College Campus – Midday
The sun was soft, filtered through a misty sky, but Zoya felt cold.
She watched Rihanna across the courtyard, curled on a bench under a tree, earbuds in, journal in lap. Her pen moved fast—messy, rushed. There was a strange intensity in her posture, like the world around her didn't exist. Like she wasn't here at all.
Zoya walked over slowly.
"Ri," she said, sliding next to her.
No response.
Zoya gently tapped her shoulder.
Rihanna flinched.
She yanked one earbud out, eyes sharp, then softening. "Oh. Hey."
"You've missed three lectures this week," Zoya said, forcing a smile.
Rihanna blinked, looked away. "Didn't feel like it."
"You've barely felt like anything lately."
There was no venom in her tone. Only quiet worry.
Rihanna didn't answer right away. She closed the journal instead, her fingers tightening around it like it held secrets no one else was allowed to read.
Zoya sighed. "Look, I know you're going through something. I get that. But it feels like you're slipping away."
Rihanna gave a ghost of a smile. "I'm fine."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying," Rihanna said gently. "I'm… just changing."
Zoya frowned. "Into what?"
Rihanna looked up at the sky, eyes unfocused.
"Someone harder to break."
Hostel Room – Night
She didn't respond to Zoya's texts that evening.
Zoya: Are you okay?Zoya: Can I come over?Zoya: I'm just worried.
But Rihanna's screen remained dim. She had silenced everything—her phone, her mind, her ties.
She had entered her cocoon. A space of stories, shadows, and sharp thoughts.
She curled under her blanket, earbuds in again. This time, it wasn't just a mafia show. It was a dark, niche documentary—about obsession, psychological control, and fatal romances. She paused the screen when a narrator said:
"When a person doesn't feel real love, even danger can start to feel like devotion."
Her hand moved to her journal.
She scribbled:
They say obsession is unhealthy. But maybe obsession is just what happens when love stops pretending to be polite.
Then another line, below it:
I don't want love. I want intensity. I want someone to look at me like I'm inevitable.
College Library – Following Day
Zoya found her at a back table, completely surrounded by books she clearly wasn't reading. Rihanna stared blankly at the same page for minutes.
Zoya slid into the seat across from her.
"We need to talk."
Rihanna didn't even flinch. "About?"
"You," Zoya said firmly. "You don't laugh anymore. You don't eat properly. You don't talk to anyone except for me, and even that's disappearing. And the things you write… Ri, I read your last blog post. It scared me."
Rihanna's head snapped up. "You read it?"
Zoya hesitated. "Yes."
Silence.
"What scared you?" Rihanna asked softly.
"That you said pain feels like home," Zoya whispered. "That you miss it when it's gone. That you dream about someone who could destroy you and still call it love."
Rihanna looked away, jaw tight. "It's just writing."
"No," Zoya said. "It's a wound pretending to be art."
Hostel Room – That Night
Rihanna stared at her own reflection in the mirror. Her eyes looked darker lately—not from makeup, but from whatever was eating away at her.
Zoya didn't understand. How could she?
She hadn't been left behind like broken furniture.
She hadn't been made to feel forgettable.
But Rihanna remembered everything. The betrayal, the ache, the way it gutted her. And now, the only thing that filled that hollow space were stories about men who ruined everything but the one they loved.
She didn't want safety.
She wanted devotion.
Even if it came wrapped in red flags and whispered warnings.
She whispered to her reflection:
"I don't care if it breaks me. I just want something that burns."
Outside, the city moved on. Inside her room, Rihanna dug herself deeper into the world where love wasn't gentle—it was war.
And she was ready to surrender to it.