The edge of death often feels like the edge of sleep—silent, numb, and sudden.
Anaya's message blinked on Bhagya's screen just as the wind howled past his ears.
> "Can't sleep.You okay?"
He stared at the screen, the glow lighting up his face.
Then, slowly, he stepped back from the edge.
His fingers trembled. His chest ached—not from fear, but from the sickening mix of guilt and shame. How close was I? he thought, his eyes stinging. He tried to climb down, legs shaking, hands cold. But fate had other plans.
A patch of wet concrete betrayed him. His slippers slipped. His arms flailed.
Gravity pulled.
"Dumbest fuck alive," he muttered, eyes closed, accepting the void, cursing the sky,cursing the ground,cursing himself.
He didn't feel anything. Only the wind. The helplessness. And Then — blackout.
Silence.
Bhagya woke up with a jolt, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded like a war drum. His eyes adjusted to the dim room—familiar posters, the distinct smell of cheap perfume and unwashed laundry. Arvin's room.
"What the…?" he whispered.
He sat up slowly. No aches. No blood. No signs of injury. His clothes were different—clean, dry. But he didn't notice that. Not yet. He just assumed he had crashed here after staying up too late watching horror series and coffee-fueled doomscrolling.
He rubbed his temples. A vague memory of falling. Then nothing.
Maybe it was just a dream. Just another messed-up dream.
He looked over. Arvin was snoring like a chainsaw.
Bhagya leaned back into the pillow, staring at the ceiling, unable to tell if he was still dreaming.
The morning was strange. Neither of them mentioned the night before.
While brushing his teeth, Bhagya asked casually, "Thanks for letting me crash here, man. I seriously needed that."
Arvin paused mid-brush, looked at him through the mirror, then raised an eyebrow.
"Crash here? Bro, you weren't even here last night."
Bhagya froze.
His reflection did too.
"What?"
Arvin held his serious expression for a second longer… and then burst into laughter. "Dude! I'm kidding! You looked like I told you you're adopted or something!"
Bhagya forced a laugh, but something in his chest tightened. For a split second, he wasn't sure if Arvin was joking.
The day passed in a blur. At the university, Anaya greeted them like usual, cracking jokes and nagging Arvin for forgetting to submit his assignment again.
Bhagya mostly stayed silent, replying only when needed. But his mind was heavy, full of white noise.
When he got home later that evening, his legs carried him to his shelf almost instinctively.
There it was.
His old diary. Worn edges. Faded blue cover. He hadn't touched it in over a year.
He started writing about what happened during last few weeks in fragments.
Like-
> "Saw the mirror again. The man inside smiles too wide."
> "Woke up covered in sweat. Dreamt of a white field. Silence was louder than any scream."
> "Hands covered in blood. But I felt nothing."
Each entry was short. Scattering Like pieces of a broken puzzle.
He sat down and added new ones.
> "I think I jumped from the terrace last night."
> "I remember falling… but I don't remember landing."
> "Arvin laughed it off. Maybe it was a dream. But I'm not sure anymore."
> "The mirror won't stop whispering."
He didn't call a spiritual guide. Didn't look for help. "Who would believe them,they are just liars ?"He said.
He simply kept writing, filling the pages with the things no one could see.
Later that night, Arvin sat alone in his room. He stared at his phone, looking at a photo they'd clicked last week.
Bhagya stood in the middle, awkward as always.
But something gnawed at Arvin's mind.
He remembered seeing Bhagya that morning in different clothes—clean, ironed. Not what he'd worn at college yesterday.
But he shrugged it off. Maybe he changed before coming.
Still, something felt… off.
He laughed softly to himself. "Man, I really gotta stop watching thrillers at night."
And in his room, Bhagya sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the mirror.
It remained silent.
But behind his reflection, the figure watched. Always waiting.