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, while others fall for voices. As for me, I fell in love with a screen. I fell for the way his fingers looked curled effortlessly around a guitar neck, the slight, painful crack in his voice whenever he reached for the high notes, and the way he typed my name as if it were already a shared secret. ​His name was Ahyan Isfahani. To him, I wasn’t just another follower; he called me his muse before he had ever even heard the sound of my voice. ​"You’re not a girl, Riya," his voice note played through my speaker, his tone dripping with a quiet, dangerous warmth. "You’re a verse—waiting to be kissed into a poem." ​God. I listened to that single audio message nine times, maybe more, huddled under my blanket. Each time the sound filled the quiet of my room, I felt something melt deep inside me—a hidden, dormant part of myself that I didn’t even know could respond to another person. ​Ahyan played guitar covers that were soft, dreamy, and painfully romantic. But the real shift began when he started writing songs with my name woven into the lyrics. That was the moment I truly began to surrender. He always sent them around midnight. My phone screen would light up, casting a soft glow in the dark, and it suddenly felt like he was right there with me, breaking through my blanket of silence. ​I would lie awake in bed, heart galloping against my ribs and cheeks flushed with a sudden heat. Listening to his crooning voice felt like a dangerous invitation, but more than that, it felt like belonging. For the first time, it felt like someone finally saw the part of me I kept carefully buried beneath watercolors and dusty diary pages. ​Eventually, the virtual world wasn't enough; he wanted to meet in person. ​I hesitated, of course. The fear of reality clashing with my dreams made my hands shake. But then he sent me a photograph of a secluded café, adorned with red velvet chairs and dim, golden lighting. ​“If you want to be real, come,” his text message read, cutting through my doubts. “Or you can stay a beautiful ghost.” ​How could a girl like me say no to a man who spoke entirely in metaphors? ​The café smelled like rich coffee and unspoken longing. When I arrived, he was already sitting in a corner—wearing a casual blue shirt, his guitar case leaning securely by his side, and a silver bracelet clinking softly against his wrist whenever he moved. He stood up the moment his eyes met mine, pulling out the chair for me with a practiced elegance. He looked at me as if I were made of pure lyric and light. ​"You showed up," Ahyan said, his lips curving into a soft smile. "That means the world’s still worth writing about." ​We sat together for hours, talking, laughing, and sharing secrets that felt much heavier than they sounded. At one point, he leaned across the table and asked what I was most afraid of in life. ​"Being forgotten," I whispered, exposing my deepest vulnerability. ​He locked his gaze with mine, his eyes intense. "Then let me remember you into existence." ​When the café finally emptied and the staff began setting up the chairs, he quietly invited me over to his apartment. I paused, the sudden weight of the request making me hold my breath. ​Seeing my hesitation, Ahyan reached out and spoke softly, "Just a song. I swear. It’s not about what you think, Riya. It’s just about the sound." ​I believed him. I believed him because I desperately wanted to, and when a soul is starving for affection, even the most fragile lies look like bread. ​His apartment was small but carried an enveloping warmth. Guitars hung carefully on the walls, and a single candle flickered on the table, casting long shadows across the room. He picked up his instrument and sang for me again. It was the same melody, but hearing it live, with my name wrapped around every chorus like a solemn vow, made the room feel incredibly small. ​Then, he put the guitar down. Moving closer, he took my hand in his. ​"Don’t be afraid," Ahyan murmured, his breath brushing against my skin. "I wrote this for the girl who made my guitar blush." ​He leaned in and kissed me. It was soft and gentle at first, but within seconds, the gentleness shifted into something consuming. ​I froze, my mind spinning into confusion. But he didn't stop. He moved with an effortless confidence, like a man who had done this a thousand times before, knowing exactly how to unwrap a girl without giving her a chance to find her voice. His lips were burning warm, his movements deliberate. As he pulled me closer, my mind felt completely disconnected from the reality of the room. I didn't say yes, but the words to say no trapped themselves in my throat. ​My body stayed exactly where he wanted it, but my soul curled up in a distant corner of the room and tightly closed its eyes. ​When it was over, the heavy silence returned. He kissed my forehead with a casual tenderness, called me beautiful, and quietly lit a cigarette. I got dressed slowly, my hands shaking just enough for me to try and hide it from him. ​"You okay?" Ahyan asked, looking up through a trail of smoke. ​I simply nodded, unable to form a single word. Minutes later, I walked home in the cool night air, carrying myself with skin that suddenly didn’t feel like it belonged to me anymore. ​That night, I stood under the running water of the shower for a full hour. But the freezing water couldn’t wash away the heavy quiet that had settled over me. It couldn’t undo the sudden, hollow emptiness expanding in my chest, and it couldn’t reach the fractured part of my mind that still whispered: It wasn’t love. But it happened.