Chapter 1
The night felt unusually still as I stood by the balcony, my fingers curled tightly around the cold railing, staring up at the sky. The stars flickered faintly—as if they knew something I didn’t. “Why me?” I whispered into the silence, my voice barely audible. The question lingered, heavy and unanswered. “Why did this happen to me?” I asked again, louder this time, my throat tightening. “What did I do to deserve this? Am I really that unlovable… or just unlucky when it comes to love?” The wind brushed past me, cold and indifferent, offering no comfort. A tear slipped down before I could stop it, followed by another, but I wiped them away quickly, almost angrily. “No,” I muttered to myself. “Not tonight. I’m not breaking down tonight.” I forced myself to breathe, steadying the storm within. “I can’t live like this forever. I won’t.” For a brief moment, I closed my eyes, trying to hold onto that thought. After all, I still had a whole life ahead of me… twenty-five years of it.
At exactly midnight—12th May 2026—I had turned twenty-five. My birthday had begun, yet there was nothing to celebrate. No excitement, no warmth, just a heaviness that refused to leave my chest. The past had a way of holding on, and tonight, it felt like it was suffocating me. Just then, my phone vibrated, cutting sharply through the silence. I flinched and glanced at the screen. A video call. Aaryan Bhai. The time read 12:05 a.m. I stared at it for a second, surprised. “Someone remembered,” I murmured under my breath. I hadn’t expected that—not after everything, not after the pain I believed I had caused. Taking a deep breath, I forced my expression to soften before answering the call.
The moment the screen lit up, his voice filled the room as he began singing, “Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to you… happy birthday, my little sister Aarya…” Before I could react, he popped a balloon near the camera and dramatically blew flying kisses. A small, unexpected laugh escaped me. “Thank you, bhai,” I said softly. “I really didn’t think anyone would call.” He didn’t smile immediately; instead, he leaned closer, studying my face as if trying to read everything I wasn’t saying. “Why wouldn’t I call?” he asked, his tone shifting. I looked away, unsure how to respond. “After everything… I just thought—” “Stop,” he interrupted firmly, and I fell silent.
Then, as if flipping a switch, his expression changed. “Wait,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Why aren’t you dressed up?” I frowned, confused. “What?” “Ohhh,” he nodded slowly, dramatically. “I get it now. You’ve gained weight again, haven’t you? Nothing fits you anymore?” I stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter—a real, unguarded laugh. “You are impossible,” I said, shaking my head. “You still haven’t grown up.” “Excuse me?” he smirked. “I’m just stating facts.” “You’ve been stating the same ‘facts’ since we were kids.” “And you’ve been proving me wrong since then,” he shot back instantly. For a moment, everything felt normal—familiar, safe. “Bhai… you always know how to distract me,” I admitted, my voice softening. His expression softened too, but only slightly. “But?” he asked quietly. I hesitated before answering, “But I’m not okay. Not really.”
The silence that followed felt different. He didn’t joke this time. He didn’t interrupt. He just listened. “Aarya,” he said slowly, “you can’t keep punishing yourself like this.” “I’m not punishing myself,” I replied defensively. “Yes, you are.” “No, I’m—” “You are,” he repeated, firmer now. “And you’re pushing everyone away while you do it.” I clenched my jaw. “That’s not true.” “Then why didn’t you call Mom and Dad?” The question hit hard, knocking the breath out of me. I looked away immediately. “Because… it’s my birthday,” I said quietly. “They should call me first.” “They’re waiting,” he said. “For what?” “For you.” I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s convenient.” “Aarya—” “No, bhai,” I cut him off sharply. “Why is it always me? Why do I have to fix everything?” “Because you’re not ‘everything’,” he replied calmly. “You’re part of it.” I shook my head, frustration rising again. “I don’t want to do this right now.” “Aarya, just call them. Tell them you’re okay. Tell them you’re sorry.” Something inside me snapped. “I said I don’t want to!” The words came out louder than I intended, leaving behind a sharp, uncomfortable silence. “I’m not ready,” I added, my voice trembling now. “And I don’t want anyone telling me what to do.” He looked at me for a long moment before sighing. “Fine,” he said softly. “But don’t take too long.” I didn’t reply. I simply ended the call.
The room felt heavier after that—quieter. I walked back inside, my footsteps echoing faintly, and without thinking, I opened my Spotify playlist and played Zaalima. The music filled the emptiness as I began making my bed, pulling the sheets tighter than necessary, smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t matter. Anything to stay distracted. Anything to avoid thinking. When I finally lay down, I stared at the ceiling as the song played on until I couldn’t take it anymore and turned it off. Silence rushed back in, louder than before. “Maybe this is God’s plan,” I whispered into the darkness. “Maybe I just have to accept it.” The words felt hollow, but I closed my eyes anyway, hoping sleep would come.
Then my phone buzzed again.
My eyes snapped open instantly. That wasn’t a call—it was a message. And not just any message. A different notification tone. My body froze. I had set custom tones for only a few people, and I knew that sound. My heartbeat quickened. “No…” I whispered, my voice barely steady. My hands began to tremble, my feet turned cold, and it felt like the air had been pulled out of my lungs. Slowly, almost unwillingly, I reached for my phone. The screen lit up. One notification. One message. “Don’t,” I whispered to myself. “Don’t open it.” But my fingers moved anyway.
The message opened.
“Happy birthday, love. I’m still here.”
Everything inside me froze. The room felt colder, darker, as if something unseen had stepped into it. “No… this isn’t possible,” I said, shaking my head, my voice breaking. My eyes scanned the name again, the number, the words—again and again—as if they might change. “It’s not real,” I whispered desperately. “This is not real.”
Because the person who sent that message—
was dead.
Not missing.
Not gone.
Dead.
And I knew that.
