Ayush stared at the screen, frozen.
The line he had just written… wasn't written by him.
He replayed the moment in his head. He had typed "A world where stories obey their writer—" and paused to think. When his fingers touched the keyboard again, the next sentence was already there:
"—but only if the writer obeys the story first."
It didn't feel like a typo. It felt like a warning.
He leaned back in his chair. His room was dim except for the soft rectangle of light from his laptop. Even the ceiling fan seemed to slow down, as if the whole room was holding its breath.
"Maybe I'm just tired," he muttered.
But the cold feeling in his chest didn't agree.
Ayush deleted the strange sentence…
…and it reappeared instantly.
He pushed away from the desk, heart thumping harder now. This wasn't normal. This wasn't even close to normal.
Just then, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Neel.
Neel: Bhai, that outline you wrote… did you try it?
Ayush: Try what?
Neel: The rule you made. "If I write a command, the story world will adjust."
Ayush: I didn't make any rule like that.
Neel: Page 5, last paragraph.
Ayush frowned, opened the document, scrolled to page 5.
There it was—he definitely didn't write this:
"Rule 1: The writer's commands shape reality.
Rule 2: Reality answers back when the balance breaks."
He whispered under his breath, "What balance?"
And right then—almost as if his whisper was heard—a cold breeze swept across the room, though the windows were shut. His laptop screen flickered.
A new line appeared in the document:
"The balance you are about to destroy."
Ayush slammed the laptop shut.
He reached for his phone and called Neel immediately.
"Hello?" Neel picked up. "Bro? What happened? You sound like you saw a ghost."
"No… not a ghost." Ayush swallowed. "Something is wrong with my story. It's writing itself."
Neel didn't laugh. "Ayush… you remember the scholar I told you about? The one who said stories are just mirrors of truth?"
"Yeah, so?"
"He also said something else. Something weird. That if someone writes with enough intention—real, emotional intention—sometimes the boundary between imagination and reality… weakens."
Ayush blinked. "Neel. That doesn't happen in real life."
"I know! Main bhi stop ho gaya tha when I heard it. But after reading your outline, I felt something off. Like the story wasn't normal."
Ayush paced around the room. "Okay, suppose what you're saying is true. Then what? Why me?"
"Maybe because you write differently," Neel said slowly. "You don't write to entertain. You write to control."
Ayush froze mid-step.
Control?
Those were the same words that echoed in his mind the night he created the outline.
The same words he hadn't told anyone.
Before he could respond, the laptop—still closed—started vibrating softly, like something inside was trying to get out.
Ayush flinched.
Neel heard the vibration on the call. "What was that?"
"My laptop. It's—"
He didn't know how to explain it.
"Ayush, open it."
"Are you mad?"
"Just do it. Agar kuch hua toh I'm on call."
Ayush hesitated. His hand felt heavy as he placed it on the lid. He opened the laptop slowly, as if expecting something to jump out.
The screen glowed.
A single sentence sat in the middle of the document.
"You wanted a world that listens.
So listen first."
Ayush's breath caught.
"What does it say?" Neel asked.
Ayush read it aloud, voice tight.
Silence followed.
"Ayush…" Neel finally whispered, "I think your story is alive."
Ayush didn't reply. He didn't know what to say.
His mind was spinning—fear mixing with fascination.
Alive.
A living story.
It sounded impossible…
but so did the words appearing by themselves.
Ayush slowly sat down in front of the laptop.
"Okay," he said quietly to the screen. "If you're real… tell me what you want."
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then:
"Not what I want.
What you are afraid to write."
Ayush's fingers trembled.
Because deep down, he knew exactly what that meant.
There was something he had avoided writing for a long time—something personal, heavy, buried deep inside.
Something that could break him.
And somehow, his story knew it.
Ayush shut his eyes.
This was getting too much. Too fast.
But before he could gather his thoughts, another line appeared:
"You created me.
But you don't control me."
Ayush stared at the sentence, heart pounding.
If the story wasn't under his control…
then who—
or what—
was controlling it?