Tanvi Sriram

Mastering nen comes with a lot of emotionally draining episodes. I know that as my nen focuses on emotions. But I always go back to the first time I unleashed it. It was at the troupe’s hideout where everything was tense, gloomy, and unsure, like something was weighing down on all the members.  Stood at a corner just observing when the world shifted around me, and a white light wrapped around me. It wasn't the bright and blinding light but the pure, honest, and filled with warmth version. It spread from me around the room, and that was when I saw each member for who they were. Every mask slipped down as they stood bare in front- faint shadow, cracks in their auras.

I stand here in front of the cracked mirror in my room, staring at my reflection, trying to unleash my nen to see who I really am. Soon, the light surrounds me, and I look at the mirror, my reflection staring back at me with a grin showing grief, fear, longing, and all the walls around me are cracked. The more I stare and study my reflection, I uncover a new part of myself. Suddenly, my room door opened, and Feitan walked in. I looked up, startled- the light around me flickered like it found something in him as it moved to surround him. His aura wasn't dark- like usual- it was fractured, and a few parts of him were surfacing up. One thing I recognized among all the emotions that surfaced around him was rage. He did little to block my nen as it settled around him. It was more like he wanted me to uncover parts of him, break past his walls, and see who he is.

I entered the campus with my friends, the air bubbling with laughter and excitement of the day radiating off us. That's when he walked right in front. I turned, but collided with a very black sweater. Shit! I mentally cursed myself for bumping into random people early in the morning. And that was when I noticed him, with a scowl written over his face. He looked as though he would combust into flames. Staring right at me. The gaze was accusing as I had deliberately bumped into that person, that I was testing how far he would go until his patience snapped, but he remained quiet and walked past, close enough to remind me he was there, watching, and he didn't enjoy it. Every recess, every chance, he walked close enough to make me notice his presence. 

Maybe it was his way of saying, “I notice you, even when I’m not supposed to, ‘cause you're very hard to ignore”.

Or maybe even stake the claim saying, “I'm a coward, so I'm just going to walk close to you, just start the conversation, I really wanna talk to you.”

She lived in words, books stacked high, ink-stained fingers, the soft rustle of pages turning. Her world is quiet, peaceful, and smooth. A place where sentences held meaning, where every idea was analyzed and brainstormed into something more. She was more like “Reason over Impulse”

He lived in motion, the sharp thud of ball against leather, the controlled chaos of tackles and sprints. His world was loud, filled with cheers, teammates shouting, and sweat-drenched afternoons. He was more like “Impulse over Reason”.

They were two worlds apart; if she was a social butterfly, striking up conversations anywhere, while he hesitated, glancing back and forth before speaking. Their worlds were parallel lines never meant to intersect.

Her world, thought, and his, action.

She measured identity; he scored it.

Two worlds apart.

Just parallel forces.

Quiet and Loud.

Reason over Impulse.

Words and Movement.

But maybe,

There's one point in time when your own presence is overbearing, your thoughts are pulling you down, drowning you in them. The time you look totally fine on the outside, but are shattering into pieces on the inside. Your presence is suffocating you in a way there's no escape. You don't need anyone's pity or sympathy; you just want to be left alone, invisible. The smile you put up shows the pain, but no one should see past it. Your silence, just distancing, you don't want to be part of something, you detach in a way no one notices. Sometimes there's no one to pull you out of what you're drowning in. It makes you wonder….

Is the silence too overbearing?

Do you really want the life you are living now?

Do you accept yourself for being you?

Are you too broken that's beyond repair?

Do people know you for you or just by the facade?

And the silence?

There are times when the world gets too heavy, weighing on your shoulders, expecting you to put up a facade that you are okay, when you really ain’t. You carry the weight of others, the one you aren’t supposed to. You're drowning, and no one notices it. You hide from everything, masking the truth, you're far from fine. The extroverted behaviour…maybe looking out for someone to actually see past the facade.

You're drowning and still no one's coming to save you, no one's pulling you up from the strong tides, no one cares enough to break past the mask.

You're like a soul wandering pointlessly.

Existence - unknown.

Body- present.

Mind- lost somewhere.

Given importance only when something has to be done.

Yet you're keep floating……unnoticed

“Because some masks are never meant to be broken

Left to be forever unseen

The Unknown Lead to a Riff

The music room is filled with the sound of guitar strings playing out a cool electric riff. He sits on the amplifier with all glory as his fingers fly across the strings, filling the whole place with a vibe that can draw anyone—including the ones who don’t like music.

But his mind is elsewhere, wandering back to the past of that girl whose voice had him drawn closer without any warning. He later pulls out the book where he wrote a verse, one that gives an echo back to the song she sang.

While he’s flipping through the book, she walks in—soft and silent, but with a magnetic energy. He looks up and finds her, hair open and falling around her face, earphones in, a backpack slung over her shoulders. She’s casually walking towards him. She drops her bag, takes in the surroundings, picks up the guitar and turns around. She spots him and acknowledges his presence with a subtle nod.

She sits down cross-legged on the floor and starts strumming a soft tune. She hums something to it, and he joins in, softly playing out a riff for the tune she’s strumming. Then they go silent. A few beats pass, and the whole band pours into the room with chaos. The moment of silent tension vanishes as they’re pulled back into reality.

The tension sparks something in her mind—a plot idea for the character in her book. She keeps it tucked at the back of her head, making a mental note to write it down as soon as she gets back home. The glint in her eyes tells him she’s cooking something. Little did she know, he always read her stories anonymously.

Imprisoned in a room full of your thoughts can be the worst escape room. And then there he is—someone who doesn’t even grasp the concept of privacy and always finds a way into your head. But what you’re oblivious to is that the more he gets into your head, the more obsessed he’s getting over you.

But it’s not a healthy obsession— it’s a dark one. One where he wants to peel you layer by layer and leave you bare to him.

The sunshine in you draws him closer, but the secrets you hide? They create a madness within him.

If the light comforts him, the darkness reveals him in you. Maybe you can never fix each other— maybe you were meant to shatter each other beyond repair.

The next morning, you’re both strolling through the corridors, hand in hand, surrounded by a comfortable silence.

Each of you lost in thought.

Unbeknownst to one another, one of you is plotting bloodshed, while the other is busy figuring out how to make his day.

As the bell rings and students line up, you part ways to go to your respective classes.

Plotting a bloodshed isn’t new for Matheo. It’s something he does on a daily basis— ways to remove someone from existence without anyone suspecting. He practically has a master’s degree in it.

Usually, his reasons for violence tie back to his father. But not this time. This time... it’s because of you.

What happened at the party made him see red. And ever since, he’s been plotting the erasure of one specific guy’s existence.

There’s you, sitting in Transfiguration class, trying so hard to listen to Professor McGonagall yapping about Animagus and the precautions you should take.

But then... you zone out.

(Zoning out is basically the first thing that should go into your bio-data.)

You get a weird feeling—like something’s going to go very wrong. You shrug it off. You sink into the class again.

Somewhere far from the classroom, the Death Eaters drag a man across the muddy floor of an abandoned warehouse.

Matheo stands at the far end of the room, watching, calculating.

He conjures a few knives. Walks to the center like royalty.

“Do you know why you’re here, Haimman?”

His voice drips with coldness—sharp enough to send chills.

With a flick of his wrist, a knife slices into Haimman’s arm. A scream rips from him.

“Wh-what have I... I... I done?” Haimman pants out.

“Still haven’t realized?” Matheo mocks, making a slash across Haimman’s face. Then another.

By the time Matheo is satisfied, Haimman is on the edge of unconsciousness.

“You touched Y/n. You touched my woman.”

Matheo seethes with a quiet rage.

Fear flashes in Haimman’s eyes.

“Ahh... my favorite expression on my prey.”

“Now tell me—do you realize what happens when you touch something that’s mine?”

Matheo chuckles darkly.

“They don’t see the next sunrise.”

“Crucio.”

Another scream tears from Haimman’s throat.

“That was just the start. You’ll experience this pain three more times. You won’t notice it at first, but the poison... it’ll do its job,”

Matheo says, then motions for the Death Eaters to clean the mess.