Flashback
The station was quieter than she remembered — too quiet, like the air itself was holding its breath.
A cool breeze slipped past Zara’s cheek as she stepped off the train, tugging at loose strands of her hair. Her suitcase dragged behind her, wheels clicking rhythmically against the cracked platform.
Home.
The word pulsed in her chest — distant, unfamiliar. Each step forward tugged at something deep inside her: a knot of unease wrapped tightly around a flicker of hope.
Near the exit, Damien stood waiting. Dressed in a navy button-down, sleeves rolled, his expression unreadable. He smiled as she approached — the same warm eyes, the same calm posture.
Dependable. Gentle.
Or maybe that’s just what she wanted to see.
“Zara,” he said, pulling her into a brief hug. “Look at you. All grown up.”
“It’s been years,” she replied, though her voice sounded lighter than she felt.
Her gaze darted over his shoulder, scanning the thinning crowd. She waited for the familiar blur of movement — a clumsy run, the crash of a laugh, a sarcastic remark hurled across the platform.
She waited for Ara.
“Where’s Ara?” she asked, stepping slightly to the side, expecting her sister to jump out from behind him — maybe late, maybe dramatic, but definitely there.
Damien blinked. His smile faltered.
“Ara?” he repeated, slowly.
Zara frowned. “Yes… Ara. My sister.”
He let out a soft, almost apologetic chuckle. “Zara, I think the journey’s taken a toll. Come on. Let’s get home. You must be exhausted.”
The words lodged in her chest like a blade. She couldn’t breathe around them.
---
The drive was smothered in silence. The city blurred past the window in a monotone haze, the engine humming low beneath the weight of unsaid things.
It wasn’t awkwardness.
It wasn’t distance.
It was denial.
Polished. Practiced. Careful.
Zara sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands clasped tight in her lap, nails digging into her palm. Her reflection in the window stared back at her — blank-eyed and unraveling.
He was pretending.
He had to be.
The house looked the same. The rusted gate creaked open. The porch light buzzed a dim yellow. Jasmine still clung to the air, sweet and sharp. But the moment she stepped inside, she felt it:
An absence. A hollowness.
The walls didn’t feel like they remembered her.
Her shoes thudded gently on the wooden floor. Every creak whispered memories — hushed giggles in the hallway, whispered secrets under blankets, footsteps sneaking toward midnight chocolate in the kitchen.
There had always been two shadows in this house.
Tonight, there was only one.
She dropped her suitcase at the foot of the stairs and turned to Damien, her voice trembling but her stare steady.
“She’s not here, is she?”
He paused, hanging up his coat. His movement was slow, deliberate. “Zara—”
“No.” She cut him off, sharper this time. “Don’t ‘Zara’ me. Where is Ara? Where the hell is my sister?”
Damien’s brows drew together. “You need to calm down.”
“Calm down?” Her voice cracked into a bitter laugh. “I leave for a few years, and now you’re pretending she doesn’t exist? What kind of twisted game is this?”
“I’m not playing anything,” Damien said, his voice low, almost careful. “I’m telling you the truth. Zara… you don’t have a sister.”
Her breath hitched. “What…?”
His face shifted — not with guilt, but pity. “I don’t know what you’re going through, but—”
“Don’t.” She stepped closer, her hands trembling at her sides. “Don’t gaslight me. I shared a room with her for eighteen years. I braided her hair. I know every stupid mole on her body. Do you really expect me to believe she was never real?”
“I think you’re overwhelmed,” he said gently, palms slightly raised. “Something’s not right. And that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. But Zara… there’s no one named Ara.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes, sharp and hot. “You’re lying. You’re lying to my face.”
Damien exhaled and pulled a card from his pocket. “You’re going to talk to someone tomorrow. Her name’s Dr. Myra. One session. That’s all I ask.”
Zara didn’t answer. Her throat was closing in on itself.
She turned away, fast — before the scream inside her chest shattered the room.
---
The staircase felt longer than it used to. As if the house itself didn’t want her reaching the top.
She stopped at the door to Ara’s room. The familiar wood grain. The chipped corner she always meant to fix. Her hand hovered over the knob.
She opened it.
And everything broke.
The room was immaculate.
Wrong.
No posters. No clutter. No perfume-sweet air. No sketches taped to the walls.
The bed was neatly made. The closet stood open and bare. Drawers untouched. A thin layer of dust clung to the handles.
There was nothing of Ara.
No life. No scent. No trace.
Zara backed out, breath catching painfully in her chest. She stumbled into her own room, her body shaking. She grabbed her phone with fumbling fingers.
“There has to be something,” she whispered.
She opened her gallery.
Gone.
No photos of Ara.
No shared videos.
No screenshots of jokes, no birthday memories, no blurry selfies of two faces pressed close in laughter.
Nothing.
Her playlists — missing songs Ara had added.
No messages.
No voice notes.
No evidence.
It was as if someone had taken a scalpel and carved Ara out of her world.
But one name still burned in her mind.
Zaviaan.
She dialed his number — muscle memory, old and buried, taking over. Her hands trembled as the phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then:
“Hello?”
His voice. Low. Hesitant.
Zara swallowed hard. “Do you know Ara?”
A pause.
Too long.
“…Who?”
Silence.
Then the line went dead.
Flashback
The station was quieter than she remembered — too quiet, like the air itself was holding its breath.
A cool breeze slipped past Zara’s cheek as she stepped off the train, tugging at loose strands of her hair. Her suitcase dragged behind her, wheels clicking rhythmically against the cracked platform.
Home.
The word pulsed in her chest — distant, unfamiliar. Each step forward tugged at something deep inside her: a knot of unease wrapped tightly around a flicker of hope.
Near the exit, Damien stood waiting. Dressed in a navy button-down, sleeves rolled, his expression unreadable. He smiled as she approached — the same warm eyes, the same calm posture.
Dependable. Gentle.
Or maybe that’s just what she wanted to see.
“Zara,” he said, pulling her into a brief hug. “Look at you. All grown up.”
“It’s been years,” she replied, though her voice sounded lighter than she felt.
Her gaze darted over his shoulder, scanning the thinning crowd. She waited for the familiar blur of movement — a clumsy run, the crash of a laugh, a sarcastic remark hurled across the platform.
She waited for Ara.
“Where’s Ara?” she asked, stepping slightly to the side, expecting her sister to jump out from behind him — maybe late, maybe dramatic, but definitely there.
Damien blinked. His smile faltered.
“Ara?” he repeated, slowly.
Zara frowned. “Yes… Ara. My sister.”
He let out a soft, almost apologetic chuckle. “Zara, I think the journey’s taken a toll. Come on. Let’s get home. You must be exhausted.”
The words lodged in her chest like a blade. She couldn’t breathe around them.
---
The drive was smothered in silence. The city blurred past the window in a monotone haze, the engine humming low beneath the weight of unsaid things.
It wasn’t awkwardness.
It wasn’t distance.
It was denial.
Polished. Practiced. Careful.
Zara sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands clasped tight in her lap, nails digging into her palm. Her reflection in the window stared back at her — blank-eyed and unraveling.
He was pretending.
He had to be.
The house looked the same. The rusted gate creaked open. The porch light buzzed a dim yellow. Jasmine still clung to the air, sweet and sharp. But the moment she stepped inside, she felt it:
An absence. A hollowness.
The walls didn’t feel like they remembered her.
Her shoes thudded gently on the wooden floor. Every creak whispered memories — hushed giggles in the hallway, whispered secrets under blankets, footsteps sneaking toward midnight chocolate in the kitchen.
There had always been two shadows in this house.
Tonight, there was only one.
She dropped her suitcase at the foot of the stairs and turned to Damien, her voice trembling but her stare steady.
“She’s not here, is she?”
He paused, hanging up his coat. His movement was slow, deliberate. “Zara—”
“No.” She cut him off, sharper this time. “Don’t ‘Zara’ me. Where is Ara? Where the hell is my sister?”
Damien’s brows drew together. “You need to calm down.”
“Calm down?” Her voice cracked into a bitter laugh. “I leave for a few years, and now you’re pretending she doesn’t exist? What kind of twisted game is this?”
“I’m not playing anything,” Damien said, his voice low, almost careful. “I’m telling you the truth. Zara… you don’t have a sister.”
Her breath hitched. “What…?”
His face shifted — not with guilt, but pity. “I don’t know what you’re going through, but—”
“Don’t.” She stepped closer, her hands trembling at her sides. “Don’t gaslight me. I shared a room with her for eighteen years. I braided her hair. I know every stupid mole on her body. Do you really expect me to believe she was never real?”
“I think you’re overwhelmed,” he said gently, palms slightly raised. “Something’s not right. And that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. But Zara… there’s no one named Ara.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes, sharp and hot. “You’re lying. You’re lying to my face.”
Damien exhaled and pulled a card from his pocket. “You’re going to talk to someone tomorrow. Her name’s Dr. Myra. One session. That’s all I ask.”
Zara didn’t answer. Her throat was closing in on itself.
She turned away, fast — before the scream inside her chest shattered the room.
---
The staircase felt longer than it used to. As if the house itself didn’t want her reaching the top.
She stopped at the door to Ara’s room. The familiar wood grain. The chipped corner she always meant to fix. Her hand hovered over the knob.
She opened it.
And everything broke.
The room was immaculate.
Wrong.
No posters. No clutter. No perfume-sweet air. No sketches taped to the walls.
The bed was neatly made. The closet stood open and bare. Drawers untouched. A thin layer of dust clung to the handles.
There was nothing of Ara.
No life. No scent. No trace.
Zara backed out, breath catching painfully in her chest. She stumbled into her own room, her body shaking. She grabbed her phone with fumbling fingers.
“There has to be something,” she whispered.
She opened her gallery.
Gone.
No photos of Ara.
No shared videos.
No screenshots of jokes, no birthday memories, no blurry selfies of two faces pressed close in laughter.
Nothing.
Her playlists — missing songs Ara had added.
No messages.
No voice notes.
No evidence.
It was as if someone had taken a scalpel and carved Ara out of her world.
But one name still burned in her mind.
Zaviaan.
She dialed his number — muscle memory, old and buried, taking over. Her hands trembled as the phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then:
“Hello?”
His voice. Low. Hesitant.
Zara swallowed hard. “Do you know Ara?”
A pause.
Too long.
“…Who?”
Silence.
Then the line went dead.
End of the chapter.
Everything feels off. Tap the star if you're curious — or just confused like me. Would love to know your thoughts.
Write a comment ...