The air tonight is thick, darkness stretching out like a lie too polished, too staged. The city below glows in dim yellow light, but it is a deceptive kind of glow, shuddering like a breath too weak to hold on to. Somewhere, laughter spills from a distant window, but it is hollow, floating into the night like a shadow of what once lived.
They say the night is beautiful. That it is a whispered promise, a fleeting touch, a sky too vast to hold. But beauty is often just a mask stretched thin over something ugly. The moon shines down, with a smile that does not reach my hollow heart, basking in radiance that was never truly its own. The stars blink like knowing eyes, but they are nothing but remnants of dead things, whispering from too far for us to listen.
But the night does not love you. It does not listen to your secrets; it swallows them whole. It watches, as footsteps echo in deserted alleys, as shadows stretch under flickering streetlights. Somewhere, a deal is sealed with a quiet handshake, a fate decided in silence. Somewhere, ink dries on a contract never meant to be fair. Somewhere, a body grows cold, abandoned by time. Somewhere, a scream is swallowed by the night, unheard, unnoticed, while the city moves on, indifferent, draped in its illusion of peace.
But people love their illusions. They love the way darkness makes everything softer, the way it allows them to be something else—someone else. In the night, sins are not sins, only moments. In the night, smiles are not lies, only disguises and love is not love, only a fragile lie destined to unravel with the dawn.
I stand on the edge of the terrace, looking down at the streetlights flickering like tired eyes, at the night coiling around the city, thick as smoke and just as suffocating. It is beautiful, yes. So is a smile that hides a blade beneath its curve. So is a dream before the morning strips it bare.
But the night does more than strip illusions, It unravels us. It slips through the cracks, whispering the truths we bury. No one is just what they seem, there is always something else, something buried deep inside, lurking underneath, too violent to stay behind these walls. And I am no different. The nights know me.
Because there must be something else. Something beneath. It does not speak, it does not beg to be seen, but it is there. Watches. Waits. Knows that the bright one, the soft one, is not meant to last.
It is not kindness that keeps me standing. It is not warmth that holds me together. It is the other one, the quiet, patient thing that does not flinch, does not break, does not beg.
It is dark, pitch-black, a void that loves to exist in the absence of light. This side does not seek color, does not crave brightness. It belongs to the black, the kind that can swallow you whole, that leaves nothing behind. Because black dominates. Black is power. And power is all it knows.
It clings to everything that screams of control. The sharp cut of a suit that commands attention. The gleam of a blade shining under moonlight. The silence of empty corridors where only those who know the night dare to wander. The weight of a stare that does not waver, the kind that makes people listen, demanding with the promise of something inevitable.
It does not blend in. It does not stand out. It simply exists where people hesitate to look. But envy it too. It has everything that the brighter me desire to have. Power, knowledge, sharpness, calmness. It knows everything, aware of everything around it, aware of everyone around it but what it doesn’t have is an identity and that’s why I want to give it mine cause as I said the soft me won’t last in this world.
I glance at the glowing screen. A frozen moment of something soft—laughter, movement, warmth. A version of me dancing, surrounded by family, by the ones who have always been a shield. This me-the bright one, belongs here. It should stay here because this is her safe space. Because they won’t harm her. Not the way the world could.
The eyes in this picture gleam with cheerfulness and something too fragile-hope. Blind hope. Like walking willingly into the unknown, trusting the hands that will never catch you. This world works like that. It does not give. It always takes. It moves in calculations, in strategies, in power plays. And she-as in the picture-does not belong in a world like this or maybe this world doesn’t deserve her.
I understand now why they fear for her, why they guard her so carefully. She is too soft, too kind, too open. She trusts too easily and offers too much before even testing the other’s loyalty. People like her are the ones who break first. The ones who get left behind, are betrayed before they even see the knife coming. And I-I do not like her.
I feel it pressing against the walls of my skin, ready to tear through. The shift. The transition. The dark one was waking, pulling the strings, and stepping into the place meant for her. Because this is her world. She understands it. She thrives in it. She does not kneel, does not plead. She is drawn to the things others fear- the untamed, the ones who do not beg for kindness because they do not need it.
And yet, despite everything, she loves that bright, naive girl. Loves her the way a predator loves its only cub-possessive. Willing to burn everything to keep her untouched. But kindness is not a weapon. Innocence is not armour. The bright one was never meant to last.
So, she will rest. Maybe for a while. Maybe forever.
The night will not ask for names. It does not care who walks in its shadow and who does not return.
She was a fleeting illusion, a fragile thing stitched together by laughter, blind trust, and the naive belief that softness could survive in a world built to crush it. But the body was never hers to keep. It was only a matter of time before it returned to its rightful owner.
She was a moment, a brief flicker against the dark, doomed the moment she believed the world would be kind. And so, it shattered her-betrayals slicing deeper each time she dared to trust, rejections stripping her raw, self-pity rotting her from the inside out. She weakened and crumbled beneath the weight of everything she could not fight.
And I? I was always here, watching. Waiting. Knowing that one day, she would fall. That she would break enough to let me slip through the cracks. And now, I take my place, not as an invader, but as what has always been.
She is gone now. Not sleeping, not hidden-gone. The body is mine again. As it was always meant to be.
Comments
Post a Comment