Lekha by Leheja

The next morning, I woke up before sunrise. The sky outside was a dull slate gray, the kind that makes everything look colorless for a while.
I didn’t sleep much. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that card. The handwriting. The calm certainty of it.

By the time the city began to stir, I had already decided what to do.

I told myself it was just curiosity that I only wanted to check, to clear my head but the truth was simpler: I didn’t trust him anymore, and I needed to know why.

I skipped my morning class and went straight to the mansion. The gates were still locked, the car missing from the driveway. He wasn’t there.

The caretaker, an older man named Dinesh, opened the door when I called out.
“Sir isn’t in, madam,” he said. “He went to town early.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “He told me I could look around if I wanted.”

The man hesitated but stepped aside. “Just be careful,” he said. “Some rooms are still being repaired.”

Inside, the air felt heavy. The kind of quiet that holds sound just long enough for you to notice it.

I walked through the familiar hallways the study, the mural wall, the wide staircase and stopped near the library. Something about that room always felt unfinished.

It smelled faintly of dust and polish. Books lined every shelf, but half of them looked untouched, like they were there for show. On the far side, a few boxes were stacked against the wall.

I started opening them one by one. Most were filled with old files, some loose sketches. Then, in the third box, under a pile of books, I found a folder tied with a thin red string.

When I untied it, a small brown notebook slid out.
The first page read: Meher Khanna, 2019.

I froze.

The handwriting was neat, rounded, the kind of script people develop when they’re careful with words. I sat down on the floor, my back against the wall, and began to read.

At first, it was ordinary short entries about her day, the weather, the house repairs. But by the fourth page, the tone shifted.

«“He says he loves the quiet in me. That’s what he calls it quiet. Not silence. Quiet.

Sometimes I think he’s trying to teach me how to breathe the way he does.”»

Another entry:

«“He notices everything. The way I hold a brush, the way I stand when I’m unsure.
He says he likes to remember small things so he can ‘build’ me in his head when I’m not around.”»

I stopped reading for a moment, my pulse climbing.

A few pages later:

«“Today he corrected how I said his name.
‘You used to say it softer,’ he told me.
I didn’t remember ever saying it any other way.”»

I closed the book for a second, pressing my thumb against the cover. It felt like reading pieces of my own life in someone else’s words.

Then I flipped to the last entry.

«“I’ve started forgetting which thoughts are mine and which ones are his.”»

There was no date, no ending mark. Just that line, cut short like someone had meant to continue but never got the chance.

I looked up, scanning the room. The hum of the heater had started again, faint and rhythmic, almost like breathing.

I stood and placed the notebook back exactly where I’d found it, tying the folder shut again. My hands were shaking, though not from fear something colder.

As I turned to leave, I caught sight of a framed photo on one of the shelves.
Rayan and Meher.
They were standing in front of the mansion, both smiling.

What caught my attention wasn’t their closeness it was her posture.
The way her hand rested on her hip, fingers slightly curled.
It was identical to mine in the mirror every morning.

That night, I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t focus. Every sentence from her diary played on repeat in my head.

The next time I saw him, I told myself I wouldn’t mention it.
I’d just watch. Listen.
See how much of what I felt was real and how much of it he’d built.