The restaurant glowed with warm yellow lights, its glass walls reflecting the restless energy of Mumbai at night. Laughter rose and fell from nearby tables, mingling with soft music and the clatter of cutlery. Soumya sat among her friends, trying to focus on the conversation, trying to feel like she belonged in that moment. At twenty-five, she had learned how to appear calm, how to smile at the right time, how to keep her thoughts neatly tucked away.

Her boyfriend named Rohan sat beside her, relaxed, joking with their friends. From the outside, everything seemed perfectly normal.

Soumya lifted her glass of water when a sudden uneasiness crept over her. It was faint at first—like a shadow passing through her thoughts—but it grew heavier by the second. Her fingers tightened around the glass as her eyes drifted toward the large window beside their table.

Outside, the city lights shimmered against the darkness.

Then she saw him.

A figure stood just beyond the glass, still and silent, his gaze fixed directly on her. He did not move with the passing crowd. He did not turn away. The longer she looked, the clearer his presence felt. Her heart began to race.

She blinked once. Twice.

He was still there.

Her breath grew shallow. The restaurant noise faded into a dull hum as fear rushed through her. “Someone’s watching us,” she whispered, then louder, “Someone is standing there.”

Her friends paused mid-laughter. Her boyfriend frowned and turned toward the window. “Soumya, what are you talking about?” he asked.

“There—by the window,” she said urgently. “Can’t you see him?”

He looked carefully, then shook his head. “There’s no one there. You’re imagining things.”

“No, I’m not,” she insisted, her voice trembling. The figure’s eyes seemed to follow her every movement. Panic tightened her chest. “He’s staring at me.”

People at nearby tables began to glance over. The attention made her heartbeat faster. Her boyfriend’s patience wore thin. “Stop this,” he said sharply. “You’re creating a scene.”

Soumya stood up suddenly, pointing at the glass. “He’s right there!”

But the window showed nothing except reflections, passing cars, and the ordinary night. Her friends exchanged uneasy looks. Her boyfriend’s expression hardened, embarrassment turning into anger.

“You do this every time,” he snapped. “I’m tired of it. I can’t deal with this anymore.”

The words cut deeper than the stares around her. “I’m done,” he said coldly. “We’re over.”

Before she could respond, he walked away.

Soumya stood frozen, her hand slowly dropping to her side. The restaurant sounds returned, louder now, crueler. She sat down, tears filling her eyes, her body shaking with quiet sobs. Her friends tried to comfort her, but their voices felt distant.

Even as she cried, the feeling did not leave.

She glanced back at the window.

For just a moment, she thought she saw the figure again—watching, smiling and waiting.

The taxi stopped outside the apartment building, and Soumya stepped out slowly. The night air felt heavy against her skin. Mumbai was still awake—horns blaring in the distance, lights glowing from high-rise windows—but inside her, everything felt strangely hollow.

She unlocked the door and entered the apartment she shared with her elder sister, Kriti.

The living room light was on.

Kriti sat on the sofa with a file open in her lap, her glasses pushed up into her hair. She looked up the moment Soumya entered and frowned. “You’re late,” she said gently. Then she noticed Soumya’s red eyes and stiff posture. “What happened?”

Soumya tried to speak, but the words refused to come out. She dropped her bag and sank onto the chair opposite her sister. Tears welled up again, silent and unstoppable.

Kriti closed the file and moved closer. “Was it him?” she asked softly.

Soumya nodded.

Between broken breaths, she tried to explain—the dinner, the window, the figure watching her. She described the fear, the certainty she had felt. As she spoke, Kriti listened carefully, her expression a mixture of concern and helplessness.

When Soumya finished, Kriti placed a hand over hers. “Soumya,” she said calmly, “there was no one there. You know that.”

“But I saw him,” Soumya whispered. “I felt him watching me.”

Kriti sighed quietly. “I know it feels real to you. But feeling real doesn’t always mean it is real.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they only deepened Soumya’s confusion. She pulled her hand away and stood up. “I need to be alone,” she murmured, walking toward the bedroom.

The room felt colder than usual. Soumya sat on her bed, staring at the wall. Kriti’s voice echoed in her mind, clashing with her own certainty. She tried to steady herself, counting her breaths, focusing on the familiar sounds of the apartment.

Then it returned.

That unmistakable sensation.

Someone was watching her.

Her eyes moved slowly toward the corner of the room. Nothing stood there—only shadows shaped by the dim light. Still, her heart raced. A faint sound reached her ears, soft and unclear, like whispers trapped inside walls.

She pressed her palms against her ears. “Not now,” she whispered. “Please.”

Outside the bedroom, Kriti knocked gently. “Soumya? Are you okay?”

Soumya did not answer.

The whispers faded slightly, replaced by the distant hum of traffic. She lay down, staring at the ceiling, afraid to close her eyes. Kriti eventually returned to the living room, leaving the door half open, the light spilling softly into the hallway.

That night, sleep came only in fragments.

As hours passed, Soumya realised something that frightened her more than the presence itself: even with her sister nearby, even in a shared home, she felt completely alone.

Somewhere between reality and imagination, Another World was quietly settling into her life—and she did not know how to escape it.

She doesn't know what was coming on.

Morning arrived without relief. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, but it did nothing to ease the heaviness Soumya felt in her chest. She sat at the dining table, stirring her tea absentmindedly while Kriti moved around the kitchen, pretending that everything was normal.

Neither of them spoke at first.

“You didn’t sleep again, did you?” Kriti asked finally, setting a plate in front of her.

Soumya shrugged. “I was fine.”

Kriti paused. “Soumya, you don’t have to pretend with me.”

That was when the tension surfaced—quiet but sharp.

“I’m not pretending,” Soumya said defensively. “You just don’t understand.”

Kriti sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I am trying to understand. But you keep pushing everyone away. Last night at dinner—”

“Don’t bring that up,” Soumya snapped, standing abruptly. “He didn’t believe me. Just like you don’t.”

“That’s not true,” Kriti replied firmly. “I believe you. I just don’t believe what you’re seeing.”

The words hung between them.

Soumya’s hands trembled. “So you think I’m lying?”

“No,” Kriti said gently. “I think you’re struggling. And I think you need help.”

That sentence felt like an accusation.

“I don’t need fixing,” Soumya said coldly. She grabbed her bag and walked out before Kriti could stop her.

Later that afternoon, Soumya met her friends at a café near their office. The atmosphere was tense from the moment she arrived. Conversations stopped when she sat down.

One of them finally spoke. “We were worried about you.”

Soumya forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

Another friend exchanged glances with the others. “Last night was… intense.”

“He broke up with me,” Soumya said flatly.

Silence followed.

“We think,” one of them began carefully, “that maybe you overreacted.”

Soumya’s chest tightened. “You think I imagined it too.”

No one answered directly, and that was answer enough.

“You all saw how scared I was,” she said, her voice shaking. “Does that mean nothing?”

“We just think you should talk to someone,” a friend said softly.

The familiar words stung again.

Soumya stood up. “So now everyone thinks I’m the problem.”

She left before anyone could respond.

As she walked through the crowded streets, the city felt hostile—faces passing without notice, sounds blending into noise. The feeling returned, creeping into her thoughts. She sensed eyes on her back, footsteps matching hers.

She turned suddenly.

Nothing.

By the time she reached home, her head ached from holding herself together. Kriti was waiting.

“You left without saying anything,” Kriti said, trying to stay calm.

“Just like everyone else,” Soumya replied bitterly. “You all think I’m unstable.”

Kriti stepped closer. “No. I think you’re hurting.”

Soumya laughed weakly. “Friends leave. Boyfriends leave. Soon you will too.”

“That’s not fair,” Kriti said, her voice breaking slightly. “I stay. Every day. Even when you shut me out.”

Soumya froze.

“I’m scared for you,” Kriti continued. “Not because you’re weak—but because you’re facing this alone.”

Tears filled Soumya’s eyes, but she turned away. Admitting fear felt worse than the fear itself.

That night, lying awake, Soumya realised the hardest part of Another World wasn’t the presence or the sounds.

It was watching the people she loved drift away—one misunderstanding at a time.

And she didn’t know which loss frightened her more.