The smell of perspiration and yesterday’s rain hangs in the room—sour and earthy, clinging to everything: clothes, linens, and skin.
The fan overhead ticks steadily. One of the blades has been shaky for months. I always mean to fix it but never do. I just lie here, watching it spin round and round, breathing through the lump in my chest.
It’s 2:17 a.m.
The walls of this deathly quiet house feel like they're holding their breath, plotting my horror in silence, letting only the fridge’s hum reach me.
And the drip.
Always the drip.
Once I hear it, I can’t stop hearing it.
I throw off the blanket and sit up. The air is heavy and sticky. My shirt clings to my neck, and sweat slides down my back. Whether it’s from the heat or my thoughts, I can’t tell. The floor tiles are cold under my feet, creaking slightly with every step.
In the kitchen, the fridge light slices through the blackness, casting a long shadow. It flickers once, but I don’t jump anymore.
The fridge hums. The tap leaks.
Drip. Drip.
It has a beat now. Too steady. Too eerie. As if it’s counting something other than time.
I take a glass from the dish rack and hold it under the tap.
The water isn’t cold enough. My hand trembles—not visibly, but enough that I feel it. I don’t even drink. I just watch the water fill the glass.
The sound of water hitting metal gets to me.
It makes me think of after.
After I pushed him.
After he stopped moving.
The river took him, and I just stood there like an idiot.
I didn’t check if he was breathing. I didn’t call anyone. I just watched as the water swept him away—smaller and smaller—until he was finally gone.
Since then, I’ve changed everything. My name, my phone number, five different hairstyles. I cut it short, dyed it, got bangs. Once, I shaved the back of my head because I was angry and drunk. I bleached it too—but that didn’t feel right. Too clean.
For years, I’ve tried not to look like the girl in those photos.
The ones he plastered everywhere.
The ones I sent him because I was dumb, in love, and thought he cared.
He said they were just for us.
Then he sent them to his friends. Then to people I didn’t even know. Then to everyone.
He thought it was funny. Told me I should be grateful for the attention. Said guys were jealous. Said I should be flattered.
But I didn’t feel flattered.
I felt like the whole world had watched me turn inside out.
Every hallway at school became a nightmare. Behind every stare was my bare body. I wasn’t a person anymore—just something to laugh about on their phones, in their group chats.
And he kept laughing. That’s what I remember most.
Not how hurt I was. Not how furious.
Just the sound of his laughter.
So I pushed him.
I didn’t mean to kill him.
I just wanted him to stop talking… and laughing.
The glass is full. I set it on the counter, lining it up with the edge like that matters.
The drip continues, slower now. Like it’s deciding whether or not to keep tormenting me.
I reach over and tighten the tap. It resists for a second, then clicks.
Drip. Drip.
Still there.
I turn toward the hallway and crawl back into bed. The pillow is warm and damp. I don’t flip it over.
I breathe deep, hoping sleep will catch up. I want quiet, but the silence feels loud.
I haven’t cried in years. There’s nothing left to cry out. This pain doesn’t even beg for attention anymore. It just sits—like white noise.
There’s a faint humming in my ear. Could be the silence. Could be my brain.
I close my eyes.
But sleep doesn’t come. It never really does. It’s like I’m hovering—half-awake, suspended between consciousness and not—which makes it easier for memories to bleed through.
I saw his face just before he hit the water. He looked shocked. Like he couldn’t believe I was capable of it. As if only he had the right to destroy me, over and over.
After that, his friends called me crazy. Said I was obsessed. That I couldn’t handle being dumped. They made up stories about me showing up at his house, threatening him. None of it was true. But that didn’t matter. Everyone had already decided what they wanted to believe.
The investigation took three weeks. They pulled the river twice. They found his phone—but it was waterlogged and useless. His parents put up fliers with his stupid smiling face, like he was some saint instead of the jerk who ruined my life.
I went to his funeral and sat at the back in a white kurta my mom gave me. People whispered about what a good boy he was, how much potential he had. His mom cried into a napkin. His dad shook hands with half the town.
No one mentioned the pictures.
No one said what he did to me.
As if that part of him didn’t exist.
As if they could erase it just by not saying it out loud.
I wanted to stand up and scream the truth. Tell them who their golden boy really was.
But I sat there like a coward, sweating through my clothes, counting the minutes until I could leave.
Sometimes I wonder if his parents suspected me. If they found more photos on his computer—of other girls he planned to ruin. I hope they did.
I hope that thought keeps them up at night.
Like it does me.
A different buzz comes from the fridge when the voltage shifts. But it can’t cover the sound of the drip.
The air thickens.
And somewhere inside me, the river starts to flow again.
Still going.