Chapter 3 - The Name That Haunts
The weight of the past never truly fades—it lingers, waiting for a moment of silence to resurface.
He sat in the dim glow of his apartment, fingers running absent mindedly over the edge of his phone screen. The message still stared back at him, its presence heavier than any words it carried. A single notification, yet it felt like an echo from a past he had buried deep.
"We need to talk."
It wasn't the words that sent a chill down his spine. It was the name attached to them.
Abrish Pasha
His breath hitched. How long had it been? Three years? Maybe more. Time had done nothing to blur the edges of her name—it was still sharp, still cutting.
His grip on the phone tightened as if the force could suppress the memories clawing their way to the surface.
A part of him wanted to ignore it. Pretend it never arrived. Move on.
But the other part—the part that still woke up at night drenched in cold sweat, the part that carried the weight of an unspoken truth—knew he couldn't.
Because he owed her more than silence.
The phone screen dimmed, then locked. He exhaled, pressing it face-down on the table, as if turning it away could make it disappear.
A faint knock at the door.
He ignored it at first, hoping whoever it was would leave. But the knocking continued, steady, unyielding. He ran a hand down his face before dragging himself toward the door.
As expected, Aryan stood outside.
His sharp gaze scanned him the moment the door opened, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion in his stance.
"You look worse than yesterday."
He let out a humorless chuckle, stepping aside.
"And you still have a habit of showing up uninvited."
Aryan entered without another word, placing a paper bag on the table before pulling out a chair.
He didn't sit. Not yet. His mind was still tangled in the message, the past, the face he had spent years trying to forget.
Aryan leaned back, arms crossed.
"You gonna talk about it?"
He sighed.
"About what?"
Aryan raised an eyebrow.
"Don't do that. You know exactly what."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.
After a long moment, he finally muttered,
"She texted."
Aryan didn't react immediately. He simply nodded, as if he had been expecting it.
"And?"
His jaw clenched.
"And I don't know what she wants."
Aryan studied him carefully before speaking,
"Maybe it's time you find out."
The words settled like a weight in his chest.
He could ignore it. Block the number. Pretend the past didn't exist.
But deep down, he knew—it was never going to let him go that easily.
Memories That Refuse to Die
After Aryan left, he found himself alone again, trapped in the eerie silence of his apartment. He stood by the window, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. They felt distant, like a world he no longer belonged to.
His phone sat untouched on the table, yet his mind kept circling back to it. The message felt like a ghost, lingering, waiting to be acknowledged.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Why now? Why, after all these years, had she decided to return?
Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to slip into the past—a past he had spent years burying beneath distractions and denial.
Three years ago.
A night drenched in rain.
A voice trembling with unshed tears.
A mistake he could never take back.
The weight of it crushed his chest, a familiar suffocation he had long learned to live with.
"You are not the victim here."
Her voice echoed in his ears, just as sharp, just as painful.
No. He wasn't. He had never been.
His hand tightened into a fist, nails digging into his palm. Enough.
Pacing back to the table, he picked up his phone, staring at the screen as if it held all the answers he had spent years searching for.
He unlocked it.
His fingers hovered over the message, hesitation clawing at him.
And then, before he could second-guess himself—
He typed a single word.
"When?"
The Meeting That Shouldn't Happen
Days passed, but his nerves never settled. He went about his routine—work, mindless scrolling, late-night cigarettes on the balcony—but nothing felt real. It was as if he was moving through life on autopilot, waiting for the inevitable moment he would have to face her again.
Her reply had been simple.
"Tomorrow. 6 PM. Same place."
Same place.
His stomach twisted at the thought.
Their last meeting had not ended well.
Would this one be any different?
The clock on his car's dashboard read 5:45 PM as he pulled into the parking lot. He shut off the engine, but made no move to get out.
His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a restless rhythm betraying the storm raging inside him.
What was he supposed to say?
How do you greet a ghost?
Taking a deep breath, he finally stepped out of the car. The air was thick with the scent of rain, clouds hanging low in the sky.
And then—he saw her.
Standing by the entrance of the café, dressed in soft pastels, her hair tied back in a way that made her look exactly the same—yet somehow different.
His breath caught.
Three years.
And yet, the sight of her still made his world tilt.
She turned, her gaze locking onto his.
There was no smile. No warmth.
Just the weight of the past sitting between them, unspoken, undeniable.
He took a step forward.
And for the first time in years—
He was ready to face what he had spent so long running from.
.
.
.
.
If you were in his place, would you reply to that message or ignore it?""What do you think is going to happen next?"