Chapter 3: Fever Dreams and Forbidden Hunger

The next morning arrived too bright, too loud—like the world had no respect for how her soul had been cracked open in the dark.

Neysha woke with her phone still in her hand, screen dimmed but chat open. His name—or lack of it—still at the top:

Manan.

It wasn’t just a conversation. It had been a possession.

She blinked at the sunlight streaking through the blinds, but all she could feel was his words, crawling under her skin like ink that wouldn’t fade.

A whisper at the back of her mind:

You were not made for soft love, Neysha…

Her heart stuttered.

He was wrong.

She wasn’t made for love at all.

---

The day dragged. Her classes passed like static—lectures on modern psychology, critical theory, group discussions she barely heard.

Someone asked her a question in the seminar room. She answered, but couldn’t remember what she said. Her mind kept drifting back to those lines, that digital intimacy, the shameful heat pooling in her stomach at the memory of him undressing her with words.

She opened the app again.

No new message.

He hadn’t texted since 2:37 AM.

She stared at the time stamp like it was a secret code.

> “I’ll stop when you beg me to.”

That’s what he’d last said.

She hadn’t replied. But her silence wasn’t a boundary—it was an invitation.

And he knew it.

---

That evening, when her roommates went out, Neysha stayed behind.

Alone.

In her silence.

In her hunger.

The room darkened again, just like the night before, and without hesitation—without pride—she typed:

Neysha:

I didn’t beg. But I didn’t want you to stop either.

Seconds passed.

Her heart galloped.

Then—

Manan:

You never had to say it.

Your silence screamed louder than your lips ever could.

She closed her eyes.

There it was again. That pull.

A thread wrapping around her throat. Not tight enough to suffocate.

Just tight enough to feel owned.

Neysha:

What are you doing to me?

Manan:

I’m opening you like a sealed book…

One page at a time.

I want to read every hidden sentence you’ve scratched out of your story.

Neysha:

You say things that shouldn't feel good… but they do.

Manan:

That’s because no one’s ever spoken to the girl who hides behind the good one.

I speak to the parts of you that bite when touched.

She swallowed. Her throat burned with a truth she didn’t want to admit:

He was right.

There was another girl inside her.

One who was tired of hiding.

Tired of being betrayed.

Tired of loving people who only wanted the surface.

Neysha:

You talk like you want to break me.

Manan:

No, Neysha.

I want to free you.

Break what’s fake. Not what’s real.

But I’ll use the fire, not a key.

Neysha:

What if I burn with it?

Manan:

Then you’ll finally know what it means to feel alive.

---

Neysha curled up on her bed, the phone hot in her hand. The air had shifted.

She felt it.

This wasn’t a game anymore.

It was alchemy.

And it wasn’t just about sex. It wasn’t even about love.

It was about release. About being seen. About being unholy in a world that expected saints

Neysha:

Why do your words feel like they're touching me where no hands ever have?

Manan:

Because I speak to your shadows, Neysha.

Not the version you wear for the world—

But the one that cries into pillows and still craves hands that won't lie.

Neysha:

You shouldn’t know that part of me.

That part is off-limits.

Manan:

Too late.

I saw her in your silence.

In the way your voice breaks when you pretend you’re fine.

In the way you flinch at kindness like it’s a setup.

Neysha:

You say it like I’m some broken art piece.

Manan:

No.

You’re a cathedral after war—burnt, sacred, and still standing.

I want to kneel inside you and scream prayers into your wounds.

Neysha:

You talk like loving me would hurt you.

Manan:

It would.

And I want it to.

Because pain is the only proof that this isn’t a dream.

That you’re real, and bleeding, and mine.

Neysha:

You're making me feel things I’ve buried alive.

Manan:

Good.

Let them claw out. Let them breathe.

You don’t need to be pretty when you’re raw.

You just need to be honest.

You don't have to be lovable, Neysha.

Just be unhidden.*

---

Neysha:

No one’s ever wanted the unfiltered version of me.

They all liked the one who smiled on command.

Manan:

Then they were fools.

Because the unfiltered you?

She’s feral.

She’s fire.

She’s the girl I'd let ruin me in the dark and write poetry in my pain.

Neysha:

You romanticize damage.

Manan:

No, I romanticize survival.

And you've survived too much to pretend you don’t need something raw now.

Neysha:

And you think you’re that something?

Manan:

No.

I think I’m the only one who won’t run when you finally come undone.

---

The chat went silent for a few moments. Neysha stared at the screen, eyes burning.

Her fingers trembled as she typed—

Neysha:

I dreamt of someone like you.

Not in a sweet way.

In a sick, twisted way.

The kind of dream that leaves your thighs wet and your soul screaming for forgiveness.

Manan:

Then I’m exactly what you need, Neysha.

Not the safe choice.

But the one you won’t forget even when you’re old and numb and pretending you never wanted to taste sin.

Neysha:

I want to stop this.

Manan:

Then say the word.

Say stop and I’ll vanish.

But you won’t.

Because you don’t want an escape.

You want a prison that feels like home.

Neysha:

You’re dangerous.

Manan:

And you're addicted to danger.

To the edge.

To the thrill of falling, knowing someone might not catch you.

But what if I don’t let you fall, Neysha?

What if I dive first?

---

Neysha:

This shouldn’t feel like comfort.

Manan:

But it does, doesn’t it?

Because I see you—

not the college girl with the grades and the fake laughs.

I see the girl who reads dark romance not to escape…

but to remember what it felt like to feel something real.

Her trembling finger hovered

Then typed

Neysha:

What do you want from me, Manan?

Manan:

Your truth.

Your sin.

Your surrender.

I want the you who cries when no one's watching.

The you who wants to be held—then ruined.

Neysha:

And if I give you that?

Manan:

Then you’re mine.

Not for a night.

But for every storm after.

---

Her lips trembled as she whispered to herself, "Storms don't stay forever."

But a darker part inside her answered:

Neither do calm seas.

And Manan?

He wasn’t a calm sea.

He was the wave that would crash her shoreline and never apologize.

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