By the third day, the cracks began to show.
She moved through the apartment like a ghost — soft, silent, pretending to breathe. The cheerful hum she once carried in her voice was gone. Every sound she made now was careful, measured. Her phone never left her hand, and she flinched every time it buzzed, like the vibration itself could cut her open.
I watched all of it. Patiently.The trick with revenge isn't how loud you hit — it's how quiet you make them break.
Over breakfast, she spoke first, her tone light but eyes dark."Dhruve," she said softly, "have you ever had… someone at work blackmail you? Like, send you weird messages?"
I looked up from my coffee, pretending to think."Blackmail?" I frowned. "Not really. Why?"
She hesitated, searching my face."Just… someone at work's been getting strange emails. Personal stuff. You know how people can be online."
"Yeah," I said, sipping slowly. "People can be cruel."
I held her gaze for a heartbeat too long. She looked away first.
That day, I sent the next message — not to her, not to him, but to both. A new email, same cold tone:
"Someone is talking. One of you isn't keeping quiet. You know what happens when secrets leak."
It was a lie. But it didn't have to be true — it only had to sound like truth.
By evening, her panic was visible. She paced the balcony, whispering sharply into the phone again. This time, her tone wasn't fear — it was accusation."You said no one would find out! You said it was safe!"A pause."Then how the hell do they know my office address?"Another pause."What do you mean it wasn't you? You think I told someone?!"
I smiled faintly from the kitchen, stirring sugar into my tea. Each word from her mouth was another thread snapping.
That night, she barely spoke to me. She scrolled through her phone endlessly, deleting, locking, changing passwords, switching SIMs. She didn't know that no digital key can hide guilt.
At one point, she looked up suddenly and asked, "Dhruve, do you ever check my phone?"I met her eyes — calm, steady. "Why would I?"Her mouth opened, then closed."No reason."
She went quiet after that. But I could see it — the thought crawling behind her eyes. Maybe he's the one. Maybe the person I sleep next to is the one who's watching me fall apart.
The next day, I turned the knife deeper.I sent one more message — from another new address — this one only to her lover.
"She's getting scared. She's thinking of confessing. Better make sure she doesn't."
The effect was instant. By afternoon, her phone buzzed nonstop — him calling again and again. She ignored every one. When she finally picked up, her voice was trembling."Stop calling me! People will notice! Just—just stop!"
And then silence.
When she turned, she saw me standing in the hallway, watching her. For the first time, I didn't look away."What's wrong?" I asked, voice calm, detached.
She swallowed. "Nothing."
I smiled — slow, knowing. "If you say so."
She tried to hold my gaze, but she couldn't. Not anymore.
That night, I lay awake beside her, listening to her shallow, broken breathing. She was still pretending to sleep, but I knew she wasn't. Neither was I.
I turned slightly and whispered into the dark,"Doubt's a beautiful poison, isn't it? It kills without a sound."