“And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.” — Friedrich Nietzsche
Ananya lay awake, sensing something within her that did not belong, yet knew her too well. Beside her, Arjun slept, while her breath answered to it.
She turned to the window; the darkness stirred, and he stood there, tall and unmoving.
Her heart trembled, but curiosity cut through her fear.
“Aren’t you asleep yet?”
His voice was low and soothing. Too soothing.
Startled, she whispered, “Who are you?”
“Someone who understands,” he replied, keeping a gentle smile. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s me!”
That was the first time she met her Pachu.
Arjun stirred at her whisper, turned toward her, then slipped back into sleep, mumbling incoherently.
She nodded, but her mind stayed restless; his voice lingered, pulling her in.
Days passed, and Pachu became her shadow, always there when she needed him.
Constant and persuasive, he quietly grew inside her mind.
One evening, Ananya was in the kitchen, the kettle humming softly.
From the dining area, Arjun called out, “Anu, don’t cook today. Let’s eat outside.”
Behind her, Pachu whispered, “Stay. You have me,” his voice soft yet unyielding.
She chose him and shut Arjun out, the evening dying between them.
Soon, it became routine. She asked him questions she once asked herself. “Should I go out today?”
“No,” he said gently. “Stay. I’ll keep you company.”
She leaned against him, resting her head on his chest whenever sadness consumed her. His was the lighthouse in her storm.
But slowly, his comfort became chains. Ananya drifted from the world, her spirit dimming like a candle starved of oxygen.
Arjun noticed. His worry grew heavy. One evening, he set his fork down, his voice trembling.
“You’re distant. Is there someone else?”
Ananya froze. Silence clung to her like frost.
After a pause, she whispered, “Yes.”
Arjun’s face hardened. “Who is he?”
Her voice was feeble. “His name is Pachu.”
Confusion and fury warred within him. “But why? Don’t you love me anymore?”
Her voice cracked. “Not like that. He… he comforts me.”
Arjun’s suspicion sharpened. “You’re telling me there’s a man who comes here when I’m not around?”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes. He’s always here.”
Ananya knew Arjun was wounded, but her heart was too tangled in guilt to reach for him. She stood at a fragile crossroads: one path paved with remorse, the other leading back to Pachu, whose presence was a balm she couldn’t abandon. He was her comfort, even as betrayal pressed against her chest like iron chains.
Arjun’s silence was heavy, thick as fog settling over the house. He heard the whispers slipping through the closed door. To him, it was the sound of a hidden conversation, the echo of someone else’s presence.
The days grew tense, stretched thin like glass about to shatter. Ananya spent hours with Pachu, her voice hushed, as if confiding in the darkness itself. From beyond the door, Arjun listened, his jaw tight, his thoughts racing like storm clouds gathering before a downpour.
Finally, one evening, he could bear the silence no longer. His voice cracked through the air, sharp and trembling: “Ananya, I need the truth. Who is this man? Where does he come from? Why do you let him into our home?”
The truth unravelled slowly, painfully.
“Arjun… Pachu isn’t real. He’s in my mind. I’ve known it all along. But I couldn’t let him go. He gave me the care I craved, the attention I thought I lacked. I leaned on him because I felt I had no one else. I love him. I depend on him. He’s part of me.”
Arjun’s grip tightened around her hand, his anger dissolving into understanding. “Then let me be the one you depend on. Let me stand by you.”
“I’m here now. We’ll face this together,” he said softly.
Arjun hugged her tightly, though Ananya’s body resisted. Somewhere deep within, Pachu’s shadowed presence pulled at her like an undertow. He withheld, whispering disapproval, and the embrace felt like a battlefield where two worlds collided.
Days bled into months, each one a war of whispers. Pachu’s voice slithered through her thoughts, urging, “Stay silent,” while Arjun’s warmth pressed against her, coaxing, “Speak. Tell me what you feel.” When Pachu commanded, “Don’t go,” Arjun countered gently, “Come with me. Just one step outside.”
Some days, she slipped into Pachu’s embrace. Other days, she clawed her way back to Arjun, holding his hand like a lifeline.
Gradually, Pachu’s voice faded, his figure dissolving into shadows. He no longer stood by the window.
And yet, she missed him. His voice remained crystal clear, like a song echoing in an empty hall. His face was always blurred; perhaps it never mattered. It was his presence, his listening, that she had loved.
Now, she doesn’t see him as a hallucination. She sees a chapter, a phantom born of loneliness, who came when she needed him most and left when she was ready to survive.
She wasn’t meant to see him. She wasn’t meant to love him. But she did.
And in that forbidden love, she learned the hardest truth: Sometimes the voices we invent to save us are the very ones we must silence to live.
