Nandini Verma was 18 when she penned her first story, a tale of passion, betrayal, and revenge. It was a masterpiece, poised for publication. But on the night she was to share her brilliance with the world, tragedy struck. Her abusive father, a figu...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I woke up, feeling well-rested for the first time in what seemed like a month. I hadn’t been able to sleep properly without her in my arms, without her soft breath lulling me into calmness. A month had passed since I’d last held her, since I’d even laid eyes on her, and while I could have easily used my powers to come to her, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The thought that I had hurt her, even unintentionally, was unbearable.
Nitu and Rakshit had told me she needed time to process the truth, and it wasn’t something anyone could just digest overnight. It wasn’t every day you learned your life’s story, your creations, your imagination could come to life. It was surreal. But now, things were different. She had forgiven me, at least partly, and for the first time in weeks, I could sleep peacefully, knowing she was right here with me.
The sound of water running in the washroom pulled me from my thoughts. She had gone for a shower, and despite how much I wanted to join her, to hold her under the warmth of the water and devour her in ways that would make last night seem like nothing, I held back. She needed space, and I could control myself—for now.
I leaned back on the bed, waiting, feeling oddly like a love-sick puppy. Not that I would ever admit it. My clothes were already here because sometimes we spent the night at her place. I never wanted to leave her side, not for a second.
Finally, she came out of the washroom, wrapped in a towel, water droplets still clinging to her skin, her hair wet and cascading down her shoulders as she dried it with another towel. She looked absolutely breathtaking, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. My heart stuttered in my chest as she smiled at me before turning towards the mirror, continuing to dry her hair.
I couldn't just sit there. I stood up and walked over to her, taking the towel from her hand. She blushed lightly but didn't stop me as I began gently drying her hair for her. Through the mirror, she looked at me, her eyes soft but with a hint of shyness, and I couldn't help but smirk. After a few minutes of silence, I broke it with a question that had been nagging at me.
“How did you recognize him but not me?”
She paused for a second, thinking. “I drew his features when I was a child. I designed the hero myself, and I couldn’t think of a villain, so I made you the villain because you were already...well, ready. Your looks, your powers...everything.” She shrugged slightly, as if it were that simple.
I hummed, pretending to be deep in thought, though I was really just teasing her. I kept a straight face and asked, “So... you liked that type when you were young?” My voice held a light challenge, curious to see her reaction.
She quickly turned around, her wet hair flicking drops onto my face, and for a split second, panic flashed across her features. “It was just my first story!” she said quickly, her eyes wide, as if she thought I was genuinely upset. “I didn’t think much about it at the time. I was just writing whatever came to mind.”
