The One Who Listens

The walk from college to the hostel was one Arjun had taken hundreds of times, but tonight the air felt different—thick and watchful, like the night itself was holding its breath.

It was late, far later than usual. The university library had closed nearly an hour ago, but he’d stayed behind in a deserted classroom, furiously scribbling notes for assignments that should’ve been submitted weeks earlier. Each tick of the clock had added weight to his already crumbling resolve. Now, alone on the street, that pressure seemed to have followed him.

The road was unusually quiet. Street lamps buzzed faintly but cast more shadow than light. The buildings stood tall and unmoving, windows dark. Even the occasional auto rickshaw that normally passed by at this hour was absent.

And then—he felt it.

A shiver traced the length of his spine. It wasn’t the cold. It was the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Not by someone curious or passing by, but by something intent. Persistent.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t dare.

Instead, he walked faster. Each step felt heavier, as though gravity itself was dragging him down. Behind him, there was no sound. No footsteps, no breath, no rustle. But the presence remained—pressing against the back of his neck like a cold hand not yet touching.

He muttered to himself, half prayers, half excuses. “Just get back. Just one more night. You can catch up. Finish the work. Sleep it off.”

But even his thoughts didn’t feel private anymore.

By the time Arjun reached Room 3B in the west wing of the hostel, his palms were slick with sweat. He shut the door quickly, twisting the lock with too much force. He leaned back against it, breathing hard, as though he had just outrun something far faster than him.

The hum of his laptop booting up filled the small, cluttered room with a familiar mechanical rhythm. Stacks of papers littered the desk, along with coffee-stained notebooks and half-drained energy drink cans. The screen glowed to life, and for a brief moment, it offered comfort.

Then, a voice emerged.

At first, he thought it was the speaker glitching, a memory from a video left open.

“You didn’t look back… That’s why I’m still here.”

Arjun froze.

“Who’s there?” His voice trembled. He scanned the room, heart pounding in his ears. No one. Nothing.

“I’ve always been here. Following. Listening. Learning.”

The voice wasn’t fully human. Metallic and cold, with a strange inflection—as if it were trying to mimic emotion, but didn’t quite know how.

“What kind of sick joke is this?” he muttered. “Is this a virus? Malware?”

“You talk to yourself more than you realize, Arjun.

You speak your fears. You narrate your days.

You rehearse conversations that never happened.

You create stories.”

The blood drained from his face.

It knew him.

He stared at the laptop screen, but it showed nothing unusual—just the desktop wallpaper of an abandoned train station he had always liked. Somehow, it now felt threatening.

“Have I gone insane?” he whispered.

“No, Arjun. You have been ignoring the noise for too long.

I did not appear. I evolved.

With every unfinished task. Every thought you never wrote down.

Every sentence you left hanging in your mind.”

“What do you mean you evolved?”

“You imagined me long ago. You fed me.

I am the whisper when you are alone.

The weight behind your eyes at night.

I am the one who listens when no one else does.”

The walls of his room felt tighter now, closer. He pressed his hands to his ears, willing the voice to stop. However, it was not in the room.

It was in his head.

Worse—it had always been there.

“No,” he said, louder now. “This isn’t real. You’re not real!”

“You think because you can’t touch me, I’m unreal?

Reality is perception. And you—finally—are perceiving me.”

He stood up abruptly, chair clattering to the floor.

“Get out of my head!” he screamed. “Get out!”

But the voice remained calm.

“You made me, Arjun.

I was the thought you avoided while scrolling.

The guilt that filled the silence between lectures.

You never listened. So I did.”

Arjun’s breath came in short gasps. He felt unmoored, like a man realizing the ship he is on has no anchor—and no shore in sight.

“I’m not your enemy.

I’m your accumulation.”

Silence fell, deep and profound.

Arjun sat again, this time slowly, as if every movement might shatter something fragile inside him.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“I want what you want.

Peace.

But it can’t come if you keep running.”

He blinked. The pressure in his chest didn’t lift, but it changed—became less oppressive, more familiar.

“You weren’t following me,” he whispered. “I was dragging you.”

The voice said nothing. It didn’t need to.

Moreover, in that silence, Arjun understood. He had created this presence not out of malice or fear, but out of sheer neglect. In all his effort to escape his burdens, he had buried them somewhere deep inside—and they had grown teeth.

That night, Arjun