Morning again. I don't even know if I slept. I just remember sitting there, watching the ceiling fan spin, thinking how funny it is that the sound of air moving can feel like judgment.
She's quiet these days. Moves around the house like a ghost trying not to be noticed. Every time her phone buzzes, she freezes — even when it's me messaging her from across the damn room. The irony isn't lost on me.
I'm not sure what's worse anymore — her fear, or how much I enjoy it.
When I look in the mirror, I don't see me. Not the guy who smiled at her three years ago, not the fool who cooked her breakfast on Sundays. Now I see a shadow. A smirk that doesn't fit my face. Eyes that look too calm for someone doing what I'm doing.
Sometimes I wonder — what if she looked at me now and knew? What if she found out the man beside her every night is the same faceless stranger tearing her sanity apart? Would she scream? Would she beg? Or would she laugh — that cold little laugh she gave when I caught her?
Fuck. That laugh still echoes.
I try to shake it off, make coffee, pretend I'm normal. But the air feels thick. She walks in wearing the same clothes as yesterday, hair tied up like she's given up trying. Her hands are pale, her nails bitten.
"You're up early," I say.
She doesn't respond. Just nods and stares into her cup. There's no sugar in it. She used to hate bitter coffee. Now she drinks it like she deserves it.
I almost feel bad. Almost.
Later that day, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush hanging from my mouth, just staring. The reflection stares back — too calm, too perfect. The more I look, the more wrong it feels. Like the man in the glass knows something I don't.
"You're doing this for justice," I mutter.
The reflection smiles. Not me — it.
Justice. Revenge. Whatever the fuck this is.
I rinse my mouth, splash water on my face, but it doesn't help. My reflection lingers longer than it should, almost like it's watching me leave.
That night, she whispers in her sleep. I can't catch the words, but I hear his name — Arjun.My jaw tightens. I feel the anger rising, hot and familiar. I grab my phone, check the messages I've sent her, scroll through the recordings. There's power there, control, satisfaction. But underneath it, something else — something that feels dangerously close to pity.
I hate it.
I hate that part of me that still wants to ask why. Why him, why not me, why destroy something I thought was love?
But answers don't fix anything. They just dig deeper holes.
I lie down next to her, close enough to hear her breathing. For a moment, I imagine reaching out, brushing her hair, whispering "I forgive you."
Then I remember the video — her moaning another man's name.
My hand curls into a fist.
The mirror lied again. I'm not calm. I'm not in control. I'm just broken in a cleaner way.