesn’t know you like I do. He never will.”

I backed away slowly, unable to breathe. My vision blurred.

And then the last one. Folded neatly.
Tucked near the bucket rope as if placed with care.

My hands shook as I opened it.

“They won’t save you. I will.”

My blood turned to ice.

This wasn’t just admiration.
This wasn’t just obsession.

This was a promise.

A threat disguised as devotion.

And it meant only one thing—
That someone had been watching me long before I even realized it.

They’d been inside my room.

My diary.

My head.

And now—my rooftop wasn’t mine anymore.

My story wasn’t mine anymore.

I stumbled back from the well, breathing in jagged, panicked gasps.

Because this wasn’t the end.

This wasn’t even the middle.

This was the beginning—

Of something far darker.

The house was too quiet. 

Satyakka’s usually chaotic home had slipped into a strange, uncomfortable silence. No cousins. No clanging vessels. Just the wind brushing past the open windows and the occasional creak of an old ceiling fan. Amma had insisted I stay back tonight. Everyone else had gone to Padma Akka’s house, but I didn’t have the strength to go. 

I wanted silence. But not this kind. 

The loneliness in this house wasn’t peaceful—it was loud. Breathing. 

I changed into a soft cotton nightie and tied my hair up, padding around barefoot with a mug of warm milk, trying to settle my nerves. The lights flickered once, then came back. I told myself it was nothing. 

The second time, I didn’t believe it. 

I reached for my diary just out of habit. It wasn’t where I left it. 

My heart dropped. I always kept it under my pillow. Always. 

I spotted it—on the floor by the window. Open. 

I bent down slowly, carefully picking it up. The page it was open to… was not my handwriting. 

My fingers trembled as I read: 

“You smiled in your sleep last night Was it for me, or for the one who’ll never deserve you. I stood right here. You didn’t even know.” 

My throat went dry. My vision blurred for a second. I turned toward the window in a panic—it was open an inch. 

No. No, no, no. I closed it. 

I slammed it shut and locked it, my heart hammering. The room suddenly felt smaller. Claustrophobic. 

A sharp buzz. My phone. 

A message from an unknown number. 

“White suits you. Especially the way it slips off your shoulder when you dream.” 

I staggered backward. 

I hadn't worn white in days. Not in public. 

Except last night. 

When I was in this room. Alone. 

I grabbed my phone and hit video call. 

“Sakshi… pick up. Please… please—” 

She picked up on the third ring, her face blurry with sleep. 

“Pranu? What’s wrong?!” 

“I think… someone’s been in my room.” I swallowed hard. “Someone was here.” 

She was instantly alert. “Are you alone?!” 

“Yes.” 

“Show me everything. Turn on all the lights.” 

I obeyed. Holding the phone up, I slowly turned it around the room. Nothing. Everything in place. And yet… 

“Pranu,” Sakshi whispered. “You need to get out. Now.” 

“Where do I go? It’s midnight, and Amma’s not even picking up…” 

“Call Siddharth. Shravan. I don’t care. Call someone. You can’t stay in that house.” 

But I couldn’t move. Something rooted me to that floor. My body felt like it didn’t belong to me. 

Then—I noticed something behind the curtain. 

I dropped the phone in shock. 

A photograph. Pinned. 

It was me. Sleeping. My hair spread on the pillow, just like now. Except this was taken from inside the room. 

The date on the back? 

Yesterday. 

Somewhere else, hidden in the old portion of the house 

A small storeroom. Locked to the world. 

Inside it: madness. 

The walls were plastered in images of Pranati. Some printed. Some drawn. Some torn from old family albums. A few were candid, taken when I wasn’t looking. Others were… intimate. Creepy. 

In the center of the room was a shrine. Her bindi. Her old school ID. A dried flower from the Bathukamma tray. 

A diary. Pranati’s. An older one she thought she had lost. Pages were torn from it. Used. 

And there—among the shadows—stood a person. 

He pressed his fingers against her photo, tracing the edge. 

“You looked scared tonight,” he whispered, eyes wide with wonder. “But still so beautiful.” 

He chuckled, low and broken. 

“You’re all alone now. No Siddharth. No Shravan. They’ll break you, and when they do, you’ll have no one left…” 

He leaned closer, whispering to the photograph like a prayer. 

“…but me.” 

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