The silence pressed in too thick, the cottage too still. So I stepped outside, barefoot, letting the ocean breeze slap me awake.
The beach was quiet, moonlight streaking the water like silver threads. I walked toward it, not thinking—just trying to breathe through the weight I’d carried for two years.
Shivanya Patel.
Her name still felt like a bruise.
I stopped at the shoreline, eyes locked on the horizon. The waves kept coming. Relentless. Indifferent.
They asked if I had something to do with her disappearance.
They asked if I still planned to propose.
I had the ring.
She never saw it.
Last time I saw her, it was chaos.
And after that, just… nothing.
No goodbye. No closure.
Just headlines. Whispers. Accusations.
And no matter how tightly I shut my eyes or how deeply I tried to breathe, it didn’t stop. The memories come back—uninvited and relentless. Haunted memories.
The ocean whispered in the dark, waves lapping gently at the shore.
I found Kiara lying on a lounge chair, eyes closed, her feet swaying like she was floating between dreams.
“Good morning?” I said quietly.
She jumped, fumbling with her phone. “Holy shit—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“I live here, remember?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Or maybe you're secretly the serial killer I hired as my chef.”
“Highly probable,” I said, sitting beside her. “You seem like the type who’d hire danger.”
She didn’t laugh. Just looked up at the stars. “Can’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
A pause stretched between us—comfortable, like shared silence was something we were both starved for.
“Wanna play a game?” I asked.
She turned slowly. “Are we twelve?”
“Truth or dare.”
She blinked. “Seriously?”
I shrugged. “Keeps the insomnia interesting.”
“Fine. One round. Truth.”
