The Caged Smile — Part 10

The city she had run to was quieter. Smaller. It didn’t carry the sounds of sirens in the night or the constant static of fear she’d grown used to. But silence had its own weight.

It crept in during the evenings, filling the corners of her new apartment like smoke. The quiet reminded her of that cabin in the woods—before the screams, before the chain, before the boy she once pitied became the boy who bled.

Still, she went on.

She learned the names of her neighbors: Mrs. Khatri upstairs, who watered her plants at midnight, and Kavya across the hall, a college student who wore headphones everywhere. They didn’t know her past. They only knew her as Aisha.

Not the girl who survived him. Not the girl who smiled and got caged.

Just Aisha.

And for a while, that was enough.

Her bookstore job became a haven. Books didn’t ask questions. They didn’t flinch at her scars or try to save her. They waited patiently on shelves, letting her hide behind their spines.

She drank less. Slept more.

Sometimes, she laughed. Really laughed.

Then came the nightmares.

Different now.

In these dreams, she stood in a courtroom not as a witness, but as someone on trial.

People pointed at her.

"You smiled at him."

"You made him believe."

"You caused this."

She woke up gasping, clutching her throat, as if the noose was real.

Back in prison, he counted days.

Not in numbers.

In memories.

The first time she touched his hand. The day she sang quietly under her breath. The moment she didn’t scream when he chained her again.

He convinced himself these were signs.

Proof.

Love.

His cellmate, an older man with scars on his face, once asked, "What did you do to get here?"

He smiled. "I tried to keep what was mine."

The cellmate didn't ask again.

Aisha joined a survivor's support group.

At first, she didn't speak. Just listened.

A woman named Latha talked about her abusive husband.

A man named Dev spoke of a manipulative ex who blackmailed him.

They all carried ghosts. Different shapes. Same chill.

One day, Aisha finally spoke. Her voice cracked.

"He said he loved me. But he broke me."

They didn’t flinch. Didn’t judge.

Dev simply nodded. "Love shouldn't hurt."

She cried for the first time in months.

It felt like breathing.

His transfer came suddenly.

The warden said it was security-related.

The guards said it was behavioral.

He said nothing.

Only packed his things—a photo of her, a journal, and the handkerchief he claimed had once belonged to her.

The new prison was colder.

More sterile.

He grew quieter.

He drew her less and stared at the walls more.

His therapist tried to reach him.

"Why her?"

He replied, "Because she saw me."

"What do you mean?"

He smiled, eyes unfocused. "Everyone else looked through me. She looked at me. That’s all it took."

Aisha started dating.

Slowly. Carefully.

A man named Arjun. Patient. Gentle. With sad eyes like he’d known grief.

They met at the bookstore.

She recommended him a thriller. He recommended her a coffee.

They took walks. They laughed. They kissed.

But she couldn’t let him touch her wrists.

Not yet.

He never asked why.

That made her want to trust him more.

One day, a journalist contacted her.

Wanted to write about the case.

"People need to hear your story," the journalist said.

She hung up.

The world had already heard enough.

They didn’t need to hear the parts where she cried for him even after he hurt her.

Or how sometimes she missed the way he looked at her like she was the only person who mattered.

He tried to escape.

During a transfer.

He overpowered a guard. Took a knife.

They caught him in under an hour.

The guard survived.

But for the first time, the prison psychiatrist filed a report.

"Patient shows signs of escalating delusions. Believes he and victim are spiritually bound. Recommends psychiatric containment."

He was moved to a high-security mental health facility.

There, he stopped eating.

Stopped writing.

Just stared at the wall and whispered her name.

Over and over.

Like a mantra.

Aisha found an old notebook one day.

From the early days.

Before the cabin.

His handwriting was neat then. Hopeful.

“I think she likes me.”

“She doesn’t laugh at me like the others.”

“When she talks, it feels like rain in summer.”

She burned the notebook.

But the ashes didn’t erase the ache.

Arjun proposed a year later.

A quiet dinner.

A simple ring.

He said, "You don’t have to say yes. Just know that someone wants all of you. Even the broken parts."

She didn’t answer that night.

But she held the ring when she slept.

And the next morning, she said, "Okay."

In the high-security ward, he heard of her engagement through a guard.

He didn't react.

Didn’t speak for three days.

Then he bit his own wrist until it bled.

When they stitched him up, he asked for paper.

He wrote:

“She was never meant to leave.”

“If I can’t have her in this life, I’ll wait for the next.”

The therapist marked the case as "severe obsessional psychosis."

No parole. No visitors.

Aisha married Arjun in a garden surrounded by lilies.

She wore long sleeves.

She smiled.

Really smiled.

When they danced, she whispered, "Thank you for not trying to fix me."

He kissed her forehead. "You were never broken. Just healing."

He carved her name into the wall of his cell.

Every day.

Over and over.

Until the wall turned red.

Until the staff removed all sharp objects.

Until he could no longer speak.

But in his final journal entry—found months later hidden under the mattress—he wrote:

“She was the sun. I was the moth. They never understood. But I did. I saw her. I belonged to her. And maybe in another life, she’ll belong to me too.”