Siyara sat on the edge of her bed, her palms pressing hard into the mattress like she needed to hold herself down. The nightmare still clung to her, thin as sweat on her skin. Every detail refused to fade the dark, the chains, the way his eyes pinned her in place. His voice. The way it wrapped around her name like it was his to own.

She pushed her hair back, but her fingers trembled. Her heart hadn’t slowed; it kept running like it was chasing something she couldn’t see. And underneath that frantic rhythm, his words wouldn’t stop echoing.

Mine. Only mine. Even here.

She swallowed, the sound too loud in the quiet. It was just a dream, she told herself. But it wasn’t. Not really.

Because every word he spoke in the nightmare was something he could just as easily say in daylight. And the scariest part? She could almost hear him saying it now. Louder than her own thoughts.

Her eyes flicked to the balcony. The curtain shifted, and for one awful second her stomach dropped. Just the wind, she told herself. Only the wind.

She let out a shaky breath, but her hands stayed tight around the blanket. She didn’t want to admit it not even to herself, but some part of her almost expected him to be there. As if some invisible thread tied him to her, pulling him closer whether she wanted it or not.

And maybe that’s what terrified her most. Because she didn’t want him here. She didn’t want his voice, his touch, his shadow in her room.

And yet…

Her throat tightened. And yet the thought of silence, of emptiness without him, felt even heavier.

The clock ticked in the background. She stayed still, her bare feet resting on the cold floor, eyes locked on the curtain as it swayed. The wind wasn’t strong, just enough to make the fabric breathe.

But every shift felt like a whisper. A warning. A call.

Her grip on the blanket tightened until her knuckles burned. She pressed her lips together. She wouldn’t look. She promised herself she wouldn’t.

But the pull was already there. It had been there since last night, since his hand had smothered her scream, since his voice had chained itself to her.

Her heartbeat stuttered. One. Two. Three.
Her mind painted it too easily his silhouette in the moonlight, the outline of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, daring her to step closer.

She shook her head hard. No. She wouldn’t believe it.

But her mind wasn’t lying, was it? She had seen him there before. And the memory of his eyes was enough to steal her breath even now.

Her feet touched the floor. The chill made her flinch. Quiet, careful, she crossed the room. Her fingers brushed the curtain aside, inch by inch.

The night air slipped in cool, damp, carrying the faint scent of faraway rain.

Her eyes swept across the balcony.
Empty.

Only shadows stretched across the floor. The potted plants stood quietly in their corners, and far off, the city lights blinked like drowsy stars.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, but it didn’t bring relief. The knot in her stomach stayed, tight and unyielding.

Because even when he wasn’t there, she could feel him.
That strange, burning awareness like the air itself still remembered the shape of him standing there. Like the silence still carried the echo of his voice.

Her hand lingered on the glass a moment longer before she let the curtain drop back into place. She crawled back into bed, curling into herself, but her eyes betrayed her drifting back to the balcony again and again. Almost hoping. Almost dreading. That he would return.

---

Morning came with a pale wash of sunlight slipping through her curtains, brushing gently against her face.
Siyara blinked, once, twice, but didn’t move. The pillow under her cheek was cold proof that she hadn’t really slept. Every time her eyes closed, his voice returned. Every time she shifted on the bed, she swore she could smell his cologne in the air.

Her gaze went straight to the balcony door.
Empty.

The white curtains swayed lightly in the breeze, but no shadow lingered behind them. Still… she crossed the room and pulled the curtains shut, tight, as if to block out more than just the morning light.

The house sounded alive in a way that should have been comforting her mother humming in the kitchen, the clink of plates, her father’s low voice talking to Aryan in the living room.
Normal sounds.
Safe sounds.

But Siyara didn’t feel safe. Not really.

She pulled on her soft cotton kurta, the one with loose sleeves that made her feel small, hidden. Her hands shook a little as she fastened the buttons. The mirror didn’t lie her eyes looked tired, rimmed red from the night. She splashed water on her face again and again until her skin stung, but the memory of last night clung stubbornly, unwashed.

Her stomach growled faintly. She ignored it.

She opened her door just a crack, peering into the hallway. Her father’s laugh carried from the living room the kind of sound that usually made her smile. But today, it only made her retreat. If she stepped out, if they saw her face, they would ask. She couldn’t answer without breaking.

So she waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

When her father finally called, “Siyara?” she forced her voice to sound steady.
“I’ll be ready in a bit, Papa.”

That was enough.

She didn’t move until she heard his footsteps fade. Then she slipped out of her room quickly, head down, eyes fixed on the floor, and went straight to the kitchen for water.

Her mother turned from the stove, concern flickering in her gaze. “You didn’t come for breakfast. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine, Ma,” Siyara answered too fast.

When her mother reached toward her, Siyara shifted back a step, fussing with her dupatta as if adjusting it. Her mother noticed. Her eyes lingered a second longer, but she said nothing.

Siyara slipped back into her room with the glass of water, shutting the door softly behind her. She leaned against it, pressing the cool rim to her lips, trying to steady her heartbeat. It shouldn’t have been racing like this. And yet… deep down, she hated herself for expecting him to be there. Watching. Always watching.

By mid-morning, the sun had warmed the air, carrying the smell of fresh bread from the bakery down the lane. Siyara sat on the edge of her bed, twisting the strap of her bag around her fingers. She didn’t want to go. Every part of her told her to stay home, stay quiet, let the day slip past without being seen.

But she’d promised Nikita.

So she gathered her paints, brushes, the half-finished canvas waiting by the wall, and stepped out into the hallway. Her father glanced up from his newspaper. Aryan was half sprawled on the sofa, scrolling his phone. They looked at her, but she avoided their eyes.
“I’ll be at the workshop,” she murmured.

Her mother’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Come home before it gets too late.”

Siyara only nodded and left.
---
The workshop was a converted loft above an old stationery shop. Sunlight streamed in through wide windows, spilling across the rows of tables. The smell of paint and paper clung to the air, familiar and strangely calming.

She slipped into her usual spot by the far window, close enough to see the street below but far enough from everyone else. She unpacked her things with deliberate care brushes lined up by size, colors in order little rituals that steadied her hands.

Moments later, Nikita arrived, hair in a messy bun, coffee cup in one hand and bag in the other.
“You made it,” she said with relief.

“I told you I would,” Siyara replied quietly, dipping her brush into water.

For the next hour, she painted in silence. Streaks of shadow and light bled into each other, a storm over a lone figure standing at the cliff’s edge. The rest of the world slipped away until there was nothing but canvas, color, and the steady drag of her brush.

But now and then, her focus cracked.
A shadow at the doorway.
Eyes reflected in the glass.
A voice, low and rough, whispering: You’re mine.

Each time, she forced her hand back to the canvas, painting harder, darker.

Nikita leaned over once, watching. “You paint like you’re telling a secret,” she murmured.

Siyara didn’t answer. She only added another stroke, sealing the secret deeper.
---
When the workshop ended, Nikita packed up quickly. “I need to stop at the market. Come with me.”

Siyara hesitated. Crowds always made her restless. But Nikita tugged her bag with a grin. “Just five minutes. You’ll like it. Besides… you’ve been hiding too much.”

Siyara managed a faint smile, though her chest tightened. She didn’t know that today, in the noise of the market, something was waiting for her.

The late afternoon sun turned the streets gold as they rounded the corner. The air thickened with scents of flowers, fried snacks, and ripe fruit. Vendors called out over the chatter, their stalls crammed together in a riot of color.

Siyara pulled her scarf tighter. Too many voices, too many bodies brushing past. She stayed close to Nikita, letting her lead.

“Five minutes,” Nikita promised. “I just need fabric and spices.”

At a fabric stall, while Nikita bargained with a smile, Siyara’s gaze wandered. And froze.

A man at another stall was watching her.
Not casually. Not curious.
Staring.

Her chest clenched. She tore her eyes away, pretending to study a set of bangles. Her hands trembled. It’s not him. Just a stranger.

But her body didn’t believe her.

The feeling followed her through the narrow lanes, sharper with every step. At the spice stall, the air thick with cinnamon and cardamom, the weight of his gaze pressed closer.

By the time they reached the flower vendors, she couldn’t take it anymore. She turned her head—

And saw him.

Through a break in the crowd, just for a second.
Tall. Still.
Unmistakably Aarav.

Her lungs seized. The balcony. His hand over her mouth. That voice: You’re mine.

Nikita’s voice snapped her back. “Siyara? You okay?”

She forced a nod, her voice barely there. “Yeah… I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. Not even close.
---
When Nikita finally finished shopping, the sun had dipped lower, the crowd thinning. As they walked toward the edge of the market, Siyara dared one last glance behind her.

Aarav was gone.

But the hum under her skin remained, sharp and alive.

From the shadows of a nearby alley, Aarav watched with the faintest curl of a smile. He didn’t follow. Not yet.

He could wait.
After all… she was already his.
---
I wasn’t running toward love… I was running away from him.