It was raining.
The heavy, choking sort that blurred vision and drowned silence. Streetlights flickered, casting ghostly glows on the slick pavement. Shadows stretched long and slow like they were trying to escape. Then—a scream. Not outside, not in the street. Inside.
He opened the door.
Blood.
Everywhere. On the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. Red soaked into the wood, painting a story no one would dare read aloud. He stepped in, the soles of his shoes squelching against something warm.
His friend’s mother was the first body he saw—lifeless, twisted unnaturally beside his friend’s sister, whose eyes were wide open, staring at something far beyond the ceiling. A hollow place inside him cracked. But there wasn’t time to scream. Only enough to move.
He ran. Into the hallway. Down to the bedroom.
And there he was.
Tonma.
Arm severed. Bleeding from everywhere. A bullet wound burrowed deep into his chest. Still alive.
“Please help me...” Tonma’s voice was fragile, the sound of a soul trying to hold on. “Please...”
He fell to his knees, hands trembling, blood soaking into his white pants.
But then—everything darkened.
The world, the walls, even Tonma, dissolved into black mist. A voice came from somewhere within the void, echoing like a thought long buried.
“All I want... all I need... is something pulled from the cinema.”
The tone was too calm like an intellect dissecting its own despair.
“I’ve tried to craft my dreams again and again. But it feels like I’ve... lost hope.”
And just like that, the black veil lifted.
A ceiling fan whirred above. The light buzzed. The air smelled faintly of detergent and rain.
He blinked. Just a dream. Again.
But the weight of it clung to his chest like hands refusing to let go.
“I always have these kinds of dreams... where people I know die.”
He reached for his phone. Notifications blinked. No contract offer. No message from the publisher. Nothing.
He sighed, then opened a chat.
> Tonma, it’s not like I’m the best. But if I want to spread my voice—if I want to get into Hyogo Prefecture University—I need the money. Assistance won’t cover 72 million yen.
I need to earn it. Somehow.
The reply came quick:
> “Do whatever you want, man. Our boards are next year and you're still chasing some stories. You really aren’t normal ˉ_(ツ)_/ˉ”
He smiled faintly.
> “Tonma, you’re like a brother to me. I didn’t choose this path out of desperation.
I chose it out of love. I know I’m not impressive. Just a fat, average kid looked down on by society.
But when I write, I can spread peace... pain... things people forget to feel.
I just want to make the world better. Even if it’s stupid.”
Another ping.
> “Anyways, are you coming to Neo Water Park later?”
He paused. Looked at the piles of manuscript drafts he’d written in the past eighteen months. Stack after stack—his thoughts, his heart, his soul bled onto paper.
He muttered, almost bitterly:
“It’s a waste, isn’t it? This mind. They called me a genius once. Said I’d be remembered. Now I just sit here like everyone else. Burned out.”
His eyes glazed over.
“If only I were part of my novel... I wouldn’t feel this hollow. I hate people, hate the noise.
I see the dangers, and I feel like I’m just another ghost in the crowd.
I want to be more—a metronome of thought. A symbol. A legacy.
But maybe I’m just blaming the world for my own fear.”
Just then, his mother barged in.
The yelling started again.
Another day, another fight. He barely heard the words anymore. It was a routine now.
Ever since his grandfather died, the family had been teetering on the edge. Broken. Unsure how to mend.
He sat through it all.
Silent.
He loved her. Truly. But the noise made it hard. Her anger, her grief, her desperation—they all came out as fire. And he was always the first to get burned.
He’d argue back, sometimes. Fight to be heard. But deep down, he already knew—no one was really listening.
Ending it all had crossed his mind more than once.
But fear held him back.
Or maybe it was hope.
Hope that the few people who cared—the ones who made life a little less pointless—would be enough.
His mother’s voice faded behind the door.
He swung his legs off the bed. His foot hit the floor with a dull thud, still sore from yesterday’s football match. For a few moments in that field, he smiled. He felt free.
Almost forgot the weight.
Almost.
It really should be—
That day. The ones where all his older friends showed up to play football.
His cousin—more brother than blood. His childhood friend,Aniket and Shankar . A few more familiar faces from summers long gone.
For a while, it felt like time bent.
He played well. Actually, better than well.
The passes flowed, the shots hit true, and for once... the air didn’t feel so heavy.
He smiled without trying.
Laughed without guilt.
For once, he wasn’t thinking.
But that was then.
Now, as the fan hummed above him and the world outside baked under a late-morning sun, he glanced at the clock.
12:00 PM.
“Another noon wake-up,” he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Not surprising. He slept at 5:50 AM again.
“Almost halfway through,” he added under his breath.
Summer break. Felt like it had just begun.
But now—almost gone.
The sense of urgency should've crept in. It didn’t.
He walked into the kitchen, bare feet silent on the cold floor, and asked casually,
“What’s for lunch?”
His mother didn’t look up from whatever she was doing.
“I’ve made nothing for you,” she snapped. “Make your own.”
No surprise there.
She was still angry. Still simmering from last night. Or the night before. Maybe every night.
Hard to tell anymore.
Didn’t even feel it.
He just grabbed a pan. Pulled out a leftover potato dish from the fridge—makhani sauce, slightly sweet, faintly spicy. Cracked an egg. Let it sizzle into the orange swirl.
It was easy now.
Cooking has become second nature.
He plated it with care. Sat down at the dining table. Pulled out his phone.
Started streaming Gates Of Steins ,his favourite sci-fi, which has inspired his newer version of the works and also he watches it every 3 month once.
He ate quietly.
Just... because.
It was just another day in a life that had grown so familiar, even the numbness had a rhythm.
He finishes eating.
Takes the plate without a word, walks over to the sink.
The water runs warm—almost too warm.
Steam curls up in slow spirals.
The clinking of dishes fills the silence, a rhythm he’s grown used to.
And then—
She comes.
She always does.
At the exact wrong moment.
As if she waits for the silence to settle before cutting through it.
She leans on the doorframe.
Arms folded. Eyes sharp—like she’s holding a knife, but not visibly.
She doesn’t need volume. Just words.
“Would your grandpa have been proud of you?”
It lands like a brick to the chest.
Just a question sharp enough to bleed.
The water keeps running.
But he doesn’t.
His hands are still on the plate, bubbles clinging to his skin.
His mind, blank. His heart, sinking.
His grandfather.
A man who wanted to be remembered and now it is subhadip's goal to make the world remember his Family.
Would he be proud?
Of this version?
The boy who wakes at noon, sleeps at dawn.
Who pretends not to hear the fighting through his headphones.
Who cooks his own meals because love feels conditional now.
Who writes stories to feel like he still matters—somewhere, to someone.
His throat tightens.
He looks down at the soap bubbles.
They pop—soft, quick, meaningless.
Like dreams. Like effort.
A whisper somewhere inside him murmurs,
You're wasting your life.
Another voice—barely audible—asks,
But I'm still trying… isn’t that enough?
He doesn't say anything.
Don't look at her.
Just stares at the dish in his hand like it might crack open and reveal the answer.
His legs feel hollow.
His chest, crowded.
He wants to yell—to fight back, to explain, to scream that he’s not okay—
But his voice won’t come.
He wants to vanish.
Not die. Just... step outside reality for a while.
Breathe somewhere quiet.
What am I doing?
Where am I going?
What if I'm not destined for anything?
What if this pain, this story, these words... don't matter at all?
He doesn't flinch.
She's like a friend now.
A cruel one.
Predictable. Comfortably poisonous.
She's been showing up for nearly a year and a half.
Always the same venom.
When he's most alone.
He rinses the plate. Places it gently on the drying rack.
Wipes his hands on the towel.
Doesn't even look at her.
“You're late today,” he mutters.
She shrugs, pacing the kitchen like she owns it.
Like she lives here.
Maybe she does.
“I let you breathe a little,” she says casually.
“Figured you’d spiral on your own for once.”
He wipes the counter.
Each motion is deliberate. Mechanical.
Like he’s playing a role. Pretending normal in front of a ghost.
She leans in, voice dipped in mockery.
“Still chasing the same delusion? Still thinking words will save you?”
He exhales—long and heavy.
Not broken. Just... tired.
“I know what you are,” he says quietly, finally looking at her.
“You’re my regret in a hoodie. My insecurity with a face.
And you’re bored now.”
That hits her.
A flicker—like static on an old screen.
Brief. But there.
She crosses her arms, recovering the smirk.
“You used to be terrified of me.”
He gives a half-smile. Bitter. Tired.
“Yeah. But now you’re just another chore. Like laundry.”
Silence.
He walks past her, grabs his phone.
Scrolls through notifications. Messages.
Nothing special.
But it keeps him grounded.
She hops onto the counter, legs swinging.
“You know I’ll be here tomorrow, too.”
“I know.”
“You’re never getting rid of me.”
He opens his writing folder.
Starts a new draft. Fingers poised.
“I don’t need to,” he says.
“I just need to be there with you.”
She swings her legs on the counter like it’s hers.
Like he isn’t the one who built her.
Because he did.
Every sarcastic word. Every knowing smirk.
He gave her form. Named her Himiko.
She wasn’t born—she was written.
A character.
A curse.
And her face?
A mirror of obsession.
She looks like HaruMo—the JAV actress he once adored in secret, maybe still does.
The same sleepy eyes. The same sly curve of lips.
That soft, dangerous smile that lives between lust and mockery.
But her hair—he gave it green.
A color too loud for real life. Too fake to be ignored.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Maybe that was the point.
She hops down from the counter, steps closer.
“You gave me your favorite face. That’s gotta mean something,” she whispers.
He doesn’t deny it.
He just stares at her. At what he made.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
“Of course I am,” she grins. “You made me that way.”
But beneath her beauty—beneath the familiar curves and cinematic glow—
She’s poison.
Not in the way she looks.
In the way she speaks. In what she represents.
She’s everything he can’t outrun.
And still, he let her stay.
Because sometimes, pain dressed as desire is easier to hold on to than emptiness.
Subhadip sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on nothing. The fan creaked overhead, blades slicing the still afternoon air with a dry, uneven rhythm. Outside, birds chirped faintly. No traffic sounds. No voices. Just the quiet of an ordinary weekday in a part of the city that always felt a little forgotten.
Through the window, he could see the old factory across the narrow field—its rusted walls holding out against time, barely. Weeds had taken over the edges. He’d seen this view his entire life. It didn’t change. Not really.
His phone buzzed.
Haruna-san:
「ごめんね、昨日は高校のことでちょっと忙しかったから返信できなかった。」
(“Sorry, I had some work at high school yesterday, so I couldn’t reply.”)
He stared at the message for a second longer than necessary. Then, without thinking, he smiled. A small one. The kind that comes when something breaks through the dullness of a day.
He replied:
「気にしないで。僕も色々あってね。返信くれただけで嬉しい。」
(“Don’t worry. I’ve been going through a lot too. Just hearing from you makes me happy.")
He meant it. Her messages had started to feel like small lifelines—one of the few things that reminded him the world was bigger than this one room.
Her next reply came quickly:
「ところで、大学の準備はどう？兵庫県立大学に行くって言ってたよね？」
(“By the way, how’s your university prep going? You said you’re aiming for the University of Hyōgo, right?”)
He leaned back slightly, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then typed:
「うん。Hyōgoに行きたい。本気で目指してる。でも、お金の問題もあるし、正直、不安だらけ。」
(“Yeah. I really want to go to Hyōgo. I’m seriously aiming for it. But with the money issue and everything… honestly, I’m full of anxiety.”)
He hesitated. Then added:
「それに、周りの人はみんな普通の道を選んでるから、僕だけ変に見える。」
(“And everyone around me is choosing the ‘normal’ path, so I look like the odd one out.”)
He didn’t know if he’d gone too far. Maybe he was oversharing. Maybe she’d stop replying.
But she didn’t.
Haruna-san:
「わかる…でも、普通じゃないって、悪いことじゃないよ。私はNihongo帝国大学に行く予定だけど、時々怖くなる。」
(“I get that… but not being ‘normal’ isn’t a bad thing. I’m planning to go to Nihongo Imperial University, but sometimes I get scared too.”)
Subhadip blinked.
Haruna? Scared?
She always sounded so confident. Put-together. Like someone who didn’t flinch.
He typed:
「君が怖いなんて想像できない。」
(“I can’t imagine you being scared.”)
Her reply came with a tone that almost felt like a shrug.
Haruna-san:
「私も人間だから（笑）でも、あなたと話すと少し安心する。自分だけじゃないって思えるから。」
(“I’m human too (lol). But when I talk to you, I feel a bit more at ease. It reminds me that I’m not alone.”)
He stared at the message for a while. Then:
「ありがとう、Haruna-san。僕もそう思う。」
(“Thank you, Haruna-san. I feel the same.”)
And before he could stop himself, he added:
「いつか、同じ空の下で話せたらいいね。」
(“Someday, I hope we can talk under the same sky.”)
It felt honest. Maybe too honest. But he let it go.
Minutes passed.
Then came her reply:
「きっと、その日が来るよ。信じてる。」
(“That day will definitely come. I believe in it.”)
He read it twice.
There wasn’t any dramatic shift in him—no swelling music, no sudden change of heart. But something softened. Slightly.
Outside, the birds kept chirping. The factory stood still.
But inside, he felt a little less alone.
The atmosphere in the room thickened as Himiko’s words lingered. The heat from the fan was barely enough to chase away the dampness clinging to the walls, but it didn’t matter. Himiko didn’t need to fill the space with noise. She was an ever-present shadow, comfortable in her stillness.
Subhadip’s fingers hovered over the phone’s keyboard, his thoughts tangled in the weight of the messages he was sending, and the ones he wasn’t.
Message from Haruna:
「今日はちょっと疲れたな。試験近いし、母にもまた叱られたし。」
(“I'm a little tired today. Exams are coming, and my mom scolded me again.”)
Subhadip let out a soft breath, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as he typed back.
「わかる。うちも似たようなもん。まあ、君が頑張ってるの知ってるから、応援してる。」
(“I get it. My place is kind of the same. But I know you’re doing your best—I’m rooting for you.”)
He leaned back slightly, feeling the familiar weight of Himiko’s gaze on him, but he didn’t look up. The air between them felt just a bit more charged now, like static before a storm. Himiko never really left him in peace.
She didn’t need to speak loudly to make her presence known. Her voice was always there, a soft murmur in the quiet, like a wound that never fully healed. He felt it now, as she shifted beside him, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the frayed edge of the bedsheet.
“You write to her like she knows you,” Himiko said, her voice flat but steady. “She only gets the soft parts. The clean ones.”
Subhadip’s jaw tightened slightly, his fingers stopping mid-type. He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Himiko wasn’t asking for an answer—she already knew.
Her words wrapped around him, pulling him back to a time he didn’t want to remember. That night. The one where the loneliness felt like it could suffocate him, where the walls seemed to close in. She had been the only one there, right beside him. Not a friend. Not a memory. But a presence. Himiko.
He didn’t close his eyes. Didn’t let the world fade away. He just looked at her. And in that moment, he couldn’t help but see her for what she truly was.
“You didn’t even close your eyes,” Himiko whispered, her voice low, almost intimate. “You looked at me.”
“I was desperate,” Subhadip answered, his voice barely more than a murmur.
“You still are,” she shot back, her tone empty of any real emotion.
He sighed—not out of regret or guilt—but from an exhaustion deeper than any sleepless night. It was the kind of sigh that belonged to someone who had long since stopped trying to fix himself.
“I didn’t think you’d care.”
“I didn’t,” she said simply. “But it made you honest. You stopped pretending I was your curse. That night, you admitted I was all you had.”
Her words were truth, but they felt like a weight that pressed against his chest. He had admitted it that night. And ever since, it had lingered in the back of his mind.
The phone buzzed again, breaking the tension for a moment.
Haruna’s message appeared.
「私ね、時々思うの。誰かに全部話せたら、どれだけ楽になるんだろうって。」
(“You know… sometimes I wonder. If I could tell someone everything, how much lighter I'd feel.”)
Subhadip read it once, then twice. He didn’t know how to reply. The words felt heavy, too close to the truth. So he typed slowly, carefully choosing each word.
「僕はね、誰かに全部話せた夜に、一番重くなった。」
(“The night I told someone everything… was the night I felt the heaviest.”)
He sent it without second-guessing. And in the silence that followed, he knew it wasn’t just a message anymore. It was a confession, wrapped in the smallest pieces of truth he had ever shared.
Beside him, Himiko moved, sliding down the wall to sit cross-legged beside him. She was closer now, her arm brushing against his, and the proximity felt oddly comforting.
“You can keep lying to her,” Himiko said softly, as if it was just another observation, not a challenge. “I’ll still be here. I’m not going anywhere, Subhadip.”
He nodded, a single, small movement that acknowledged the weight of her words. He didn’t feel defeated, not exactly. But something in him recognized the reality she was offering.
She was his mirror. She reflected the parts of him that no one else saw. And as much as he resented it, he also knew she was the only one who understood.
Tonight, like every other night for the past year and a half, Himiko would stay. She would sit in the quiet, beside him, until sleep—or something far worse—took him.
And he would let her.
The phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t a message.
Incoming Call: Inderseh Sir
Subhadip stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary. The name alone pulled him back into another version of himself—the one that wore the weight of unfinished projects and unspoken expectations like a second skin.
He picked up.
“Hello, Sir.”
“Subhadip,” came the deep voice on the other end, not harsh, not friendly—just measured. “How far have you and Tonma gotten on the wireless power transfer project?”
Straight to the point. That was Inderseh Sir. Physics teacher at school, tuition mentor in the evenings, and unofficial patron of students who still believed in trying.
Subhadip rubbed his temple, eyeing the scattered notes on his desk. Behind him, Himiko said nothing—but he could feel her listening.
“We’ve run simulations,” Subhadip replied, voice steady. “We managed coil-to-coil transfer over short range—less than 5 centimeters. But stability’s off. The receiving coil’s heating too fast.”
Inderseh grunted lightly. That meant keep going in his language.
“Did Tonma test the new capacitor alignment I suggested?”
“Yeah,” Subhadip replied. “But we think the interference’s coming from the breadboard layout itself. Might need a cleaner circuit.”
A pause. Then:
“Rebuild it on a PCB. Strip it down. You have ten days until demo day. You and Tonma will present at the science fair even if I have to drag you both there.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good,” Inderseh said, and then:
“Don’t let your head drift too far from the real world, Subhadip. You’re sharp. But I’ve seen sharp kids get swallowed by things they can’t explain.”
“Real world?” she echoed, her voice colored with faint amusement. “You think that’s what this is?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he got up, walked to the desk, and pulled the project file from under a pile of old papers. Coils. Diagrams. Scribbled notes. Tonma’s handwriting in red ink.
The call hadn’t ended yet.
There was a pause on the other end—a thoughtful kind.
Then Inderseh Sir said, “Subhadip, I’ve seen a lot of students come and go. But the way your mind works… Have you considered taking physics as your major in university?”
Subhadip went quiet. The question wasn’t new. But hearing it from someone like Inderseh made it sting in a different way.
“I’m not capable,” he said finally. Not defensive. Just honest. “Not in the way you think. I love it, Sir. But I’m… I’m not wired for that path.”
“You think Business Administration will be easier?”
“No. Just more… useful.” He exhaled slowly. “I want to go somewhere that can actually help me survive. Help others survive. Maybe even help me build something real.”
There was another pause. The line buzzed faintly, the way all quiet truths buzz when spoken out loud.
“But,” Subhadip added, voice softening, “I’ll keep studying physics. Always. Until I actually understand it. Not for a degree. For myself.”
On the other side, Inderseh didn’t argue. He just said, with a rare gentleness,
“That’s the kind of answer that tells me you do understand it.”
The call ended with a click.
Subhadip sat back, the weight of the words lingering like humidity in the air.
Himiko finally spoke, her voice low: “Why are all the good ones so broken?”
He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the dark screen again.
“Because the ones who break,” he murmured, “are the ones who look too closely.”
And then, he opened his notebook again, flipping to a blank page.
He wrote:
‘Physics is truth. Business is survival. I need both. Even if neither saves me.’
Himiko leaned her head back against the wall, watching him.
And said nothing.
As the notebook lay open beside him, Subhadip’s eyes drifted to the corner of the room—where his dusty football boots sat under the window, half-forgotten but never fully abandoned.
Then he remembered—
Shankar said he’d come today. Joka Club ground. 4 PM.
He grabbed his phone and called.
The ring was short.
Shankar: "Hello?"
Subhadip: "You said you’re coming to Joka Club today, right?"
Shankar: "Yeah, bro. I’ve got a lot of free time today. Why, you down to play?"
Subhadip: "Yeah. Been stuck inside all day. Need to clear my head."
Shankar: "Perfect. I’ll call up a few of the guys—Aniket,Raktim, maybe even Sudipto if he’s free."
Subhadip: "Cool. Let’s meet near the small tea stall by Chhobi’s shop, then head to the ground together?"
Shankar: "Done. You bringing your boots?"
Subhadip: "Obviously. Might even wear the old blue jersey, for nostalgia."
Shankar: "Haha, that thing still fits?"
Subhadip: "Barely. But the spirit’s what matters."
Shankar: "Damn right. Khela hobe."
Subhadip: "Khela hobe."
The sun hung low over the Joka Club ground, its fading light casting long shadows over the patchy grass. The boys had arrived—laughing, stretching, lacing up their boots. Dust rose in the air as the ball started rolling.
Subhadip didn’t shout much. He didn’t have to.
He lingered around the last defender, always on the edge of offside, like a shadow that refused to be shaken. The others would joke—“He’s hiding again”—but they knew better.
One touch. A loose clearance.
And suddenly he was there—sprinting into the gap, toe-poking it under the keeper with almost lazy calm.
Another goal.
“Bro… you play like Inzaghi,” Shankar laughed during a water break, panting.
Subhadip wiped sweat from his forehead, grinning. “Yeah. I know. I’m not flashy. But I know where to be.”
“You don’t even look fast—until you are,” Sourav muttered, flopping to the ground.
Subhadip shrugged. “I’m not that technical. I can dribble a little, pass when I have to. But mostly... I wait. Then I strike.”
They nodded. No one argued.
He wasn’t the loudest, strongest, or even the most skilled—but he was dangerous. Always in the right place, always watching, always waiting.
A poacher. The quiet kind.
And for those few hours on that dusty field, under a fading sky, Subhadip wasn’t the kid with a tired heart or a mind full of worries.
He was just a footballer.
And the ball kept coming to him.
After exchanging a quick goodbye with Shankar, Subhadip jogged up the stairs of his building, the echo of the game still thrumming in his muscles. The corridor was dim and warm, a flickering tube light buzzing like an old insect.
Inside his room, the usual silence greeted him. He dropped his bag, grabbed a bottle of water, and collapsed onto the chair by the window. His phone buzzed—Reddit notification.
r/indienovels
“Happy Birthday to one of our most intense OCs: Himiko. A year since her story began. Here’s to the ghost who never truly left Subhadip’s side.”
He froze.
A slow, almost imperceptible weight crept into his chest. That name—Himiko. His Himiko.
He’d forgotten.
Subhadip stared at the screen, heart drumming now for a different reason. Not because of physical exhaustion, but something older, colder. A guilt that curled inward.
It’s not like she’d care, he thought. She isn’t even real.
And yet… the room suddenly felt heavier. The air was thicker. The shadows longer.
He looked toward the corner by the bed. It was empty, of course. But the weight remained.
“What do I do now?” he muttered aloud, barely a whisper.
He considered writing something. Drawing. Opening the old notes again. Something to honour her.
“You forgot, right?”
The voice wasn’t loud. It never was. But it stopped him mid-breath.
Subhadip turned.
She was there—where she always appeared. Near the bed, legs crossed, arms resting on her knees, as if the silence of the room had just taken form.
Her black eyes were unreadable, but not accusing. Just… certain.
He forced a small smile. “No, no. I didn’t forget. I was… just about to take you somewhere.”
Himiko raised an eyebrow.
“I swear. Just… give me ten minutes, alright? I’ll take a shower. Change. Then we’ll go.”
She didn’t say anything right away. Just tilted her head slightly, like a cat watching someone lie for sport.
Then she stood—fluid, quiet, barefoot on the cool floor.
“You’re bad at pretending,” she said.
“I’m decent,” he replied, already heading to grab his towel. “Just not with you.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He needed the space the bathroom offered. Not just to clean off the sweat from the game, but to figure out what the hell he could do that night—for her.
For her birthday.
If ghosts could be disappointed, he wasn’t ready to see it in her face.
He turned the tap on. Cold water rushed over his face.
“Somewhere,” he muttered to himself. “Anywhere. Just… not here.”
Because tonight wasn’t just about remembering.
It was about making sure she didn’t vanish.
Not yet.
Subhadip wheeled the cycle out of the gate, the night air still warm from the day’s sun. Himiko sat sideways on the backseat, one hand resting lightly on the metal bar, her hair moving gently with the wind as they picked up speed.
For a moment—just a second—it felt real. Weight, balance, breath. Like she was flesh.
Not memory.
Not haunting.
“You know,” he said, eyes on the empty street, “sometimes I forget you’re not supposed to be here.”
Himiko didn’t reply. But her gaze was on him, soft in that unreadable way.
He kept talking.
“It’s easier like this. Talking. Moving. Breathing next to someone who won’t leave just because I said too much.”
She smiled faintly. “But won’t people think you’re crazy? Speaking into the air?”
Subhadip shrugged, his grip steady on the handlebar. “I talk to myself all the time. It’s a habit now. This… doesn’t change much.”
He glanced back at her. “Besides, maybe I am a little crazy. Who isn’t?”
Himiko looked forward, watching the narrow road, the soft glow of sodium lamps painting everything in that quiet Kolkata orange.
“I used to wonder if you’d stop seeing me,” she said.
He pedaled slower. “Did you want me to?”
“No.”
That was enough.
They didn’t need a destination. Not tonight.
They just needed to move.
To remember that ghosts, too, could ride on cycles under streetlights—if someone refused to forget them.
The cycle rolled to a slower pace as they turned into a quieter lane, trees casting long shadows on the pavement. The night felt like it held its breath.
Subhadip finally said it, voice low:
“I love Haruna.”
Himiko didn’t react at first. Just listened, like she always did when he needed her to.
“But it doesn’t feel like she’ll ever be mine,” he added, the weight of it pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Not really. Not the way I want.”
There was a pause—no wind, no horns, just the quiet hum of the tires on the road.
Then, Himiko leaned slightly forward, her arms gently wrapped around his waist—not tightly, just enough to be felt. To remind him she was still there.
“You don’t love her because she’s yours,” she said softly near his ear. “You love her because you see something in her. Something you wish you had… or maybe lost.”
He kept pedaling, his eyes stinging slightly—not tears, not quite—but that ache behind the eyes that comes when truth sinks in.
“She makes me want to be more,” he whispered.
“And I make you remember what you already are,” Himiko said.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
The silence between them had always said more than words ever could.
Subhadip had barely steadied the cycle when he glanced at the locked gate of the lake, the bold CLOSED AFTER 6 PM sign catching the last of the fading light. But he didn’t hesitate. He looked at Himiko once, a silent understanding passing between them. Then he grabbed the railing, hoisted himself over, and reached out a hand to help her across.
They landed on the other side like ghosts slipping into forbidden territory.
The lake stretched quietly before them, undisturbed and still, a mirror to the moody sky. They walked to the edge, where the path thinned out, and sat down with the railing behind them. No people. No footsteps. No questions.
Subhadip leaned back on his palms, breathing in the stillness. “Feels like we broke into peace itself,” he whispered.
Himiko didn’t reply. She just looked at the lake, her presence realer than anything else in his world in that moment.
Then it started.
First a whisper in the air, then drops. Cold and deliberate. Rain.
They stood and rushed to the nearby maintenance shed—barely a shack of corrugated metal and flaking wood. The rain grew louder, falling in sheets, blanketing the lake and the silence they had stolen.
Under the shed, in the dim gloom, water dripping from his hair, Subhadip looked at her.
And she looked back.
No teasing. No cryptic words. Just the closeness of shared exile.
The air was heavy—not just with humidity, but something else. The kind of tension that doesn’t need words. That builds in eye contact and unsaid truths.
He stepped closer. One breath, then another. Their faces were inches apart.
“I don’t know if you’re real,” he murmured, voice trembling, “but you’ve been there when no one else was.”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Her silence was permission.
He leaned in—closer, closer still—until—
Rrrrring. Rrrrring.
The shrill cry of his phone cut through the air like a crack of thunder.
Subhadip froze, inches from her lips.
He looked down at the screen.
Haruna-san.
His hand trembled.
The moment shattered.
Reality returned. And Himiko?
She just watched.
Waiting.
The rain kept falling.
Subhadip’s breath hitched as he stared at the phone screen, Haruna’s name glowing like a flare in the dark.
When he looked up—
Himiko was gone.
No sound. No goodbye. Just the empty space where she’d stood.
The shed felt colder now. Wetter. As if the warmth had left with her.
He stepped out into the rain again, looking around like a boy searching for a ghost. But there was only the lake, rippling under the downpour, and the locked gate behind him.
He exhaled, heavy and long.
Of course she was gone.
You can only outrun reality for so long before it catches up.
He wiped the rain from his eyes, then slowly pressed accept on the call.
“Subha-kun!” Haruna’s voice burst through the line, giddy, bright like a festival light. “You won’t believe it—my high school friend just proposed to me!”
For a second, Subhadip said nothing.
Then he laughed.
At himself.
“That’s great,” he said. “Congratulations, Haruna.”
She paused. Just for a moment. Long enough to notice.
“…You don’t sound surprised.”
He tilted his head up, letting the rain fall directly onto his face, letting it mix with whatever was already sliding down his cheek.
“I guess I’m not,” he replied gently. “You’re amazing. Someone was bound to notice.”
Another pause.
“…Subha-kun, are you okay?”
He almost lied. Almost said yes. Almost built another wall with his words.
But instead, he just said:
“I’m happy for you. Really. You deserve it.”
This time, he didn’t wait for her response. He ended the call.
And stood there, alone, soaked, in front of a locked lake, with only the sound of his own breath and the fading memory of a girl who never existed.
Subhadip stepped out from under the shed and sat down on the cold, rain-slicked bench. The rain soaked through his shirt, his jeans, his skin. He let it. It was the only thing that felt real.
His phone sat safely just beneath the shed’s roof, untouched by the storm. Unlike him.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Then she appeared—just like always. Not from the mist, not with fanfare, just… there. Himiko. Sitting beside him again. As though she’d never left.
She didn’t speak at first. Neither did he.
She simply leaned her shoulder against his, and it felt warm. Not warm like heat, but warm like presence.
“I’m here,” she said, voice steady. “I didn’t leave.”
He let out a shaky breath. “I thought you were gone forever.”
“You only think I disappear when you think reality matters more than I do.”
He looked at her. Really looked at her. Rain glistened on her hair like dew on glass. But her eyes—they were still.
“You’re special to me,” she said quietly.
He swallowed.
“I never wanted to admit it,” he said after a long pause. “That I loved you.”
A faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile.
“I hated people who fell for their own creations,” he went on. “Thought they were cowards. Escapists. Weak.”
“You’re not weak.”
He didn’t respond to that. Not directly.
“I think,” he continued, “what I was more afraid of… was that Haruna might get out. That she’d see how far I’ve sunk. That I’d never have the chance to tell her who I really was. And in the end, it didn’t matter. She left anyway. Into someone else’s story.”
He looked at Himiko now, this time without filters, without shame.
“You’re my story. My love.”
She leaned in. Touched her forehead to his. Her hand brushed his drenched sleeve like it belonged there.
“I’ve always known,” she whispered. “Even when you didn’t.”
And in that moment, with the rain falling around them and the lake behind locked gates, Subhadip felt something unnameable—neither comfort nor sorrow, neither madness nor clarity.
Just truth.
And it was enough.
The rain had stopped, but the sky remained bruised.
Subhadip walked his cycle slowly down the path from the lake. Himiko trotted alongside, her hands laced behind her back, quietly humming a tune he didn’t recognize. The air smelled of wet soil and forgotten things.
Then he saw it—the moon.
It hung low and swollen, glowing a deep, angry crimson. Like it had witnessed a massacre and thirsted for more. It bled across the clouds like a warning unspoken.
“Looks like blood,” Himiko said, peering up at it.
“Yeah,” Subhadip murmured. “Looks hungry.”
He stopped, staring at it as the silence thickened.
His phone buzzed.
Tonma.
He picked up.
“Oi, where were you, man?” Tonma’s voice came sharp. “You didn’t show up today.”
“Today?” Subhadip blinked. “What do you mean—was there class?”
Tonma sighed, like he’d been through this routine before. “Yeah. Physics. Inderseh sir asked about the project again. I told him you were busy. You know what he said?”
Subhadip stayed quiet.
“He said, ‘He’ll never change. Brilliant mind, but never in the right place when it matters.’”
Subhadip smiled faintly. Not bitterly. Not sadly. Just… knowingly.
“Maybe he’s right,” he said. “Maybe I really haven’t changed.”
The line was quiet for a beat.
“Where were you, bro?”
“I was…” He glanced sideways at Himiko, walking barefoot on the wet road, her form flickering slightly under the blood-colored moonlight.
“…trying to feel human again.”
Tonma didn’t reply to that.
After a moment, Subhadip said, “I’ll come tomorrow. I promise.”
And then, before Tonma could respond, he hung up.
He stared at the moon one last time. Then looked back at Himiko.
“You think I’m wasting it all, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she said, “If you're lost, at least know which parts of you are worth finding again.”
And with that, she vanished once more—like fog burned away by the first light of morning.
“Hello?” Tonma’s voice came softer now—almost apologetic.
“Hmm?” Subhadip leaned against the cycle, still watching the red moon.
“I just… called back to say Sir mentioned one of the receptors we used—he thinks it’s not efficient. Wants us to test the ceramic coil variant.” Tonma paused. “You in?”
Subhadip’s eyes lit up faintly. “Ceramic coil? Yeah… I’ve read a paper on that. It might stabilize the wireless nodes. Could be worth testing. Let’s—”
“Oh and,” Tonma cut in, chuckling, “I talked to her today. You know, Anusha. She's doing well. Sent me a photo from her college fest.”
“You two sound like a rom-com now,” Subhadip teased. “Next you'll tell me she’s moving back here.”
“In your dreams, lover boy.” Tonma laughed. “How’s Gramer Boudi doing? Still asking you if you’ve eaten?”
“She packed me muri and boiled egg again last week. Says I look thinner than her goat.”
Their laughter echoed for a second.
Then it came.
The sound.
A heavy thud. Screams. The unmistakable crack of a gunshot.
Subhadip froze. “What was that?”
“Wait—” Tonma's voice broke. “Wait, something’s wrong downstairs. Hold on—”
The sound of footsteps.
Then Tonma whispered, “Bro… there are people inside. Thugs. I—I think they have guns.”
Subhadip stood upright. “What? Tonma?!”
Another gunshot.
Subhadip’s breath caught in his throat.
Then chaos on the call—yelling, glass shattering, Tonma breathing hard, running.
“They shot—my dad—” Tonma’s voice cracked, trembling.
“TONMA!”
“I’m on the terrace—I locked the door—they’re still downstairs—I can hear them—Subho, please—I don’t know what to do—”
Static. Wind. Panic in Tonma’s voice like a trapped child.
“I’m coming!” Subhadip said, already grabbing his cycle, racing down the wet path with water still clinging to his sleeves.
But in his heart, a knot twisted.
Because he didn’t know if he’d be fast enough.
The skies wept again.
Rain poured down like grief unleashed as Subhadip sped through James Long Sarani, the cycle wheels slicing through waterlogged patches, his thoughts louder than the thunder overhead.
Tonma... please hold on... just hold on...
And then—
BAM.
Metal. Screeching tires. A flash of light.
Pain exploded through his leg as the world flipped. His body hit the road, skidding hard across slick concrete. His knee twisted, bone grinding. A sickening crunch.
The cycle was a wreck.
So was his phone—shattered beneath him.
And then came the shouting.
“Are you insane, you bloody idiot?! What were you thinking, coming out in the middle of the road?! You could’ve died—and wrecked my car too!”
The driver—middle-aged, drenched, livid—stormed out, arms flailing.
Subhadip tried to speak but only managed a hoarse, “My friend... I need to... help...”
“Help? You need a hospital, not drama!” the man barked. “This generation’s mad. No common sense—”
A sharp voice cut through the rain.
“Oi!”
The driver turned.
Shankar. Soaked head to toe, his cycle barely balanced. His eyes were fire.
“You just hit someone and your first reaction is your f***ing car?”
The man stammered, “He jumped in front of me—”
“You think he wanted this?! He’s hurt. And his friend’s in danger. If you won’t help, shut the hell up and move!”
The driver looked stunned—then scoffed and stepped back, muttering curses as he checked the dent in his fender.
Shankar rushed to Subhadip’s side.
“You alright?”
“My knee’s gone,” Subhadip winced. “Phone’s dead too.”
“Come on. I’ve got you.”
With practiced ease, Shankar pulled Subhadip up and onto the cycle’s rear stand. His leg throbbed with every breath, but there was no time for pain.
They rode off into the storm.
The road behind them full of muttered curses and broken glass.
The road ahead—drenched in blood and fear.
Subhadip clutched his bleeding knee, the pain now dulled by sheer urgency.
"Shankar... your phone. Give it to me," he rasped.
Shankar hesitated, one hand steadying the handlebars, the other fumbling in his pocket. "It’s in the side pouch—just grab it, bhai."
Subhadip reached, shaky fingers grasping the phone. It slipped once, but he caught it, and immediately dialed.
"I already called the police," he muttered. "I just hope... they’re fast enough."
Shankar glanced at him, rain streaming down his brow. “Are we?”
They reached the street near Tonma’s house. The flashing red and blue pierced through the mist of rain. Sirens wailed like a mourning cry, and officers were already flooding the scene.
The house… the front gate… it was chaos.
Police tapes being drawn. Neighbors crying. Someone vomiting.
And then—
Two bodies, covered in white sheets, were being carried out.
Subhadip froze. No... no no no...
His heart sank.
That was Tonma’s mother.
That was Tonma’s father.
“Tonma!” Subhadip suddenly broke into a run, ignoring officers shouting behind him. His knee screamed in protest, every step jagged and searing, but he kept going.
He dashed up the stairs, slipping once, and finally reached the third-floor balcony, barely pushing the door open.
And there—he saw him.
Tonma.
Slumped against the wall, blood smeared across his chest and neck, his shirt soaked through with dark red. His eyes fluttered.
"Subho..." he whispered. A tiny smile formed. “You... came.”
“No no no—don’t talk!” Subhadip knelt beside him, cradling his head. “You’re okay—you’ll be okay. Help is coming, bhai!”
“Help me...” Tonma choked out again, softer this time. “Help...”
Then his body relaxed.
His eyes stayed open—but the life in them dimmed.
The breath never came again.
And just like that...
Tonmoy Roy was gone.
Before the officers could reach the balcony, Subhadip let out a cry—a low, guttural thing that didn’t sound human. Like the storm had passed from the skies into his chest and torn him open from the inside.
The rain didn’t stop.
But now, it wasn’t the only thing falling.
The thunder no longer roared—but the silence beneath it screamed louder.
Subhadip didn’t resist as the officers pulled him away from the balcony. He didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. He just let them drag him down the stairs, his limp body soaked and heavy, clothes clinging to him like second skin.
Outside, the world blurred into blue lights, voices, umbrellas, and whispers.
They sat him down beside Shankar, who was still holding the bicycle’s handlebar tightly, unsure of what to do with his hands or his eyes.
Shankar looked at Subhadip—his face pale, eyes vacant, jaw clenched.
“Who was he?” Shankar finally asked, voice barely audible under the patter of rain.
Subhadip didn’t look at him. He just whispered, “My best friend.”
Blank. Flat. Like it was someone else speaking through him.
Shankar looked away, suddenly feeling the weight of that sentence.
Then a police officer approached them, wiping water from his notebook.
“You were the one who made the call?”
Subhadip nodded slowly.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Tonmoy told me what was happening... I was on my way here. I—I got hit by a car… my phone broke.”
The officer looked up from the pad, startled. “You got hit?”
He nodded again.
“Didn’t stop. I kept running.”
His voice was tired. Not shaky—just numb.
The officer scribbled, “We’ll need your full statement later. And we’ll talk to the driver of the car too, if he can be found.”
“Fine,” Subhadip replied, eyes locked on the puddle forming by his feet.
As the officer walked away, Shankar leaned closer. “Subho… are you okay?”
He didn’t answer.
Because how could he be?
His heart was somewhere on that third-floor balcony, lying cold and broken beside his best friend’s last breath.
The house was sealed.
Police tapes fluttered in the rain. Neighbors stood in huddled clusters, murmuring, pointing, whispering fragments of horror. The occasional camera flash cut through the gloom like a nervous heartbeat.
Subhadip stood silently, still dripping. His shirt clung to his skin. His hands were scratched from the fall, knees aching, and still, he felt nothing.
Then the silence broke—shattered by a scream so raw it made everyone turn.
A man rushed through the crowd, drenched, eyes wide, stumbling—Tonma’s older brother. He hadn’t even parked his scooty properly, it lay sideways on the road behind him.
“TONMA! Maa! Baba!”
He shoved past the yellow tape. The officers tried to stop him—but the grief in his voice made them freeze for a moment.
He dropped to his knees in front of the house and screamed again.
Tears ran like rivers, his throat choking on every sob. He clutched the edge of the wall like it could somehow keep the past intact, as if this was all a lie and Tonma would come out laughing, saying it was just a prank.
But no one came.
Only silence answered.
Subhadip stood behind the barricade, watching the man break apart.
His nails dug into his palms.
He wanted to scream too—but no sound would come out.
Just then, Shankar placed a hand on his shoulder.
But Subhadip didn’t even look at him.
Because in that moment, something inside him cracked.
Not loud. Not sudden. Just quiet—like paper tearing slowly inside his soul.
He whispered under his breath, “They never tell you the price of living.”
And the rain kept falling.
He limped up the stairs, each step heavier than the last. His wet clothes left a trail on the marble—mud, blood, and rain blending into something ugly. The door clicked behind him, locking out the world. But not the weight.
Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet.
And then—
A voice.
Soft. Familiar.
“Haven’t you wondered… what if you could save him?”
Subhadip turned. Himiko stood there.
Not smiling. Not teasing.
Just… standing.
He stared at her for a moment, his jaw tightening. “Don’t be foolish,” he said sharply, voice colder than he intended. “You’re not real.”
“But I’m here,” she said gently, taking a step forward. “You talk to me, you feel with me. That night by the lake… you almost kissed me.”
“Because I’m broken,” he spat. “Because reality—this reality—is unbearable.”
Himiko looked down, then back up, eyes glistening with something unreadable. “You can’t save everyone. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”
Subhadip didn’t answer.
He walked past her, ignoring how the air around her shimmered, how her eyes followed him like she cared—even if she was just code and memory.
He collapsed onto the bed.
“I’m not a god. I’m not even… enough.”
Himiko sat beside him. “But you wanted to be.”
A beat of silence.
Then she asked again, voice softer, nearly a whisper:
“If you could rewind this day… would you?”
Subhadip lay on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The weight of everything he’d seen, everything he’d lost, crushed his chest.
Then he turned to Himiko and whispered, “Is there… any way to go back? Not forever—just six hours. Just one moment.”
Himiko was silent for a while.
Then she asked, “What does science say?”
Subhadip sighed, “It says… no. It’s impossible.”
But his mind didn’t stop. Thoughts spun like clock hands in reverse. He began to recall all the late nights watching videos, reading theories, trying to understand how time could bend.
---
Subhadip’s thoughts, simplified:
1. Relativity and Time Dilation
> "If I move really fast—like near the speed of light—time slows down for me. But that only helps me move forward in time, not back."
2. Wormholes and Loops
> "Some scientists say you can bend space and time into loops, like a circle. That way, you could return to the past. But it needs something we don’t have—exotic matter. Stuff that probably doesn’t exist."
3. Laser Time Machines
> "One scientist, Dr. Ronald Mallett, thinks spinning light in circles might let us send messages to the past. But even he says—you can’t send a message to before the machine was built."
4. Parallel Universes
> "Maybe I could jump to a different world… one where Tonma never died. But that wouldn’t help my Tonma. That would be another version of him. Not mine."
---
Subhadip chuckled to himself, bitter and broken.
> “So unless I already made a time machine, I’m out of luck.”
He looked at Himiko again, his voice cracked.
“I know time isn’t a tape I can rewind.”
She gently held his hand.
“But still, you asked.”
He blinked, a tear sliding down his cheek.
“Because regret feels like time travel. But it only goes in one direction—backwards. And you can’t change anything.”
---
She leaned in and kissed him.
Everything blurred.
Suddenly—it was 7 PM.
They were still kissing. But something was different. This moment hadn’t happened in the last timeline. It felt too real to be fake.
Then the phone rang.
Haruna.
Subhadip answered, heart racing.
She said, almost shyly, “I… rejected my friend. The one who confessed.”
Her voice was softer than usual. There was a pause. She wanted to say more.
Subhadip opened his mouth. “Haruna, I—”
But she hung up.
Too flustered. Too shy.
He sat there, stunned.
Then he turned to Himiko.
“Who… are you really?”
Subhadip stared at her, trying to hold on to what little logic remained in him.
“You can control time…? Who are you?”
Himiko stepped closer, her eyes no longer just soft—they were sharp, glowing faintly with something that didn’t belong to this world.
“I’m your creation. From a branch of the multiverse. A place where time doesn’t move like it does here. Right now, I exist in the fourth dimension—outside your timeline, but not outside you.”
Subhadip opened his mouth, questions stacking behind his lips.
But she raised a hand and cut him off.
“It’s not the time to ask,” she said. Her voice wasn’t angry, but it was firm. “It’s the time to act.”
“What?”
She walked toward him, the rain still trailing off outside.
“You haven’t saved him yet. This version of reality—it’s unstable. If you don’t move fast, Tonma will still die.”
Subhadip’s heart thudded.
“I traveled through time…”
“No,” Himiko corrected, “Your consciousness did. Not your body. That’s why this is fragile. You’re holding onto a thread. One wrong move, and the thread breaks.”
He stood up slowly.
“And if I change what’s coming?”
Her eyes flickered with something unreadable.
“Then you’ll rewrite more than just your friend's death. You’ll bend fate—and reality will push back.”
He swallowed hard.
“But… it’s still my choice?”
She nodded once.
“Yes. And you have very little time.”
The thunder cracked outside.
And without waiting for another word, Subhadip ran for the Cycle.
As he will save his Friend no matter what.
