chapter- 2Chapter 2: The Stirring

> “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........

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