To Be Continued...

SEVENTY EIGHT

When I got home, the first thing I did was call Nicolas. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, about everything that had happened. As soon as he picked up, I switched to video call, my heart racing with anticipation.

"Look what you did to me," I said, half-teasing, zooming in on the faint red mark on my cheek from where he’d bitten me. It still tingled, and just the thought of his lips on my skin made me shiver.

He laughed softly, his deep voice sending warmth through me. "Oh really? Well, check this out," he replied, pulling down the collar of his shirt to show a mark on his neck, the imprint of my bite visible. Seeing it made me giggle, and for a moment, everything felt perfect, like nothing could come between us.

We laughed for a while, teasing each other about the marks we’d left, the little reminders of the intensity between us. But as we hung up, I didn’t know that things were about to change.

The next morning, I woke up to my phone ringing. It was Nicolas. I answered groggily, still half-asleep.

"Did you add random people on my Instagram?" His tone was sharp, catching me off guard.

I blinked, confused. "Why would I do that, Nicolas? Maybe your account’s hacked. Change the password."

Without a word, he hung up, leaving me with a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something felt off. I tried not to overthink it, assuming he was busy, but I noticed something strange—his Instagram was suddenly logged out, and when I checked Snapchat, I couldn’t even find his profile. It was like he’d disappeared.

I texted him, but there was no response. At first, I thought he was busy, but as the days passed, his silence stretched longer, becoming more noticeable.

I’d recently failed my test and decided to take admission into another institute, hoping for a fresh start, but Nicolas remained distant. He didn’t even tell me until one day, I got a snap of him taking admission at another university, and all he said was, "My grandfather got me in."

I tried to accept it, brushing off the sinking feeling in my chest, but every time I brought up his Instagram or why he was avoiding me, he changed the subject. He was available less and less, sometimes only messaging every two days, disappearing without explanation.

Then came the last call on Discord. I saw him briefly, but after that, it was like he vanished. There were no more calls, no more messages. I felt a tightening in my chest, a sense of dread creeping in. The more I thought about it, the clearer it became—he was avoiding me.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. *Is this all you wanted?* I texted him, my fingers trembling. *You got into my body, and that’s all, right?*

I felt sick as soon as I sent it, but his response only made it worse.

*"This is what you've known out of me, Harini?"*

His words were like a dagger, twisting guilt and shame deep inside me. I’d questioned everything, doubted him—and now I didn’t know what to believe.

Days turned into weeks, and I started to unravel, slowly sinking into an abyss of confusion and pain. Every time Nicolas didn’t reply, I spiraled further, my anxiety gnawing at me. I would send message after message, my fingers trembling as I typed, begging for some acknowledgment. When he wouldn’t answer, I’d call—over and over—until the ringing in my ears was all I could hear. The silence on his end was suffocating.

I couldn't shake the feeling that he’d used me, that my body had been nothing more than a convenience for him. The more I reached out, the more distant he became. One night, after countless missed calls, he finally answered.

“Are you mad, Harini? Are you literally out of your mind?” His voice was sharp, and I could feel my heart drop. “Your childhood trauma is none of my business, so act sane.” He was talking about my biological mother, about how she’d cheated on my dad. He weaponized my deepest pain, calling me a lunatic. In that moment, I shattered. But before I could even gather myself, he continued.

“My mom keeps up with my phone, Harini. I can’t take your calls. I just can’t.”

I wanted to believe him. I tried so hard to trust him, to accept the excuse, but something inside me was breaking, piece by piece. November was slipping away, and still, we hadn’t really talked. He wouldn’t reply to my stories anymore—wouldn’t even look at them. It was like I didn’t exist. He’d drop one message a week, a vague reply that felt empty, like an afterthought.

I got into the habit of sending him voice notes, pleading with him, my voice shaking. I needed to talk. I needed to hear him, to know he still cared. Sometimes, I’d sob into the recordings, hoping he’d hear the pain in my voice because he had stopped answering my calls completely. I became more desperate, more anxious with each passing day. My thoughts circled endlessly. Was he bored of me? Had he moved on and just didn’t care enough to say it? I sent him voice notes asking if he wanted to walk away, to leave me, and if he did, he could just tell me. But there was no response.

His silence was crushing. I’d ask him if I did something wrong, if I’d hurt him somehow, and that we could talk about it. I wanted to fight, to fix whatever was broken between us. But he didn’t react—he didn’t even acknowledge my words.

I was unraveling. I couldn’t sleep. The weight of his indifference pressed down on me, suffocating me. I found myself crying at night, my pillow damp with tears as I stared at my phone, hoping for a reply that never came. The emptiness was consuming me, and I was sinking deeper into a pit of despair. I was becoming a ghost of who I used to be, losing myself piece by piece, and he didn’t seem to notice—or care.

I didn’t know how to stop it. I was breaking, slowly but surely, and there was no one to catch me.