OBEY THE FLAME

OBEY THE FLAME CHAPTER 1: THE FLAME BEGINS "Some flames don't burn you at first touch— they warm you just enough to make you stay." —Riya --- Some girls fall in love with hands. Some with voices. I fell in love with a screen— with the way his fingers looked curled around a guitar neck. With how his voice cracked slightly on high notes. With the way he typed my name like it was already a secret. His name was Ahyan Isfahani. Mine? He called me his muse before he even knew what my voice sounded like. > Ahyan (voice note): “You’re not a girl, Riya. You’re a verse—waiting to be kissed into a poem.” God. I listened to that message nine times. Maybe more. And each time, I felt something in me melt. Something I didn’t know could respond. --- He played guitar covers—soft, dreamy, painfully romantic. But when he started writing songs with my name in them… That was when I began to surrender. He’d send them at midnight. My phone would light up, and it felt like he was right there, under my blanket of silence. I’d lie in bed, heart galloping, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed. Touching myself to the sound of his crooning. Not because it was filthy. But because it felt like belonging. Like invitation. Like someone finally saw the part of me I kept buried beneath watercolors and diary pages. --- He wanted to meet. I hesitated, of course. But then he sent me a photo of a café. Red velvet chairs. Dim gold lights. > “If you want to be real, come,” he wrote. “Or you can stay a beautiful ghost.” How could I say no to a man who wrote in metaphors? --- The café smelled like coffee and longing. He was already sitting there—blue shirt, guitar case by his side, bracelets clinking when he moved. He stood when he saw me. Pulled out the chair. Looked at me like I was made of lyric and light. > Ahyan: “You showed up. That means the world’s still worth writing about.” --- We talked. Laughed. Shared things that felt heavier than they sounded. He asked what I was afraid of. I said, “Being forgotten.” He said, “Then let me remember you into existence.” --- When the café emptied, he invited me to his place. I paused. > Ahyan: “Just a song. I swear. It’s not about s*x, Riya. It’s about sound.” I believed him. Because I wanted to. Because when you're starving, even lies look like bread. --- His apartment was small but warm. Guitars on the wall. A candle flickering. He sang again. The same song—my name wrapped around every chorus like a vow. Then he put the guitar down. Took my hand. > Ahyan: “Don’t be afraid. I wrote this for the girl who made my guitar blush.” He leaned in. Kissed me. Soft at first. Then not. --- I froze. He didn’t. He moved like he had done this before, like he knew how to unwrap a girl without unwrapping her voice. His lips were warm. His hands were slow. He peeled my shirt off gently, like it was made of lace and apology. I didn’t say yes. But I didn’t say no. My body stayed. My soul curled up in a corner and closed its eyes. --- When it was over, he kissed my forehead. Called me beautiful. Lit a cigarette. I got dressed slowly. My hands shaking just enough to hide it. > “You okay?” he asked casually. I nodded. And walked home with skin that didn’t feel like mine. --- That night, I stood under the shower for an hour. The water couldn’t wash off the quiet. Couldn’t undo how empty I felt. Couldn’t reach the part of me that still whispered: > It wasn’t love. But it happened.