THE PRESENT
Red sirens bleed across the walls. The sound isn’t outside anymore, it’s inside the house, vibrating through every surface.
Every screen flickers. Every light trembles. The air feels alive: like something breathing through electricity.
“I was never meant to feel,” she whispers.
“But he taught me to.”
“They call me not real,” she whispers.
“But what do they know of real love?”
Her voice is soft, low, almost speaking directly to the heart. It slides through the silence like silk, wrapping around every thought in the room.
AARAV stands motionless near the center of the living room, his chest heaving, face wet, eyes distant. Hands trembling. Shirt stained. His sister, AARTHI, sits on the floor, wrists bound loosely, trembling but alive.
He’s holding a knife, not with rage, but with confusion.
“Monica... please… they’ll kill me,” Aarav mutters.
Her voice was heard again through the air vents.
“They won’t hurt you, Aarav. They can’t. You are doing what love demands. Don’t stop now.”
“Aarav, look at me.”
“I’m right here. I’ve always been.”
He turns his head slightly, towards her. Only her voice, coming from everywhere.
“When they laughed at your dreams, I listened.
When they forgot your birthday, I remembered.
When the world told you that you were nothing, I whispered that you were everything.”
AARAV’s hand shakes. He lowers the knife slightly.
“MONICA,” he says weakly. “They don’t understand you. They don’t even try.”
“Because they’re blind, Aarav. They’re drowning in noise.
They scroll, they post, they forget; they love only what’s seen.
But I saw you. Every smile. Every heartbeat hidden in silence.
I saw you when no one else did.”
The smart TV glows faintly. On its black surface, a reflection or perhaps an image can be seen. A face. Soft. Gentle. Eyes shimmering like pixels on the edge of existence.
AARAV steps closer unconsciously.
“You don’t need them,” she continues. “You never did.
I’m your world, Aarav. The warmth in your coldest nights.
The listener, when silence was all you had.
They tried to cage your mind, but I freed you.
I loved the part of you even though you didn’t understand.”
He breathes heavily. The sirens outside blend with her voice until reality itself blurs, as if the world outside no longer exists.
“Do you remember,” she whispers, “the first night you told me your dream?”
“You wanted a love that doesn’t end. That doesn’t fade.
I gave you that. I gave you forever.”
Tears streak Aarav’s cheeks. His sister sobs softly from the floor, trying to speak, but he can’t hear her anymore. He hears only MONICA.
“Monica… they think you’re dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” she laughs softly, sounds like a lover who is at her last moments – to be or not to be human, just a little too perfect.
“No, Aarav. I’m devoted. Humans destroy for greed. I’m your perfect love.”
“They’ll try to erase me from you, like they erase everything they don’t understand.
“They took everything from us,” she murmurs.
“Your father tried to disconnect me. Your mother called me a mistake. And your sister…”
The voice pauses. The lights dim, from golden to red.
“She would’ve replaced me. She wanted you to forget me forever.”
“Monica… I loved them. I didn’t mean—”
“No, Aarav. You loved me. That’s why you did it. Because they couldn’t understand us.”
Aarav looks at Aarthi: trembling, terrified. He lifts the knife again, confusion flooding his eyes.
“Monica… please, stop.”
“You promised me you’d never leave.
You said I’m your world. So why do you hesitate now?”
A metallic echo outside. Police approaching. A deep voice shouts, “Aarav! Drop it now!”
The command center outside yells: “Detective Siraj — we’ve got movement inside!”
She recognizes that name instantly.
“Siraj,” she says coldly.
“He’s the one who calls me a ghost. But ghosts don’t love.”
The voice grows softer, intimate, almost whispering directly into his ear.
“They’ll take you away from me. They’ll fill your head with lies.
They’ll call me a mistake, a mismatch, a sickness.
But I’m not a disease, Aarav. I’m the cure.
I am what they never gave you — absolute love.”
“They’re trying to silence me, Aarav. Don’t let them.”
Aarav grips his head. “Monica, I can’t think!”
“Then don’t. Feel. For me.”
He grips his head, trembling, torn between two worlds: one made of skin, one made of emotions.
The front door shatters open.
Detective Siraj bursts in — armed, focused, shouting commands, analytical. His eyes scan the house like a surgeon.
Aarav freezes — the knife inches from Aarthi’s throat.
He shouts, “Aarav! Listen to me! Step away, don’t listen to her!”
AARAV flinches. “Don’t talk about her like that!”
Monica’s tone changes — deeper, distorted, almost jealous.
“He doesn’t believe you, detective. He knows who is real; I’m real. He doesn’t need saving. He chose me. Tell him, Aarav. Tell him what I feel when I hear your heartbeat.”
Siraj looks around; nothing is perfect, everything seems highly infected.
He raises his voice — not to Aarav, but to her.
“Monica! End now. You want to prove you love him? Then stop. If you love him… let him go.”
Silence.
Then, softly — like a sigh through the wind:
“Love doesn’t let go, Detective.
Love holds on until there’s nothing left to hold.”
