"She isn't Meher. And yet—she is every sin I never confessed."
---
KRAY MANSON
I hadn't slept in three nights.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.
Sometimes in fire.
Sometimes in white.
Always with those damn eyes.
Eyes that used to beg.
Eyes that now mocked.
Nyra.
Nyra Vora.
I told myself she wasn't Meher.
But she walked like her.
Stared like her.
Tore me open with the same damn silence.
---
FLASHBACK – THE NIGHT SHE DIED
I was there.
Ravian called me.
She was bleeding.
Glass in her feet.
Tears in her eyes.
She looked at me.
Right at me.
And whispered:
> "You helped him."
And I did.
For the bet. For the game.
But when she fell—
something inside me fell too.
---
PRESENT – NIGHTCLUB, MUMBAI
I buried myself in a stranger.
A girl named Zoya.
She laughed like Meher used to.
I kissed her.
Pushed her against the wall.
Tried to erase the fire in my chest.
> "Say my name," she moaned.
> "Meher," I whispered.
She froze.
> "What did you just say?"
> "Nothing," I growled, pulling away.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't stay.
---
LATER – OUTSIDE NYRA'S APARTMENT
I was drunk.
Shirtless.
Wearing sins like perfume.
I banged on her door.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
She opened.
Hair messy. Eyes sharp.
Silk robe clinging to her body.
> "What the hell are you doing here?" she snapped.
I stared at her.
> "Just tell me who you are."
She didn't blink.
> "You know who I am."
> "No, no," I slurred. "I need the truth. If you're her—if you're Meher—just ruin me properly this time."
She stepped forward.
Slapped me.
Hard.
I staggered.
She grabbed my collar.
> "Meher's dead," she hissed.
"And if you want to die too, keep talking."
I laughed.
Broken. Desperate.
> "Maybe I do."
She shoved me inside.
Locked the door.
> "You want pain?" she growled.
"I'll give it to you. But you better beg this time, Kray."
---
LATER – THE MORNING AFTER
He lay on her couch.
Fully clothed. Bruised from her slap.
Silent.
She sat across from him, sipping coffee.
> "Still want to be ruined?" she asked coldly.
He looked at her like she was holy and hell in one body.
> "I already am."
---
MEANWHILE – NEW DELHI
A small boy ran across a library courtyard.
Book in hand. Eyes wide.
Aarav.
Seven years old.
Brown eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Fragile smile.
He stopped at a tree and sat under it, hugging a familiar book:
My Mom Is a Star.
He flipped to the last page.
The drawing of a woman in a pink sari, surrounded by stars.
He whispered to himself:
> "Mama… when are you coming back?"
---
🩸 End of Chapter 13
---