The Inked Gift of Chitrakshi Sen

Kiaan Roy took a steady breath, the book trembling just slightly in his hands. The weight of the words was no longer just for the audience—it was personal now. The silence in the grand hall had grown heavier, thick with unspoken emotions, as if the very walls leaned in to listen.

He turned another page, his voice calm yet charged with something unnameable.

“My demon, you made me sleepless.”

A few whispers rippled through the crowd, but Kiaan didn’t stop. His gaze flickered toward Bipin Sen, then to Akash Pal, whose expression was unreadable—except for the way his fists clenched ever so slightly.

“The moment I heard the news that we are going to be united in marriage, I felt shy. And I couldn’t look at your face.”

Akash Pal’s breath hitched.

His mind raced back to the days before everything had unraveled. To the way Chitrakshi had suddenly avoided his gaze whenever their families gathered. To the stolen glances, the hidden smiles that she thought no one had noticed.

“It made me more and more sleepless, thinking of the day of our union approaching.”

Akash Pal’s knuckles whitened.

Had she truly felt this way?

Had she really been happy about their marriage?

Then why—why had he found reasons to doubt her?

Kiaan turned another page.

“I wanted to surprise you. I didn’t want to see your face before the wedding. That’s why I am writing all these feelings, in ink, as a gift for our wedding day.”

A hush fell over the room, the significance of those words sinking deep into every listener’s heart.

This book—this book—was never meant to be read like this.

Not in grief. Not in mourning.

Not like a eulogy for a love story that had died before it could begin.

Kiaan took a breath and read the final lines of the page.

“To my demon from heaven… and thanks to my proofreader, Kiaan Roy.”

The moment the name left Kiaan’s lips, Akash Pal felt the floor beneath him shift.

His grip on his phone turned iron-tight. His heart pounded so hard it almost drowned out the gasps from the audience.

Proofreader.

Kiaan Roy had proofread this book.

Kiaan Roy had read her feelings before he ever had.

Kiaan Roy had been a keeper of her secrets.

The storm inside Akash swelled into something violent, something unbearable.

And yet, he stood still. Unmoving. Expressionless.

Because now, everything had changed.

And someone was going to pay.

The book fair was alive with a subdued hum of grief. Visitors huddled around Kiaan Roy, their hands reaching out to pat his back, offering silent condolences for the loss of Chitrakshi Sen. Some wept openly, embracing one another in a tight circle of sorrow, their tears staining the crisp pages of books that surrounded them. The weight of Chitrakshi’s absence hung in the air, thick and suffocating, as though the very world had dimmed in her wake.

Amidst this mourning, Akash Pal stood frozen, his chest heaving with the burden of regret. A cold sweat drenched his body, seeping through his clothes as if his guilt were physically manifesting, consuming him inch by inch. His hands trembled, his fingers twitching, as his mind unraveled the truth he had refused to see.

She had loved him. Only him.

Kiaan Roy had never been a rival, never been the man who took Chitrakshi from him. No, Kiaan was merely a guardian of her words, a keeper of her thoughts. He had not stolen her love; he had preserved it. Chitrakshi had entrusted him with her emotions, her feelings, her silent confessions, sealing them within the pages of a book—words that Akash had refused to read when she had been alive.

And now, he understood. Too late. Far too late.

His breath caught in his throat as his eyes wandered to the center of the fair, where a grand display had been set up. Books stood proudly on polished wooden shelves, illuminated under the soft glow of fairy lights strung across the venue. Among them, two books rested side by side—one titled The Angel, written by Akash Pal, and beside it, My Demon, the last book penned by Chitrakshi Sen.

A bitter smile curled his lips. Irony. Cruel, merciless irony.

She had named her book My Demon. She had written about him—about them. And all this time, he had been blind, lost in his own insecurities, poisoning the love she had so selflessly given. He had misunderstood her intentions, twisted her truth, and, in the end, had become the very demon she had written about.

A strangled sob ripped through his throat as he staggered forward, his vision blurring. His fingers reached into the pocket of his coat, retrieving a small silver flask. He unscrewed the cap with a trembling hand, his pulse a wild drumbeat in his ears.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he tipped the flask, pouring its contents over the books, the scent of alcohol rising into the night air. The liquid seeped into the pages, staining them, tainting them—just as he had tainted her life.

The murmurs around him grew louder, confused whispers blending into gasps as he splashed the remainder of the alcohol over himself.

“Akash, what are you doing?” a voice called out, but it was distant, meaningless. Nothing could reach him now.

His fingers fumbled in his pocket once more, retrieving a small matchbox.

He stared at the books, at the last remnants of Chitrakshi Sen. His Chitrakshi.

She had turned into words. Into pages.

Paper supplied by Gaurav Banerjee’s mill factory.

And if she had become paper, then he would become the flames.

With a flick of his wrist, the match ignited, a tiny flicker of orange against the dark.

“Chitrakshi…” he whispered, his voice cracked and broken.

Then, with a final, desperate cry, he dropped the flame.

“Chitrakshi… Chitrakshi… Chitrakshi!”

The fire roared to life, devouring the books, the words, the love he had forsaken. The heat licked at his clothes, at his skin.

The moment the fire ignited, a wave of horror rippled through the crowd. Gasps turned into shrieks as flames erupted around Akash Pal, licking at his clothes, curling over his arms, his chest, his legs. The acrid scent of burning fabric and paper filled the air, sending a shockwave of panic through the book fair.

People rushed toward him, hands outstretched, desperate to put out the fire. Some grabbed their coats, ready to smother the flames. Others screamed for water. But Akash did not wait for salvation. He did not want it.

With the burning copy of My Demon clenched tightly in his hand, he bolted.

The flames crackled, eating through his flesh, yet he did not waver. His steps were frantic, desperate, as he ran through the fair, his body an inferno against the night. His vision blurred with smoke and agony, but his heart saw only one thing—Chitrakshi Sen.

She was everywhere. In the words that turned to ashes in his grip. In the embers that rose to the heavens like lost whispers. In the pages that burned just as his love for her had burned, untamed and misunderstood.

Shouts followed him.

“Stop him!”

“Somebody help!”

“Akash! No!”

But they did not know. None of them knew.

None of them understood that it was he who had killed her—not with his hands, but with his cruelty, his blindness, his unwillingness to believe in the purity of her love.

The pain scorched through his nerves, but it was nothing compared to the torment that had hollowed him from within. He ran as though he could outrun his sins, as though he could escape the man he had become—the demon she had written about.

He stumbled forward, his body faltering under the weight of the fire. The edges of My Demon crumbled in his grip, its pages curling and blackening, disintegrating into the wind. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lips parted in silent screams of agony, of regret.

He wanted to burn.

He deserved to burn.

Chitrakshi had turned into pages. She had become a book—her heart, her soul, her love bound between ink and paper. And now, he would turn into fire.

He would not let anyone save him from this inferno of regret.

He would not let them douse the flames of repentance.

If she had been reduced to words on a page, then he would become nothing but ashes beside her.

The fairgrounds blurred around him, the screams of the crowd fading. The world dissolved into fire and pain, into sorrow and remembrance, into a love that had died before it could be understood.

And as he collapsed to the ground, the flames roaring around him, the last of My Demon vanishing in his grasp, he whispered her name—one final time.

“Chitrakshi…”

And then, the fire consumed him whole.