The monsoon eased out of the city, leaving behind the smell of wet soil and too many memories. The air felt lighter, but Meera's chest did not.
It had been a week since the photograph.A week since the two words — Keep this one — had found her on an otherwise ordinary morning.
She'd kept it, of course. Not because he told her to, but because something in her refused to throw away the only image where she looked free — the version of herself that wasn't hiding or performing, just existing.
But she told no one. Not even Priya.
Life resumed in small, fragile ways. She took new commissions, taught photography basics to first-year students, filled her time with things that didn't talk back. But still, every night when she scrolled through her inbox, a single thread remained pinned at the top — Unknown (A.M.) — unread, but not deleted.
It stayed like that until a new message arrived.
A.M.: You haven't been sleeping.
Meera's stomach flipped. Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Meera: You can't possibly know that.A.M.: You post your edits at 3 a.m. every night.Meera: That's not knowing, that's assuming.A.M.: It's noticing. Old habit. Hard to kill.
She stared at the dots as he typed again, then stopped. The silence in the chat felt alive, like a held breath.
Later that night, she sat at her desk, camera parts scattered across the table, trying to fix a broken lens. It had been dropped during the exhibit cleanup — a small crack that distorted every image just slightly. She could have bought a new one, but she didn't.
The imperfection made sense.
Another message arrived.
A.M.: You don't have to fix everything.Meera: I know.A.M.: Then why are you still trying?
She didn't reply.
Days passed. The messages came unpredictably — sometimes long paragraphs, sometimes just a single sentence. He never asked for forgiveness, never talked about the past. He only noticed things.
A.M.: You've changed your perfume.A.M.: Your new photos don't hide behind shadows anymore.A.M.: You look lighter when you laugh.A.M.: Don't stop laughing, even if it's not because of me.
Each message felt like a bruise pressed gently, not to hurt, but to remind.
Sometimes she typed replies and deleted them. Sometimes she whispered her answers out loud, as if he might somehow hear.
One evening, Priya came over unannounced. She dropped a bag of takeout on the table, plopped onto the couch, and said, "You look like you've been talking to ghosts."
Meera froze. "What?"
Priya shrugged. "You have that look. The one you used to have when he was around. You're quieter, but not peaceful."
Meera managed a weak smile. "I'm fine."
"Fine," Priya repeated, unimpressed. "That word again." She leaned forward. "If he's trying to contact you, you need to tell someone."
"He's not."
"Then who is?"
Meera opened her mouth, then closed it. "No one that matters."
Priya frowned, but didn't push further. "Just don't disappear again, okay?"
That night, Meera stared at the blinking cursor in the chat.
Meera: Why do you keep writing to me?
A minute later:
A.M.: Because you still read.
She typed back before she could stop herself.
Meera: You don't get to haunt me and call it care.A.M.: Maybe haunting is all that's left.
Her fingers trembled on the glass.
Meera: What do you want, Aarav?A.M.: For you to never need me again.
The message blinked on her screen, heavy and soft. It wasn't control. It wasn't guilt. It was something stranger — resignation wrapped in hope.
She turned off her phone, pressed it against her chest, and let the silence stretch.
When she finally fell asleep, the dream came —the sound of a shutter,a flash of light,and a voice that whispered, "Keep this one, too."
She woke up crying and couldn't explain why.