Dream Part 4

 

The Biggest Twist Ever Dreamt Of

The night before, she did not sleep.

Ananya lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying memories that no longer belonged to her. His laughter. His teasing voice. “Bhooth madam…” The way he once smiled without sound.

Her head ached. Her chest felt tight. She had not eaten properly. She had not rested properly. Thoughts circled her like vultures.

By morning, her body was present —
but her mind was exhausted.

The sun had barely risen when she stepped out for work. The air was cool, almost kind. The streets were half awake. Vendors arranging vegetables. School buses honking impatiently. Bikes rushing past like thoughts that never slow down.

She walked slower than usual.

Her vision blurred once.

She stopped.

“It’s just dizziness,” she whispered to herself.

She had been disturbed for days. Maybe weeks. Maybe years.

A truck screeched somewhere far. A bike swerved. Someone shouted.

She tried to cross the road.

For a second, everything froze —
the sound stretched into silence —
the world tilted.

Her legs failed her.

The impact was violent. Metal collided. People screamed. Her body hit the road harder than any heartbreak she had survived.

Blood spread quietly beneath her like a red confession.

She lay there, eyes half open, the sky above her strangely peaceful.

She had once wished — foolishly, dramatically — that if she ever died, it should be in front of him. So he would finally understand. So he would finally feel her absence like she had felt his.

But today, he was not there.

He was miles away. In his settled life. In his world of responsibility.

She tried to say his name.

No sound came out.

Her fingers moved slightly, as if reaching for a phone that was not in her hand.

Then nothing.

Silence.

The biggest twist she had never truly imagined —
her life ended on an ordinary morning, on an ordinary road, without drama, without audience.

And now?

She could never call him again.
Never message him again.
Never hear “Bhooth madam” again.

The worst part was not death.

The worst part was this:

She could no longer think of him.

Because thinking requires a mind.
And her mind had stopped.

What happens to a soul that loved without return?

Did it wander?

Did it stand near the accident site, confused, watching strangers gather around a body it once owned?

Did it try to run toward him one last time?

Or did it drift somewhere unknown — a place beyond memory, beyond longing, beyond incomplete love?

Maybe it hovered for a moment.

Maybe it searched for him.

Maybe it whispered one last playful threat:

“I told you… I am bhooth.”

Or maybe —
it was finally free.

Free from waiting.
Free from hoping.
Free from dreaming.

No one knows where her soul went.

But somewhere, in some quiet corner of existence,
an incomplete love lost its only heartbeat.