Where Shadows Learn To Dream

Fading Echoes of Me

Aanya

Monica became a name people whispered in darkened alleyways, a name men sought after, a name that slowly began to make its way through the underworld. And with each passing night, I became more accustomed to this life, sinking deeper into the persona I had created. I was no longer the girl standing awkwardly on the street corner, unsure of herself. Now, I moved with purpose, with the confidence of someone who had learned to navigate the shadows.

It didn’t take long for me to get used to the rhythm of it all. There was a pattern, a routine, that began to take shape. The men were always different, but the transactions were the same. Quick smiles, rehearsed pleasantries, and then the inevitable end, when they would leave me behind, no questions asked, no promises made. It became mechanical—disconnected.

The numbness I had perfected was now second nature. I no longer flinched when a hand grabbed my waist or a whisper curled around my ear. I no longer felt the sting of being reduced to just a body, an object. There was a comfort in that numbness, a safety in shutting it all out. It was survival, plain and simple.

And yet, something strange began to happen.

As time passed, I noticed the men started asking for me by name. At first, it was subtle—just a few regulars, the ones who liked how detached I was, how I never asked for more than what was offered. But then, word spread. Monica was different, they would say. She was quiet, mysterious, unflinching. The others started to notice too—the other girls. They would eye me with something between admiration and resentment, their glances sharper, their voices quieter when I passed by.

I wasn’t trying to stand out, but I did.

The men liked that I never seemed scared. That I didn’t hesitate or second-guess myself. That I didn’t flinch, no matter how rough they got. They liked the mystery I carried—the idea that I wasn’t like the other girls. I wasn’t desperate or pleading. I was something else entirely.

And it worked.

The money started coming in more steadily. The men tipped well, especially the ones who liked to brag about their conquests. I started making connections—bartenders, drivers, bouncers. People in the industry who recognized my name and knew how to make things easier for me. I no longer waited on street corners, hoping for a pickup. Now, they called for me. Booked me in advance.

Monica became a commodity.

I didn’t feel famous, not in the way people usually think of fame. But there was a power in being desired, in being sought after. It was dangerous, too—I knew that. The men who wanted me now were different from the ones before. They had money, influence. They were businessmen, politicians, men with secrets. They liked that I didn’t ask questions, that I didn’t care. But with that came risks.

The other girls warned me about getting too close to that world. “Monica, they’ll chew you up and spit you out,” one of them, Amara, said one night as we waited for our rides. She was older, wiser in some ways, and she had seen girls like me before—girls who climbed too high, too fast, and crashed back down even harder.

But I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t have anything to lose.

I learned how to handle myself. I learned how to read people, to know which men were dangerous and which ones just wanted someone to listen. I became a master of saying exactly what they wanted to hear. I played the game, just like I had with Shekhar, only now, I was in control.

The tattoos, the scars, the memories of that old life—they no longer held me captive. They were just parts of me that existed in the background, muted by the persona I had built. Monica was untouchable. Monica didn’t break.

But somewhere, deep down, I knew the truth.

Aanya was still there, hidden beneath the surface, buried beneath layers of makeup and fake smiles. She was quiet, but she wasn’t gone. And every now and then, when I was alone, when the night was too long and the silence too heavy, I could feel her stir. The memories of what I had once been, of the life I’d lost, still haunted me in the quiet moments between men. I would see Kanishk’s face sometimes, wonder if he would even recognize me now. Aanya was the part of me that remembered the pain, that remembered what it felt like to want something more, to dream of escape.

But escape wasn’t possible anymore. This was my life now. And the more I leaned into it, the more famous Monica became, the more Aanya faded away.

Monica, the infamous. Monica, the unbreakable. That’s who they saw. And as long as they believed it, I could keep pretending that it was true.

Monica didn’t dream. Monica survived. And survival was all I had left.