𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 : 𝑨 𝑴𝒂𝒇𝒊𝒂 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

|77|•ᴍᴀꜰɪᴀ'ꜱ ʙʀᴀᴛ•



Four weeks.
Twenty-eight days.
Six hundred seventy-two hours.

Of not talking to him.
Not once.
Not even to yell.
Not even to cry.

I was in his mansion.
More like prison — but said softly. Decorated with food, books, Milo... and guilt.

He was in front of me. Every single day.
Cooking for me.
Sending me to college.
Sitting across from me at the dining table like nothing happened.

But every time my eyes met his...
I felt nausea.
A deep-rooted disgust crawling up my throat like acid.
How could he sit there? How could he breathe so calmly after what he did?

I feel like I'm being used.
Like my body is no longer mine.
Like I'm a thing that’s owned, not a person that’s loved.

His hands made food but they also held a camera.
His eyes followed me in the kitchen, in the hall, and once... even in the bathroom.
And I didn’t know.

And now I do.

And now I can't sleep.
Now I can't breathe.
Now every corner of this house feels like a fucking lie.

I want to scream.
But all I do is sit quietly.
I walk past him like a ghost.

Because I’m not sure who I am anymore.
Because he was supposed to protect me.
Because I fucking loved him.

And now?
Now I hate the reflection I see in the mirror.
Now I flinch when he walks near me.

I hate it.
I hate him.
I hate me... for still letting his presence affect me.

And yet… I did speak.

Just once.

“I want hot lime juice,” I had said flatly, standing at the doorway.

His eyes lit up like a kicked dog being fed again.
But I wasn’t done.

The tray came to me quietly, with steam swirling up from the glass.

He handed it to me gently.
As if the air between us wasn’t thick with betrayal.
As if I didn’t know.

I took it, looked at it for two seconds, then raised a brow.
"Shaayad ismein zeher hoga. Colour dekh ke toh waise hi lag raha hai..."

(Maybe it’s poisoned. Just judging by how it looks...)

And I handed it back.
"Why don't you drink it, and show me?"

He didn’t flinch.
Took it.
Drank it.

And I didn’t blink either.
Because I didn’t care.
Or maybe I cared too much.

His voice had changed.
No longer the deep, sharp Anirudh Roy Choudhury.
It was hoarse. Ghostly.
A bastard blend of silence, guilt, and smoke.

That’s why I made him drink it.

Maybe the lime juice would soothe that throat.

Maybe it would ease the ghosts in his lungs.

And I kept asking myself — why the fuck do I still care?

Why does my chest hurt seeing him cough?
Why do my fingers twitch to help when his wrist bleeds from another careless cut in the kitchen?
Why do I notice that he doesn’t sleep either?

He… killed my mother.
He fucking killed her.

And now?
He has a folder.
A folder.
Of me.