Rajesh emerged from his office building at 8:45 PM, his laptop bag weighing heavy on his shoulder. The weight was more than physical; another night of playing catch-up on overdue reports had left him drained, body and mind. His back ached from hours hunched over his desk, and his legs felt stiff from sitting motionless all day. He smiled to himself a little bitterly over the irony: sitting seemed to drain more energy than actual physical labor. Such delays had begun to happen lately, and every missed deadline mounted onto his back. If the metro was his lifeline to home, then the office was becoming a trap which he could not seem to extricate himself from.
The fluorescent glow of the metro station entrance loomed ahead, familiar and almost comforting in its artificial brightness. Rajesh joined the weary stream of fellow corporate warriors heading underground, each face a mirror of his own exhaustion. The thought of standing for another hour on his commute home made him wince. His body craved movement, but not like this—not pressed against strangers in an overcrowded train car, swaying and stumbling with every turn and stop.
The platform was crowded, as it always was at this time. The first train came in, and Rajesh watched as the crowd surged forward, cramming themselves into the already full compartments. He stepped back, deciding to wait for the next one. Maybe it would be less crowded. The second train came and went, just as packed. By the time the third train arrived, the platform had thinned dramatically, but Rajesh found himself hesitating once more. Just one more, he thought, protesting even the brief standing his muscles were indulging. It seemed to him that the long ride home would be unbearable if he was really sandwiched between people on that overcrowded train.
He leaned on a pillar and brought out his phone to check his messages. The screen's glow cut harshly against the fading station lights. Somewhere between checking emails and blankly refreshing his feeds, time started to slip away. The rhythm of trains passing softly combined with the soft whine of fluorescent lights to form a soothing cacophony that had protected him from an increasingly mounting workload—documents that demanded stern words, looks that communicated disappointment, and expectation that was laid on him so tightly it cut like a noose around his neck.
Tonight, though, something felt different. The air hung thicker, almost viscous, as if the station itself was holding its breath. When awareness finally crept back, the platform's usual bustle had vanished. No hurried footsteps, no announcements blaring from the speakers, no familiar murmur of conversations. Rajesh blinked, his phone screen now dark in his hand. He was utterly alone.
The stillness was unnerving. He swallowed hard, the dryness a sandpaper-throat, looking around with nervous eyes darting to the far corners of the platform where shadows pooled unnaturally. He continued walking, with his footsteps softly echoing against the cold, tiled walls, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of corridors past shuttered shops and dormant escalators, each step seeming to multiply itself in the acoustics of the tunnel till it sounded as if a crowd walked with him. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered arhythmically, casting the shadows into grotesque shapes that danced and twisted along the walls.
Something made him stop. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his breath caught in his throat. In the sudden stillness, he became acutely aware of how alone he was—and yet, paradoxically, how watched he felt. He turned sharply, his eyes scanning the empty expanse of the platform, but there was nothing there. Or at least, nothing he could see.
"Is somebody there?" he yelled, his voice ringing off the concrete and back at him, slurred and nearly unidentifiable. The silence of the station was a response, deeper still, as if even the general hum of machinery had been turned down. Then, from somewhere out in the dark beyond the next platform, footsteps began to stir. Slow, deliberate, the click of each heel against tile echoed with an unnatural clarity.
Rajesh's heart pounded inside his chest. The footsteps got closer, and the rhythm was steady and unhurried. He wanted to run but felt his legs were made of lead, fixed to the ground. The temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees, and his breath came out in visible puffs.
"Who's there?" His voice cracked, revealing his fear. The footsteps stopped abruptly, leaving a silence so profound it pressed against his eardrums. In that moment, his phone vibrated violently in his pocket, the sudden burst of movement making him jump. With trembling hands, he pulled it out, squinting at the harsh blue light of the screen.
His office number stared back at him.
Confusion wrestled with fear as he pushed the answer button. "H-hello?"
"Rajesh." Mr. Kumar's voice cut through the silence like a knife, sharp and commanding. "Where are you? I need you in my office. Now."
Reality shifted sideways. The oppressive darkness of the station dissolved, replaced by the familiar glow of his office computer screen. He was slumped over his desk, papers scattered around him, a half-empty coffee cup gone cold at his elbow. The clock on his computer read 9:30 PM. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, and his heart still raced from the visceral memory of those footsteps. Had he never left the office? It had felt so real—the cold air, the echoing corridors, the approaching presence.
"Did you hear me, Rajesh?" Mr. Kumar's voice jolted him back.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, I'll be right there." He stood up hastily, grabbing his notebook and pen, whose hands shook uncontrollably as he did.
The walk to Mr. Kumar's office seemed infinite. He passed by corporate art on the walls—cities at sunset and the like, overdramatic quotes about success—and the frames appeared to stretch out long shadows under the illumination of after-hours lights. Something in each step, walking on that rug, seemed odd, quiet by comparison with echoing tiles at the station. Stopping outside the door to Mr. Kumar's office, Rajesh readjusted his tie and smoothed the wrinkles from his hair. The metal nameplate above the door, polished: Avinash Kumar, Senior Director. He tapped lightly at the frosted glass.
"Come in."
Mr. Kumar sat behind his massive desk, bathed in the warm light of a desk lamp that did nothing to soften his expression. His eyes, sharp behind rimless glasses, fixed on Rajesh with laser focus.
"Sit," he ordered, pointing to the chair in front of him. "You've been slippng, Rajesh. Your performance reviews have been going downhill for months. You space out in key meetings. Projects are slipping past deadlines." He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. "I need to know—is something going on?"
Rajesh opened his mouth to offer excuses, but the words died in his throat. How could he explain the growing unease that had been haunting him? The strange pull of the metro station? The feeling that something was trying to communicate with him through the underground tunnels and empty platforms?
"I've been. having trouble sleeping," he managed finally. It wasn't entirely a lie.
Mr. Kumar's face softened fractionally. "Look, Rajesh, you are talented. That's the only reason I haven't fired you yet. But talent means nothing without focus and dedication. Whatever is going on in your personal life, you need to address it." He paused, letting the words sink in. "I'm giving you a chance to turn this around. Don't waste it."
"Thanks, sir. I understand," Rajesh said, standing up, his voice firm, trying to hold it steady. "It won't be repeated."
As he got out of the office the fluorescent tube lights of the corridor cracked overhead, their sound somehow otherworldly, higher pitched and less like the station's own. He gathered his things from his desk, his movements mechanical, his mind already drifting back to the station.
Rajesh paused in packing his laptop, and a sledgehammer swung of frustration smashed into him. He had been promising himself all these years, time and time again, to get his life together, that he would quit letting his life spiral further out of control. Yet here he sat again, in the same sorry state. Losing at work, losing at love, losing to simply holding on. He thrust a hand into his hair; his fingers quivered.
Why couldn't he just let go of this strange obsession with the metro? He knew it was ruining him. His thoughts drifted to his mother, Meera, his job—all slipping through his fingers because he couldn't seem to stop. And yet, the realization came with a crushing clarity: he didn't want to stop. Something deep inside him was hooked, tethered to that dark, echoing place. It wasn't curiosity anymore—it was compulsion.
As he reached for his metro pass, his hand froze. It was ice-cold, with a biting chill penetrating into his skin. He closed it up tightly, anger and despair swirling in equal measure. No matter how much he hated himself for it, he knew the truth. He couldn't stop. Not even if he wanted to.
The rhythmic rumble of the train in his head made him stand there, clutching the pass already, looking forward to his next visit to the place he could not understand nor get away from.
Rajesh dialed Meera's number with hands that were shivering. His emotions were pressing down on him. The ringing continued for some time before she picked up the phone.
"Rajesh?" Meera's voice was soft but worried. "What's going on? You sound—
"I don't know what's happening anymore, Meera," he choked out, his voice breaking. "I. I can't keep doing this. I'm falling apart, and I don't know how to stop it." The words came out in a rush, the floodgates opening as his frustration, fear, and self-loathing poured into the call. "My job, my life. it's all slipping through my fingers, and I just keep. Keep going back to that bloody station. I don't know what is real anymore.
He fell silent, the quiet hanging between them like a challenge. Meera's voice came through softly, an attempt to anchor him. "Rajesh, I'm here for you. Whatever this is, we can figure it out. Please, where are you? Let me come to you.
But Rajesh couldn't answer. His throat closed up, the weight of everything pressing too heavily on his chest. He had no answers for her, no way to explain the dark pull of the metro station, the unsettling sense of being trapped in a cycle he couldn't break.
"I. I don't know, Meera. I. I can't," he whispered, his words trailing off as his vision blurred with tears.
"Rajesh—"
But before Meera could finish, the line went dead.
He sat there staring at his phone. The silence now suffocated him in its finality. Isolation clawed at him as the walls of his own confusion pressed in on him. Where was he? What was he doing? And why, despite everything, did he feel like he couldn't stop?
The cold, insistent call of the metro station beckoned once again to him as the phone went silent in his hand, and Rajesh knew, with that sickening surety, he would go back.