Dark Threads of Desire

A novel by GEET

Some girls want love. Neysha wants to bleed.

In a world that labeled her “too emotional,” “too intense,” “too much,”

Neysha wore her heartbreak like armor and her silence like a second skin.

College life passed her by in blurry loneliness—betrayed by love, abandoned by friendship, and addicted to dark romance books that promised the one thing real life never gave her: a love that destroyed, then rebuilt.

Dark romance wasn't an escape anymore.

It was a refuge.

A religion.

Because in fiction, broken girls got worshipped.

Their pain was craved, not silenced.

Men didn’t run from their darkness—they fell into it.

And God, Neysha fell hard.

Every night, into pages that bled obsession.

Control.

Punishment.

Love that wasn’t soft—it was savage.

Love that didn’t ask permission.

The world called it twisted.

But to her, it felt like home.

Still… fantasy ends when the book closes.

Until one night, it didn’t.

Until he arrived.

Not in her lecture hall. Not in her dreams.

But in a DM that felt like a curse disguised as calm.

> “You hide behind words, Neysha.

I burn behind them.”

He didn’t flirt.

He dissected.

Like he’d read every chapter of her soul and knew exactly where to touch—where it would ache the loudest.

His name was Manan.

A man of silence and sin.

His presence didn’t feel like butterflies.

It felt like drowning—slow, delicious, and irreversible.

He didn’t ask her to be soft.

He dared her to be ruined.

And maybe that’s all she’d ever craved.

Not a savior.

Not love songs and candlelight.

But someone who’d strip her down to her rawest self,

and then whisper,

> “I want all of it. Even the darkness. Especially the darkness.”

There was something in him that made her feel seen.

And something in her that screamed run.

But it was too late.

Because when the soul recognizes danger that looks like desire,

you don’t walk away.

You crawl toward it—on shattered knees.

---So here lies the beginning—

Not of a love story.

But a descent.

Into a bond forged in power and bruises.

A connection so raw it tastes like rage.

So intimate it terrifies God.

This isn’t about finding someone.

This is about losing yourself so completely,

you forget who you were before they touched you.

And you don’t want to remember.

---

Welcome to Dark Threads of Desire.

Where obsession is foreplay.

Where pain is pleasure.

Where Neysha and Manan will either destroy each other…

Or become something the world was never ready for.......

She was the prayer never answered.

He was the sin never confessed.

Together, they didn’t fall in love—

they fell into madness.

Where every kiss was a war cry.

Every touch, a grave.

> He didn’t say “I love you.”

He said “You’re mine.”

And it echoed louder than heaven ever could.

They weren’t made for forever.

They were made to ruin—

beautifully, savagely, eternally.

Because sometimes,

love isn’t a light at the end of the tunnel.

Sometimes, love is the fire

that burns everything you were

and dares you to survive what’s left.

---let"s delve into the world of Nyesha and Manan....

[NEYSHA – AGE 21 | DELHI UNIVERSITY | 10:19 PM]

College was never Neysha's escape. It was her cage, a glass box filled with laughter she didn’t trust, friendships that felt like landmines, and classrooms that echoed with emptiness no one could see.

She walked the corridors like a ghost in denim—hood up, earbuds in, eyes low. Not out of shyness. But survival. People had a way of taking too much from her. Her words. Her warmth. Her worth.

She once gave love like oxygen. Freely. Desperately. And it suffocated her.

That boy—Rivan—had cracked her open with sweet lies and held her heart like it was disposable. He didn’t break up with her. He replaced her. And the girl he replaced her with? Her best friend. The betrayal didn’t slice through her—it detonated.

Since then, Neysha stopped looking for people to hold her. She built herself from ashes and learned to hold her own trembling pieces together.

But no one knew that.

To the outside world, she was just the quiet girl who read too much. Who scribbled cryptic lines on the back of torn notebooks. Who wore all black in Delhi’s heat. Who sat alone in the last row of class with her Kindle buried in her lap, heart lost in someone else’s story.

[11:01 PM – HOSTEL ROOM | LOW LIGHT | STACK OF BOOKS BESIDE HER]

She held Twisted Love in her hands like it was sacred.

Not just a story. A survival guide.

Each line, a reminder that passion could be cruel—but still addictive.

She wasn’t fragile.

She was cracked porcelain—beautiful in her damage, sharp where no one expected.

Only in her books did she find people like her:

Cold men with haunted pasts.

Girls who should’ve run, but stayed, because they craved the same kind of ruin.

Neysha devoured every page.

Not because it was fiction…

But because it was the only place life made sense.

---

Everyone said she was smart.

No one asked if she was okay.

---

She adjusted her hoodie, hiding the neckline where anxiety left its red fingerprints. She hadn't spoken to anyone today—not because she couldn’t, but because no one would listen the way she needed to be heard.

Not the professors.

Not her classmates.

Not her old friends, who ghosted her the second she stopped pretending.

Only words on paper stayed.

Until…

A stranger typed her name

[CHAT: DARKROMANCE_DISCORD – Username: @MananVoid | 11:19 PM]

> @MananVoid:

“You post a lot about craving pain that understands you.”

“Ever wonder if you attract darkness... or if it’s already inside you?”

She stared.

She didn’t know this guy.

He had never commented before.

But this message…

It wasn’t flirtation. It was a mirror.

> @NeyshaReadsDark:

“I don’t attract darkness. I am it.”

“Just quiet about it.”

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

> @MananVoid:

“Then I guess I finally found someone who bleeds in the same rhythm.”

“Tell me, Neysha. What does your silence sound like at night?”

Her heart stuttered.

This wasn’t fan interaction.

This was intrusion.

Or maybe... possession.

> @NeyshaReadsDark:

“It sounds like unread books and unkissed wounds.”

“Why are you here?”

Pause. No reply for 60 seconds.

Then:

> @MananVoid:

“Because you’ve been writing about me for years. You just didn’t know it.”

She swallowed hard.

This was no random reader.

This man didn’t want to know her.

He wanted to unravel her.

And for the first time in months—

She didn’t feel hollow.

---

> “Some words don’t just enter your mind. They crawl into your spine… and settle like a curse.”

---

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

But she remembered the message.

> “You ever wish your story was written by someone darker?”

It sat there. Waiting.

The kind of sentence that doesn’t scream for attention—

It just watches.

Quietly.

Until your soul answers.

Neysha stared at her phone, heart unnervingly still.

No jump. No thrill. Just… silence.

The kind of silence that comes before a hurricane tears your life apart.

---

She shouldn't reply.

She knew that.

After all, she had spent months rebuilding her walls—

Brick by brutal brick—

Ever since the last person she trusted ripped her open and called it love.

And yet...

There was something achingly familiar in those words.

Not the voice. Not the name.

But the feel.

Like an echo of something she’d buried.

> Her hunger. Her chaos. Her dark longing to be undone.

---

11:48 PM.

> Neysha: “I used to. Until I realized those stories always end in scars.”

Him: “Scars are holy. They prove you felt.”

Neysha: “And if I’m tired of feeling?”

Him: “Then let me numb you… slowly.”

She stared at the screen.

Her throat dried.

Something curled low in her stomach. Not lust. Not yet.

But recognition.

That dangerous flicker of being seen too easily.

---

> “Then let me numb you… slowly.”

She reread it. Five times.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling with a need she couldn’t name.

He didn’t speak like a flirt.

He didn’t ask about her favorite color, her hobbies, her college.

He went for the part she tried to hide even from herself.

The part that wanted to be choked, possessed, understood, burned alive.

---

> Neysha: “Who are you?”

Him: “The whisper you ignore before you touch yourself at 2AM.”

“The ache your books try to explain but never get right.”

“The kind of man who doesn’t offer safety, Neysha. I offer surrender.”

Her thighs clenched.

God. She should stop.

This wasn’t safe.

This was madness wearing silk gloves.

But something inside her…

That carefully buried piece she called shame…

was beginning to moan.

---

He hadn’t sent another message.

He didn’t chase.

And that made her ache worse.

She wanted to hate this.

But it felt like he knew exactly where her rot was…

and he kissed it instead of running away.

---

2:12 AM.

She whispered to her empty room, like a confession to no one:

> “What are you doing to me…”

Manan:

You don’t even know how exquisite your ruin looks from here, Neysha.

You're all stitched smiles and polite silences. But your shadow?

She begs. She claws. She bleeds.

Neysha:

You speak like pain is poetry.

Like I should be proud of the bruises I hide.

Manan:

No. Not proud. But honest.

Let them see the bruises. Let them choke on their silence.

You were not made for soft love, Neysha.

You were made to be worshipped on your knees, with trembling hands and eyes wide in fear and awe.

Neysha:

You don’t even know me.

You only see what I let you see.

Manan:

Exactly.

And even what you let me see has me on the edge of obsession.

Can you imagine what would happen… if you stopped hiding?

There was a pause.

Heavy. Wet with breath.

Neysha’s pulse throbbed in her throat.

Neysha:

I should block you.

Manan:

Then do it.

But you won’t.

Because I’m the first person who didn’t flinch when you opened your darkness.

I didn’t run. I didn’t preach. I didn’t pity.

I watched. I wanted. And I worshipped.

Neysha:

I’m scared of what this is.

Manan:

Good.

Because anything worth surrendering to should scare you first.

Now tell me…

when did you first taste your own chaos and secretly like it?

She didn’t send a reply.

His words didn’t just touch her.

They undressed her.

Not her body—no, that was too easy.

He was undressing the silence. The rage. The craving. The dirt under her skin that no one saw.

She just lay there, phone against her heart,

feeling like she had taken the first step

into the storm she secretly begged to be devoured by........