☘︎Some memories aren't written for others, some memories feel good while unwritten☘︎

Four hours. Yes, fucking four hours, she is sitting in front of the huge glass balcony door. The first page of the diary is opened on her lap, her right hand fingers are gripping the pen so lightly and left hand fingers are playing with the feather. 

She wants to write so many things. So many things that she couldn’t even decide where to start. She can’t even find any perfect words to start with. Her whole life is such a mess, did she ever enjoy her real life, any memories!! 

In the name of memories, she could remember the moments she was hurt, she felt broken, she reached the lowest point. Why she always forgets the happy moments, she hasn’t idea. That’s why she always tries to write those on a page, and re-read those moments as much as possible, to hold the love inside heart. 

She fades up carrying the sad moments in her heart, it feels too heavy. She thought she would pass the time by recalling the happy moments, but the present situation made her so suffocated, she wasn't even able to get back her patience. 

But time flows accordingly, that in front of eyes, the beautiful coloured sky covered herself with the darkness. The way gradually she saw how the green forest made everything invisible, dark, creepy, no  beauty at all. 
The first random thoughts in her head to write down. She looks at the first page of the diary. From childhood, she had a habit of craving her name on the first page, then starting writing, but her handwriting always became worse for giving more focus on it than needed. 

So, this time she decides to not crave her name first. Let’s keep the first page messy with her random thoughts, random handwriting like her life.

We are always scared of red flags.
But they’re honest, aren’t they?
Out in the open, bold and glaring,
They tell us to run, to stay away.

But the green forest—
It’s so easy to trust its beauty.
The warmth, the charm, the melody of birds,
The vibrant petals drawing us in.
We don’t see the darkness lurking there.

The darkness that reveals itself when the sun can no longer touch it.
Shadows that once stood still begin to shift.
The sweet bird songs twist into unheeded warnings.
Petals we admired fall away, one by one, uncovering thorns.

We thought green meant safety, peace, hope.
But we never asked what lay beneath the roots.
Maybe the forest wasn’t hiding at all.
Maybe it was us—
Turning blind to the signs etched in its bark.

And when the night falls,
When the sun can no longer lie for it,
The truth isn’t that the forest changed.
It’s us—
Finally seeing that we believed only what we wanted to see.

The new feather pen smoothly craves the word on the first page, the way she wants. But she instantly closes the diary. The bad habit of her. She can’t reread her own written things. 

The heavy breath escapes from her heart and she drops her head behind the wall. The beautiful lamp lights covered the room so aesthetically , obviously the owner had good taste while decorating the whole mansion. 

Maybe another time, she would find herself curious to explore every inch of it and record it to show her parents and her Chandra. But now …. No one. 

She can't feel anything beautiful until she shares that with closed ones, that is her way of enjoying the moment. And now she doesn't even want to go outside the room. 

Yeah she knows it's a cage, still she doesn't want to go outside of it. Why! The years of habit of being caged and searching the beautiful peace inside the cage. 

She closed her eyes. “Chandra, you used to say you don't believe in red yellow green flags , these kinds of terms. When I used to say you are my green forest, you used to laugh at me and used to say noo meri jaan I can't be. But you are, today I got proof after seeing the soft beauty of daylight and the destructive beauty of moonlight over the same forest. Yes you are my green forest, where I was blind or love made me blind that I can't see the dark side of this green forest.” 

She opens the diary again, and flips the page. Instead of writing her name, she decides to write “her Chandra’s” name. Even her heart is screaming “her Chandra” and from time to time skipping some heart beats. 

She doesn't know calligraphy properly, and now she is missing her mobile, maybe some online editing app or pinterest would help her to do this calligraphy. 

But sadly, she just casually write the name 

“Chandra Sekhar Rathore”. She looks outside again. A tiny hope! Yeah she said she doesn't want to see his face, but can't he come and convince her with love, not showing his pure toxic obsession. She slaps her forehead and tells herself “Idiot, you assumed his obsession as love, he never loves you. Currently he is satisfying his ego by keeping you locked in his mansion. And you also dared to hurt his ego. So stop craving love from him, stupid.” 

She again looks at the page, it looks pretty. She brushes all fingers over the letters. “Fuck fuck fuck. Oh god what you did. It's an ink pen idiot. Oh god you can't do anything without ruining it. Are you insane???” 

The ink smashed a little over the paper, not much, but the neat clean look is gone. She wants it perfect. And at the very first hand she ruins it. Whenever she wanted to make everything perfect, she had a prominent imperfection there. 

The diary hits the polished marble floor with a soft thud, the pen rolling away to rest near the balcony door. She presses her hands harder against her head as if trying to physically push the storm of thoughts out of her mind. Her breath becomes ragged, uneven, as if her lungs are refusing to cooperate with her need for air.

Her vision starts to blur. The once aesthetically lit room now feels suffocating, the golden light wrapping around her like a too-tight blanket. The darkness outside the balcony stretches endlessly, merging with her inner turmoil. She slides down from the chair to the cold floor, clutching her knees to her chest.

Her heart pounds erratically. Each beat feels like a drum in her ears, drowning out the faint hum of life outside the room. Tears begin to fall unbidden, hot against her chilled cheeks.

“I can’t…” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I can’t stay here… I can’t leave… I can’t breathe.”

Her trembling fingers instinctively reach for her throat as if trying to pull away the invisible hands choking her. She gasps, desperate for relief, but the weight in her chest grows heavier. She wants to scream, to cry louder, to call for help—but the words choke in her throat, swallowed by the overwhelming silence of her isolation.

The world narrows to just her and the suffocating darkness inside her mind. Memories she tried to suppress flood back—his sharp words, the coldness in his gaze, the warmth that once was but feels like a distant dream.

And then... him.

Her mind conjures up his face, not as the man he is now, but the man she fell for. The soft laughter, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her, the fleeting touches that made her heart race. Was that love? Or just another illusion?

Her trembling hand searches the floor blindly, brushing against the edge of the diary. With effort, she pulls it back into her lap, her fingers smudging the ink further. Her chest tightens again as she stares at the name— Chandra Sekhar Rathore. The letters blur as tears drip onto the page, creating tiny pools of regret and longing.

Her breathing hitches, and then, finally, she lets out a broken sob. A raw, guttural sound that echoes in the emptiness of the room. It’s as if the dam holding back her emotions bursts, and every tear she held inside comes rushing out.

“I hate you,” she murmurs through clenched teeth, gripping the diary tighter. “I hate you for doing this to me. For making me love you. For trapping me in this...this cage.”

Her voice falters, dropping to a whisper. “But I hate myself more... for still wanting you to come back.”

She slams the diary shut, the sound loud in the quiet room. Her breathing is still uneven, but the storm in her chest begins to subside, leaving her drained and hollow. She curls up on the floor, the diary clutched to her chest like a lifeline.

“Maybe tomorrow…” she murmurs, her voice weak but resolute. “Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to leave this place. Leave him. Leave this cage.”

But as her eyes flutter shut, her mind betrays her, conjuring up a memory of him again—the way he once whispered her name like a prayer. And just for a moment, she allows herself to believe in that illusion, the tiniest sliver of hope keeping her afloat.

As the night deepens, the room falls silent once more, the only sound her soft, uneven breaths as she drifts into a fitful sleep on the cold marble floor.

Chandra reclined on the ornate wooden bed in his dimly lit room, his fingers absently brushing over the smooth surface of his phone. The warmth of the village night seeped through the walls, but his room felt cold, untouched by the life bustling outside.

On the screen, the footage from the CCTV camera played silently. She was there—curled up on the floor of the mansion’s guest room, the diary held close to her chest. His sharp eyes followed every tremble of her body, every shadow of pain flickering across her face. The sight stirred something deep within him, but whether it was guilt, anger, or something else, even he couldn’t say.

The glow of the screen highlighted his furrowed brows, the dark circles under his eyes betraying nights of unrest. He set the phone down beside him, the footage still running, as if afraid to lose sight of her even for a moment.

He reached for the notebook on the bedside table, the leather worn and familiar under his touch. It had been his silent confidant, bearing witness to the chaos of his emotions in ink. Tonight, like many nights before, the pen in his hand moved almost of its own accord.

His lips moved silently as he wrote, the words spilling out like a confession:

"Tere ankho ke aansoon, mere sapno ka shor hain,
Tere khamoshi ke peeche chhupa, mera khud ka chor hain.
Tujhe band kar rakha hain is pinjre mein,
Par sach toh yeh hain, ki main khud uska qaidi hoon."

"The tears in your eyes are the noise of my dreams,
Behind your silence hides the thief of my soul.
I’ve locked you in this cage,
But the truth is, I’m its prisoner myself."

He paused, staring at the words. He remembered her fiery eyes when she confronted him, her trembling hands when she begged to leave, her defiance even when she was hurting. She wasn’t weak; no, she was far from it. She was strong in ways he couldn’t comprehend, and that strength both enraged and captivated him.

Chandra ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tugging at the roots as frustration bubbled within him. He wanted to hate her for challenging him, for shattering the control he thought he had. But instead, all he felt was a maddening, consuming pull towards her.

The pen moved again, the words tumbling out in sharp strokes:

"Tujhe roka, ki tu na ja sake,
Par kyun dil chahta hain, ki tu ruk kar mujhe samajh sake?
Main tera kaatil, ya tera deewana hoon?
Yeh sawaal mere khud se bhi zyada purana hoon."

"I stopped you so you wouldn’t leave,
But why does my heart long for you to stay and understand me?
Am I your destroyer, or your lover?
This question is older than even myself."

He sighed, closing the notebook and tossing it aside. The words felt hollow, unable to capture the storm raging within him. His gaze drifted back to the phone screen. She was asleep now, her figure so small and fragile against the vast emptiness of the room.

A pang of something sharp regret, maybe cut through him. His fingers itched to call her, to speak to her, to tell her the truth about everything. But the weight of his own pride held him back.

He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes fixed on the screen. “You think I don’t love you,” he murmured to the empty room. “But you’re wrong. I love you so much it scares me. And that’s why I can’t let you go.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered, as the night deepened around him. In the silent corners of his heart, he knew this wasn’t love—not the kind she deserved. But he wasn’t ready to face that truth, not yet.

For now, all he could do was watch her from afar, pen down his torment, and hope that someday, she’d understand.