The alarm shattered the silence of the morning.
Aarav groaned, reaching out blindly before silencing it. For a moment, he didn't move. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, as if getting up would make everything real again.
"Another day… same lie," he whispered.
The cold floor bit into his feet as he walked to the bathroom. His eyes locked onto the mirror.
Messy hair. Hollow eyes.
He stared.
"Look at you," he muttered. "Acting like you've moved on."
A bitter smile flickered.
"Pathetic."
He gripped the edge of the sink.
"Say it," he told himself quietly. "She's gone."
Silence.
His jaw tightened.
"Say it like you mean it."
But he couldn't.
Memories slipped in—late-night calls, laughter that once felt endless, conversations that used to fill the silence.
He splashed water on his face.
"Get a grip, Aarav," he muttered. "She moved on. You didn't."
He straightened, staring at his reflection.
"Fine," he said under his breath. "From today… no more thinking about her."
A pause.
"Let's see how long that lasts."
From the kitchen, the smell of freshly made parathas drifted in.
"Aarav beta! Breakfast is ready! And don't say 'five minutes' this time!" his mother called.
Aarav sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Maa, those five minutes are very important for mental preparation."
He stepped out of his room.
His father didn't even look up from the newspaper.
"Preparation for what? Sleeping again?"
Aarav smirked faintly. "Rest is part of the process, Baba. Even great people take breaks."
His father lowered the newspaper just enough to glance at him.
"Great people also wake up on time."
Aarav dropped into his chair. "Time is just a concept."
His father raised an eyebrow. "Then why is your bus a reality?"
His mother laughed, placing hot parathas on his plate.
"Eat before your philosophy fails you."
Aarav took a bite and sighed dramatically.
"Maa, if I become successful, it'll be because of these parathas."
His father snorted. "If you become successful, it'll be a miracle."
"Maa, see? This is emotional damage early in the morning," Aarav said.
"You deserve it," his father replied calmly.
His mother handed him his tiffin.
"Eat properly. And don't skip lunch."
"Yes, Maa."
Aarav stood up, picking up his bag. "I always go properly."
His father added without missing a beat,
"Going and attending are two different things."
Aarav shook his head, heading toward the door.
"You both have trust issues."
"We have experience," his father replied.
Aarav paused.
Just for a second.
Then he smiled.
A real one.
"Bye, Maa."
"Come back early," she said.
"No promises."
He stepped outside.
The city greeted him instantly—honking vehicles, distant chatter, the smell of street food drifting through the air.
Everything was loud.
Everything was alive.
But inside him—
there was only silence.
He adjusted his bag and started walking.
"Keep moving," he muttered. "That's what everyone does."
The warmth of home faded behind him.
But the feeling didn't.
The past wasn't behind him.
It walked with him.
"It's over," he said quietly.
A pause.
"Right?"
He kept walking.
Because stopping meant thinking.
And thinking—
was the one thing he couldn't afford.