Niranjan sat at his desk, the dull hum of office life around him like a numbing lullaby. The click-clack of keyboards, the squeaky wheels of a colleague’s chair scooting by, and the ever-present low murmur of mindless small talk—it all blended into background noise. He glanced at his phone, just for a moment of distraction.

  Big mistake.

  The screen lit up with influencers, bodybuilders, and "alpha males" parading around like gods in human skin. Shirts off. Cameras on. Filters maxed. Muscles gleaming with sweat and ego. One guy flexing in a mirror captioned "No days off. If you're not grinding, you're losing." Another with a Rolex shoved into the frame, subtly screaming "I'm better than you."

  Niranjan felt it again—that familiar sting in his chest. Not jealousy. Not envy. Just disgust. The kind of deep, spiritual nausea that came from watching humanity claw its way toward meaningless validation.

  They acted like they were above others because they had followers. Because their veins popped through their skin. Because they could afford to eat six overpriced meals a day and inject chemicals into their bloodstream to chase a standard of beauty that was as fake as their smiles.

  He knew the truth behind their eyes—insecurity. Fragile egos hiding behind expensive cologne and gym lighting. They were shells. Walking mannequins. Shouting to the void and hoping the void would "like" and "subscribe."

  Niranjan chuckled bitterly.

  "You’ve got enough mental strength to hit the gym but not enough to shut the hell up and be a decent human being."

  He thought about how they mocked the weak. How they scoffed at people who were overweight, struggling, or depressed. They bullied from the safety of status, using fame like a weapon. These people thought money made them divine, and likes made them holy.

  But Niranjan—he had suffered. Not in silence, but in survival. He had dragged his body through hell and back. Nights of emptiness. Days with no love. Pain from betrayal. Abandonment. Trauma that chewed at his soul like rats in the dark. And yet—he endured. Without filters. Without praise. Without dopamine from strangers tapping hearts on a screen.

  He wasn’t shredded. He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t famous.

  But he was real.

  He worked out not to impress, but to heal. Every push-up was therapy. Every meal was a rebellion against self-destruction. He didn't want abs; he wanted peace. He didn’t chase perfection; he chased growth. A fat man trying to get healthy had more courage than an influencer who’d rather die with abs than live with authenticity.

  He saw through them.

  All of them.

  Men flashing wealth while bankrupt inside.

  Women flaunting sex appeal but crying themselves to sleep.

  "Power couples" with zero intimacy.

  And followers? Just digital ghosts feeding the illusion of being loved.

  These influencers—they weren’t inspiring. They were addicts. Addicted to attention. Dependent on validation. They posted daily not because they had something to say, but because they were scared of silence. Silence reminded them that no one actually cared.

  And relationships?

  Non-existent.

  They didn’t know love. Just hookups, transactions, fake smiles, and scripted dates for the algorithm. They traded true intimacy for clout. For metrics. For clicks.

  Niranjan stared at them and laughed—not because he found them funny, but because he pitied them. A deep, mournful laugh that rose from the pit of his stomach.

  “There are no more worlds for these narcissistic idiots to conquer,” he whispered to himself. “They’ve conquered everything but their own emptiness.”

  And in that moment, he put his phone down—not out of rage, but out of mercy.

  Because some sicknesses don’t deserve a cure. They need silence.

  Niranjan walked down the crowded street, headphones in, but no music playing. Just silence. Just enough static to muffle the screams of the world, but not enough to silence the sickness.

  The sun was bright—too bright. Not warm. Not gentle. But harsh, blinding. Like a spotlight on a stage filled with actors desperate to be seen. Even the sky felt fake. Painted.

  Billboards towered above him like gods, whispering sermons of greed and vanity:

  “Be better. Be hotter. Be richer.”

  “You’re not enough until you’re everything they envy.”

  He passed a clothing store with glass walls—inside, mannequins looked more human than the people walking by. Their bodies perfectly sculpted. Expressionless. Peaceful.

  Outside, girls in activewear strutted with vapes in one hand and phones in the other, pretending to laugh while taking selfies they’d retake thirty times before posting. Not a hair out of place. Not a thought behind their eyes.

  Guys leaned against sports cars, flexing in designer clothes they probably couldn’t afford, posting captions like “No handouts, just hustle” while their father’s money paid the insurance.

  Luxury was their personality. Clout was their currency.

  And Niranjan? He was broke—but not in his bank account. In his faith. In his soul.

  Everywhere he looked, people were performing.

  No one was living.

  They didn't walk—they floated, like avatars programmed to smile, click, and scroll.

  And Niranjan… he felt like a ghost among holograms.

  He stopped at a red light.

  Next to him, a man in $2,000 sneakers angled his phone just right for a mirror selfie, using a nearby storefront for the reflection. His lips pursed. Chest puffed.

  Not for memory. Not for joy.

  Just to prove to strangers that he was still worth something.

  On the other side, two teens cackled at an overweight man walking his dog—just a normal man. Kind face. Loose shirt. Belly out.

  “Dude looks like a busted couch,” one teen laughed, filming it.

  “Send that to the group chat.”

  They didn’t even whisper. Didn’t care if he heard.

  The man heard. Niranjan saw it in his eyes. That quiet collapse behind the smile.

  Niranjan’s fists clenched, jaw tight. The old Niranjan would’ve snapped. Would’ve shoved that phone down the kid’s throat. But this Niranjan? He just watched. Absorbed the poison like a sponge soaked in gasoline, waiting for a spark.

  Inside his chest, it burned like betrayal.

  Everywhere he turned—narcissism.

  Kindness was mocked. Empathy was extinct.

  Being “real” was a brand, and being “nice” was boring.

  People were addicts—hooked on validation, overdosing on likes, drowning in attention.

  He passed a gym. Through the glass, he saw men twice his size lifting like monsters. Sculpted like statues.

  But their eyes were dead.

  One of them took a selfie mid-rep, flexing for the camera, not the mirror.

  Niranjan muttered, “You can bench five hundred pounds but can’t carry an honest conversation.”

  Further down the road, he heard it—

  “Ugh, if he doesn’t have followers, I’m not dating him. What would I even post?”

  Some girl, sipping iced coffee, lips full of filler. Laughing like her heart had never known silence.

  Niranjan felt the nausea crawl up his throat.

  It wasn’t just the narcissism.

  It was how normal it had become.

  The world had accepted it. Worshipped it.

  He sat down on a weather-worn bench, head down.

  Tried to breathe. Just breathe.

  Across the street, a couple was livestreaming their date. Kissing in rhythm like it was choreographed.

  He watched.

  The moment the stream ended, the smile faded. They barely looked at each other.

  Back to silence. Back to cold.

  He looked down at a puddle near his foot.

  His reflection stared back—eyes hollow, lips chapped, skin tired.

  Not tired from the day.

  Tired from watching humanity rot while smiling about it.

  He whispered, barely audible, “I’m living in a world of mirrors... and I’m the only one who still sees shadows.”

  Then came the breaking point.

  A little girl passed him, skipping with joy, phone in hand.

  Using a dog filter.

  Wearing makeup.

  Seven years old, maybe.

  Already trained to perform. Already chasing approval from people who didn’t even know her name.

  That’s when he felt it—the crack.

  Like something inside him snapped, but didn’t shatter. Not yet.

  He felt the tears sting his eyes, but they didn’t fall. No.

  He wouldn’t cry.

  Because crying meant mourning.

  And he wasn’t mourning.

  He was angry.

  “You traded your soul for spectacle,” he thought, “and you think you’re winning. But you’re all starving, screaming for love through pictures, and calling it life.”

  He looked up at the sky.

  Still too bright.

  Still trying too hard to be noticed.

  And in that moment, Niranjan knew—

  He wasn’t the broken one.

  They were.

  The Weight of Glass

  Lucia wandered through the mall, hands buried deep in the pockets of her oversized hoodie. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold, artificial glow on the glossy floor. It was as if the entire place had been designed to be as sterile as possible, yet somehow the air felt thick, as if it was clogged with something unspoken, something invisible.

  The mall was alive with movement. People, faces buried in their phones, weaving through the crowd like ants. Teenagers snapped selfies in front of overpriced stores, posing in ways that looked so rehearsed, it almost seemed like they were trying to convince themselves they existed. The scent of fast food and perfume mingled together, too overpowering, too fake.

  She passed a group of girls huddled around a clothing rack, each one wearing the same hollow, forced smile as they held up dresses that cost more than her rent. “Ugh, I can’t decide which one is cuter,” one of them said, looking at the other girls for validation. Their laughter echoed, but it was empty, like the sound of shattered glass.

  Lucia stopped in front of a store window, staring at her reflection. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting—maybe some kind of clarity, maybe a sign that she was still real. But all she saw was someone else. Someone she didn’t recognize. Her hair was a mess, her eyes tired, her skin pale. Her reflection looked like the ghost of someone who had once mattered.

  She let out a slow breath, watching the condensation fog up the glass for a second before it cleared again, leaving only the vacant face of a stranger staring back at her. Who even am I?

  Somewhere, a loud laugh snapped her out of the trance. She turned to see a man in a suit, holding a shopping bag in one hand, phone in the other, broadcasting his life to the world. He smiled at the screen like he was holding onto something real, but Lucia knew better. The smile was too perfect, too wide, like it was sculpted out of plastic.

  “Watch me flex this,” he said to the camera, holding up a watch that probably cost more than Lucia’s entire wardrobe. The words were just for show, and so was the life he was selling. It was like a product, wrapped up in filters and hashtags, shoved into a neat little package for everyone to admire.

  Her gaze flickered past him to the food court, where an old woman sat alone, picking at her sandwich with trembling hands. The world around her rushed by, but nobody stopped. Nobody noticed. Not even the girl on the other side of the mall, who was too busy staring at her reflection in a shop window, checking for flaws in her makeup.

  Lucia shifted her weight, feeling that familiar emptiness creeping up again. She was tired. Tired of trying to fit into this hollow, glossy world. Tired of pretending she could care about things that didn’t matter. But even more, she was tired of feeling like she didn’t matter.

  The scene around her seemed to blur, becoming just another performance, another stage where everyone was playing their part. And yet, no one was living. Everyone was just… existing. Floating in a world where perfection was sold like a commodity and authenticity was a luxury no one could afford.

  Lucia shook her head, letting the noise fade into the background. The chaos, the laughter, the voices, all of it felt like a faraway hum now.

  She walked toward the exit, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness. It didn’t matter if she belonged or not. This world had become so obsessed with itself that it had forgotten how to see what really mattered. And maybe… just maybe, she could find it somewhere else.

  The doors slid open in front of her, letting the cold air from outside rush in. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, letting the world swallow her up once again.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Lucia stepped out of the mall, the cold air hitting her face like a slap. The world outside felt quieter, somehow. Fewer people, less noise. She pulled her hoodie tighter around her and stuffed her hands deeper into the pockets. It wasn’t the cold that bothered her—it was the feeling of being invisible in a sea of people who were only looking at their own reflections.

  As she walked, her mind buzzed with thoughts, none of them coherent. Everything felt... hollow. A low hum of frustration mixed with the bitter taste of exhaustion, like she was running on fumes. She was so wrapped up in her own spiral that she barely noticed the figure standing at the corner, looking down at his phone.

  Niranjan stood still, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, staring at the screen with a furrowed brow. The world around him seemed louder than usual—he could hear the echoes of laughter, the jarring sounds of phones being tapped, the rushed conversations, all blending together into a mess of noise that felt like it was slowly driving him insane.

  He needed a break from it. A break from all the fake smiles, the hollow interactions, the constant performance. The air itself felt tainted. He looked up for a second, almost instinctively, and his eyes landed on Lucia—just as she passed by, head down, walking with the same aimless pace he had adopted so many times before.

  Their eyes met, and for a second, the static of the world seemed to die down. There was no immediate reason for their connection, no grand gesture or cosmic force pulling them together. It was just a glance—quiet, fleeting—but it made something shift in the air, like they were two people seeing the same broken world for what it was.

  Lucia was the first to break the silence, her voice barely louder than the rustling of leaves nearby. “Weird out here, huh?” She almost sounded like she was asking herself, not him, as if the question wasn’t meant for an answer but just to fill the emptiness of the moment.

  Niranjan blinked, surprised by the words, but he didn’t turn away. Something about her made him feel... less alone. He let out a dry chuckle, the kind that didn’t really reflect humor, just a shared understanding. “Yeah. It’s like everyone’s pretending to be something they’re not, and the worst part is, they don’t even realize it.” He paused, eyes scanning the crowd again, the same feeling of being surrounded by ghosts rising in his chest. “Or maybe they do. And they just don’t care anymore.”

  Lucia nodded slowly, her lips tightening. She didn't know why she was talking to him—she didn’t usually talk to anyone. But something in his tone, something in his expression, made her feel like maybe—just maybe—he understood. “It’s all about the show, right?” she said, voice soft, almost bitter. “You wear the right clothes, post the right picture, say the right thing… and suddenly, you matter.”

  Niranjan glanced at her more closely now, noticing the tiredness in her eyes. She wasn’t just saying words—she was living them. He felt an odd pull to her, an urge to say something, anything, that would make this moment—this brief, odd interaction—feel real.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But it’s all glass. Pretty from the outside, but hollow as hell on the inside. Everyone’s chasing something that doesn’t even exist. And the more they chase it, the more they disappear.”

  Lucia looked at him for a long second, eyes searching for any hint of sarcasm or playfulness, but there was none. Only a deep, raw honesty that felt both unsettling and comforting at the same time.

  “Maybe we’re the last ones who haven’t sold out,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “Maybe that’s why it feels so empty. Everyone’s too busy pretending to be alive that they forgot how to really live.”

  Niranjan’s gaze softened. He’d never met someone who seemed to carry the same weight of disillusionment as him, but here she was—just as tired, just as done with the fake world. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation like this.

  “Maybe," he said quietly, "maybe we’re just too damn real for this place.”

  Lucia met his eyes, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. It wasn’t hope or understanding exactly—it was something quieter. Something that said, I see you.

  They stood there, for a moment, silent. The noise of the world around them was just that—noise. In this small pocket of time, they shared something that was hard to explain, but unmistakable. A connection in a world that had forgotten what connection even was.

  Lucia shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to end the encounter. She wasn’t used to people noticing her—or seeing her that way. But she didn’t feel the need to run or hide. For once, she didn’t feel like she had to disappear.

  “Well,” she said, breaking the silence with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “I’m Lucia, by the way.”

  “Niranjan,” he replied with a half smile, one that didn’t quite mask the heaviness beneath it.

  She nodded, turning to leave, but not before pausing for a second. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll run into each other again. Or maybe we won’t. But either way, good luck out here.”

  Niranjan watched her walk away, a faint, cynical chuckle escaping his lips. “Yeah. Good luck, Lucia.”

  And just like that, they both returned to the hollow world they had been drifting through, but the brief meeting had made it feel just a little less suffocating. For a moment, they weren’t alone in their understanding of the chaos. And for that small moment, it was enough.

  The Weight of Connection

  A few weeks had passed since the strange, fleeting encounter between Lucia and Niranjan. And somehow, in the oddest of ways, that single conversation had turned into something more. It had lingered in both of their minds, like a question that needed to be answered, a puzzle that didn’t quite fit—but was worth trying to solve.

  The text messages had started simple enough: a few words, a random meme here and there, some music recommendations. Neither of them expected anything serious from it. But there was a quiet understanding in the way their exchanges went, a rhythm to their conversations that felt different from anything either of them had experienced before.

  They’d meet after school, sometimes in the park, other times by a tiny café on the corner of a forgotten street. It was easy, simple—no pressure. No performance.

  Lucia had gotten used to the idea of being seen by him. Of not hiding behind filters or curated words. With Niranjan, she didn’t need to wear the mask that had been glued to her face for so long. And he? Well, Niranjan hadn’t felt this comfortable in his own skin in ages.

  Today, they were at that little café. The same one where they’d first met, though neither of them had planned it that way. It wasn’t fancy—just a place that served mediocre coffee and pastries that didn’t really taste like anything. But it was theirs now, in a way. Their quiet place in the midst of the chaos.

  Lucia sat across from him, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug, eyes fixed on the steam rising from it. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It wasn’t awkward. In fact, it had become something peaceful.

  “Do you ever wonder why we keep doing this?” she asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the calm.

  Niranjan raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Doing what?”

  “Being... real, I guess.” She looked up, catching his eyes, a faint smile on her lips. “I mean, with each other. It’s not like we’re fooling anyone else. I don’t think they’d get it.”

  Niranjan chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “Yeah, the world doesn’t seem too fond of people who aren’t constantly putting on a show.”

  “That’s what I mean. It’s like we’re the last ones who didn’t buy into the whole... performance. You know?”

  He leaned forward slightly, his gaze softer than it usually was. “I don’t know. I think we’re just tired of pretending.”

  Lucia laughed, but it was a sad laugh, the kind that came from understanding too much too soon. “Yeah, but do you ever wonder if that’s enough? I mean... we’re just two people sitting here, doing nothing but talking about how much everyone else sucks. Is that... is that enough to make a difference? Or are we just... another part of the problem?”

  Niranjan’s eyes darkened for a moment, the cynicism creeping in, but he suppressed it. “Maybe it’s not enough. But it’s something, right? We’re not contributing to the noise. Not chasing the same hollow dreams.”

  “Yeah, but I feel like sometimes I’m just... standing still, waiting for something to change. And I know, deep down, it won’t come from out there,” she gestured vaguely, “but I don’t know how to make it happen from in here.” She pointed to her chest. “I don’t know if I can even make myself feel anything anymore.”

  Niranjan stared at her for a moment, and then, slowly, he reached across the table, placing his hand gently over hers. His touch was warm—maybe warmer than he expected. It was a simple gesture, but there was something in it, something that held more weight than all the words they’d shared.

  “You don’t have to fix everything. Hell, you don’t have to feel something all the time,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “But you’re here. That’s enough for me.”

  Lucia blinked, her throat tight, the vulnerability creeping in, but she fought it back, shaking her head slightly. “You make it sound so easy. But I’m not... I don’t know. I feel like I’m broken, Niranjan. And I’m just waiting for someone to figure that out.”

  “Then I’ll figure it out,” he said, without hesitation. “I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not expecting you to fix anything either. I just want you to be... you. All the broken parts. I don’t know if that makes sense. But that’s what I want. Not some perfect version of you.”

  Lucia stared at him for a long moment, her heart racing. She wasn’t sure when it had shifted—this feeling that had quietly grown between them. But in that moment, she realized it was no longer just about talking or understanding each other. It was about something deeper. Something that didn’t need to be explained, just felt.

  She squeezed his hand, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know, Niranjan. Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s enough.”

  He smiled back, a little crooked, a little unsure, but somehow, it felt like the most honest thing he’d done in a long time. “Yeah, maybe it is.”

  And so, they sat there, together in the quiet of the café, their hands still touching. Not performing. Not pretending. Just two people, sharing a moment that didn’t need to be fixed, that didn’t need to be anything other than what it was.

  Real. Simple. True.

  And for the first time in a long time, both of them felt like they were enough.

  Scene: The Mirage of Perfection

  The club was packed, a sea of neon lights, thumping bass, and laughter echoing through the air like hollow promises. Lucia leaned against the bar, her fingers tapping the rim of her glass absentmindedly. Her eyes flickered across the crowd, searching for something—or someone—that could fill the empty space she was starting to feel inside.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and her gaze snapped down. It was a message from him. The new guy. The one who had everything—money, looks, status, the kind of polished, perfect life she’d been craving. He had a lifestyle that shouted success, and with it, she thought she could elevate herself, too.

  She smiled as she read the message: "Catch up tonight? I think we could be something together." The words swam in her mind, and she felt a thrill run through her veins. The kind of thrill she hadn’t felt with Niranjan for a while. Niranjan was different—too complex, too deep, and far too real for her taste. He didn’t make her feel like she was part of some shiny, curated Instagram post. But this guy? He was perfect for the image she wanted to project.

  Lucia stood up, made her way through the crowd, and texted Niranjan. She needed to give him the news—let him down easy, of course. He was a good guy, she thought. Maybe just too good. Too real. And now, she had found something better, something that would give her the validation she craved.

  Hours Later:

  Niranjan sat at his usual spot in the corner of a quiet café, staring at his half-finished cup of coffee. His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

  "We’re over. He’s everything I need."

  His lips curled into a sardonic smile. He wasn’t surprised. He’d seen this coming the moment she started talking about him. She didn’t get it. She didn’t understand that she was chasing a mirage.

  But Niranjan? He had learned long ago that the things people chased often left them emptier than before. He wasn’t bothered by it. She had made her choice. He had made his too.

  Niranjan didn’t chase. Not anymore. And certainly not after someone who was as easily swayed as Lucia was. She wanted validation? She could have it. But he wasn’t the one who would give it to her.

  Later that Night:

  Lucia stood in front of the VIP section of the club, her heels clicking against the polished floor, her heart fluttering with excitement. She was here. With him. The guy who had everything. The guy who was going to make her feel important. She felt the eyes of the crowd on her, felt the weight of their judgment disappear as she entered the world she thought she had always deserved.

  But when she finally met his gaze, when he smiled at her, it wasn’t the warm, genuine smile she’d hoped for. It was... cold. Disinterested. The way someone might look at an accessory—something useful, for the moment, but not worth much more than that.

  He leaned closer, his voice smooth as silk, but his eyes never quite meeting hers.

  “You know, I’m not really looking for anything serious right now,” he said, his tone casual, as though she were just another person in a long line of interchangeable faces. “But I’m happy to enjoy the night with you. Just... don’t expect too much.”

  Lucia’s stomach twisted. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling creeping up her spine. But I’m everything you could want... aren't I?

  She tried to smile, but the smile felt brittle, fake. She wasn’t what he wanted. She had fallen for the same illusion that every desperate soul did: the idea that shiny things meant real happiness.

  The night went on, but the sparkle had dimmed. Lucia felt herself become smaller, her insecurities rising to the surface, gnawing at her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had made a mistake. But it was too late now, wasn’t it?

  Back at Niranjan’s Apartment:

  Niranjan sat on his couch, scrolling through a few social media posts. He came across a picture of Lucia and the new guy—smiling, posing, looking perfect together.

  For a moment, he felt nothing.

  Then he remembered the text. “We’re over. He’s everything I need.”

  He closed his phone and sighed, leaning back. The emptiness he had anticipated never came. No anger, no regret, just... indifference. The old Niranjan would have torn himself up inside, asking why—but that man no longer existed. He had walked away from his own pain. From his own past. From Lucia.

  And now?

  Now, he was free.

  Back at the Club:

  Lucia’s night had spiraled into one long, cold, hollow mess. The guy she thought was perfect, the one who could fulfill her desires, hadn’t cared. He was already too busy with someone else, already moving on without a second glance.

  She felt the weight of abandonment settling in. The validation she’d craved? Gone. The attention she’d fought so hard to maintain? Fading.

  She had nothing left.

  The Next Day:

  Lucia stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. She had sent the message—her desperate attempt to fix things, to somehow pull Niranjan back into her orbit. She waited for a response, her heart pounding as if the answer held the key to her happiness. The hours stretched on, each minute feeling like an eternity. Then, the vibration buzzed in her hand.

  One new message.

  She opened it, only to see one word.

  “Dumbass.”

  The word stung more than she ever imagined. It wasn’t a yell, a rant, or some dramatic tirade. It was just... the truth. The cold, indifferent, bitter truth wrapped in two simple syllables.

  Niranjan had no need to explain. No need to justify himself. He just... walked away. He knew what she was. And now? He didn’t care to look back.

  The message hit her like a slap to the face, forcing a sharp exhale from her lungs. She stared at the screen, the irony of it settling deep within her chest. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want her anymore. It was that he saw through her, through everything she had built to fill the void. The fakeness. The performance. And it didn’t matter to him.

  She wanted to be angry, to scream back, to say something—anything. But all that came out was a hollow laugh. She was the fool. She had played the game, and now she was the one left holding the empty hand.

  Lucia dropped her phone on the couch and leaned back, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell she had ended up here. She had traded something real for an illusion, and now that she was staring at the pieces of her own choices, she realized there was no one left to blame but herself.

  Niranjan wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even hurt. He was just... done.

  And the finality of it? That was what hurt the most. No drama. No fight. Just a single word that said it all.

  The world of mirrors, the world of shallow validation... it had chewed her up and spit her out. And now? Niranjan was a ghost, a reminder of what she had thrown away, and the stupid thing was—she didn’t even know how to get him back.

  But it didn’t matter. Because Niranjan was right. She was a dumbass.