Aarav

I woke up when the fan stopped working. It happens every morning around six. It's fine at first, but within a minute the heat starts creeping in, and suddenly it feels like I'm lying in a toaster. I kicked off the sheet and just lay there, staring at the ceiling, already sweating.

She's up. I can hear her in the living room, probably on the couch. There's that soft clink of her mug on the coffee table. She always holds it like it's done something to her. I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet, and I can already feel the tension hanging in the air.

I got out of bed and walked down the hall. Didn't bother saying anything when I saw her. Tara didn't say good morning. Neither did I. That's just not how we do things anymore.

I headed straight for the kitchen. The sink still had the pan from last night sitting in it. Some weird burnt ring around the edge. Might’ve been from whatever I tried to make for dinner. Or maybe it had been there longer—who knows. I ran the tap and started scrubbing it, not because I cared about getting it clean, but because I needed to be doing something. Anything. The clatter of the sponge and metal felt better than the silence.

"You're using the scrubber on the non-stick pan," she said.

Just like that—calm, almost like she was pointing out the weather. But it landed exactly where it was supposed to. A little shot right at the ego, already worn thin from too many mornings like this.

I didn’t turn around. Just kept scrubbing.
"It’s already scratched."

"And now it’s traumatised."

I let out a short laugh. Not because it was funny. More because… of course she'd say that. That dry, smart-ass tone she always had. It used to drive me nuts, but in a way that made me want to keep talking to her. That weird mix of annoyed and drawn in. Still kind of does, apparently.

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile. Just stared into her mug, took a long, slow sip like the tea was doing her a favor by keeping her mouth busy.

Alright. That’s the mood today.

~~~~~~~~

By mid-morning, she started sweeping the floor. Not because it needed it—the place was still mostly clean from when I panic-mopped the night before she got here. It was more of a movement thing. She’s never been good at stillness. Sitting still meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling, and feeling meant… well, all this.

I watched her for a second from the kitchen doorway. Slow, careful strokes, like the floor had done something to her. I didn’t say anything. I knew what it was. I’d seen it before.

Once, during an argument, she spent ten straight minutes rearranging a sock drawer just so she wouldn’t have to look at me. I stood there talking to her back the whole time. When she finally turned around, the drawer was perfect and the fight was over, even though we hadn’t actually resolved anything. Some things don’t change.

I stepped out onto the balcony and started taking down the clothes from the stand. Most of them were already dry. I wasn’t really in a hurry—I just needed something to do. Something that didn’t involve being in the same room as her for a few more minutes. If I stayed in the kitchen any longer, we’d end up talking about tea stains or chipped mugs or whatever else she’d decide to comment on. Not ready for that yet.

Halfway through the pile, I pulled out the green kurta. It looked older now—faded, soft, kind of shapeless. Smelled like detergent and a bit of sun. I didn’t even know I still had it. Didn’t remember packing it.

“I didn’t know you still had that one,” she said from inside. Still sweeping. Didn’t look at me.

I held it up, checking the seams out of habit.
“You mean the chaiwala kurta?”

“You bought it from Linking Road,” she said. This time she glanced up.

“And you said I looked like I sold cutting chai outside Churchgate.”

She gave a small shrug. “A hot chaiwala.”

I froze for maybe half a second. Not dramatic—just… yeah. That kind of comment. The type that feels like a joke but lands a little too close. Not even sure she meant to say it. She looked away almost right after, went back to sweeping like she hadn’t said anything at all. Maybe she wished she hadn’t.

She started going at the corner more aggressively now. Dust that probably wasn’t even there.

I folded the kurta and put it in the keep pile. Could’ve tossed it. Should’ve. But… I didn’t.

~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the day passed in bits and pieces. Half-finished conversations, a lot of silence, and those weird glances that don’t mean anything specific but still feel like something. Neither of us said much. Not because we didn’t have things to say—just… no one wanted to be the first one to go there.

The Wi-Fi kept dropping every few hours. The power flickered like it was tired of being reliable. My phone was at 7%. Hers was worse—5%. And somehow, there was only one working charging point in the whole apartment. So we took turns, passing the charger back and forth like it was some kind of truce. No words, just an unspoken “your turn” when the battery icon turned green.

Then downstairs aunty called. The power had gone out in her flat again. She asked if we could help heat some milk.

“Beta, just one vessel,” she said, holding it out when I opened the door. “No gas in my kitchen—only induction. Useless when the power goes, na?”

Of course. I’d heard her complain about it before. The building wiring is split weirdly—some flats stay on, others don’t. Ours still had power. Hers didn’t. She lives for this kind of thing. Not in a bad way, just... these little crises give her a reason to knock, to chat, to be involved.

“Yeah, no problem,” I said, taking the vessel from her. She gave a satisfied nod, already looking past me like she wanted a peek inside the flat.

“Thank you, beta. Just bring it down when it boils.”

I nodded and shut the door before she could start asking about Tara.

I brought the milk into the kitchen, set it on the stove, and turned the gas on. Then I just stood there, watching it slowly heat up. It felt good to have something specific to do. Something simple, with a clear end point. No gray areas.

Tara didn’t ask who the milk was for. But I knew she was listening from the other room. Not in an obvious way—just her usual quiet presence. Her silences weren’t empty. They always had this weight to them. Like she was tuned in without trying to be.

Tara came into the kitchen. I didn’t look up, but I heard the fridge door open—the soft suction sound, then a pause, and the clink of glass against glass.

I knew what she’d found before she said anything.

“You brought this?”

I stayed crouched near the loose tile, pressing it back into place like it was something urgent. It never stays down, no matter how many times I fix it. Felt easier to deal with than whatever was about to happen behind me.

I didn’t need to turn around. It was the pickle jar—her nani’s green chilli garlic. The one she used to ration out like it was made of gold. I’d grabbed it from the fridge at my parents’ place while packing for this trip. Didn’t think much of it at the time. Just tossed it in the bag with some basics—rice, dal, the usual. It had been sitting in their fridge for months. Figured I’d use it up here.

“Didn’t realize it was that one,” I said, still looking at the tile.

“You recognized it now, though.”

Her voice wasn’t sharp, just quiet. Which somehow made it worse. Like she didn’t need to say anything else for it to land.

I stayed where I was. I didn’t have a response. What was I going to say? That I brought it without thinking but couldn’t throw it out now that I’d seen it again? That it reminded me of her family, of nights where things weren’t this complicated?

I just nodded, more to myself than to her, and pressed down the tile again. Still didn’t stay flat.

~~~~~~~~

By evening, the sky had fully lost it. Wind was slamming the windows, rain coming in sideways, thunder loud enough to feel in the floorboards. One of those storms that doesn’t bother with buildup—just shows up all at once and makes everything feel smaller.

Then the power went. No flicker, no warning. Just... gone.

We lit a few candles from the stash in the kitchen drawer. Half-burnt ones, mismatched, the kind you only remember during load shedding. One on the table, one on the fridge, one near the bathroom. The apartment looked different in that light. Dim, quiet. Almost like it was pretending to be something it wasn’t. Or maybe just trying not to draw attention to itself.

Tara was at the dining table, flipping through an old Traveller magazine. I had no idea where it came from. She wasn’t really reading it. Just turning pages like they gave her something to do.

I was on the floor near the window, digging through a pouch full of wires and random junk we never throw out. Old earphones, USB cables that didn’t match anything anymore, a key to something I couldn’t remember. I wasn’t looking for anything specific. Just needed my hands to be busy. The silence was starting to feel like a third person in the room. Outside, the storm kept going.

“Why do we have Canadian coins?” she asked.

I didn’t look up. “You wanted to make a travel jar.”

“Oh. Right.”

“We were supposed to go to Sri Lanka, remember?”

“Of course,” she said. “I made a whole itinerary.”

“Day-wise.”

“With colour-coded tabs.”

“And snack breaks.”

“You called them emotional resets.”

“I stand by that. Hunger ruins relationships.”

“You said it ruins moods.”

“Same thing.”

I looked over at her. She was still holding the magazine, but not really looking at it anymore. She smiled.

And for a second, it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t tense. Just... normal. Like two people, tired from the day, remembering something that almost happened. Something good. Something simple.

It passed, like moments do. But it was there.

Dinner was eggs and roti. Nothing fancy, just what we had. We didn’t say much while eating, but it didn’t feel weird. Just quiet in a way that didn’t need filling.

She did the dishes after. I dried them. Our hands brushed once at the sink. We didn’t talk about it. Okay—I didn’t. She might’ve paused for half a second longer than needed. Or maybe I imagined it. Either way, nothing got said.

Later, she curled up on the sofa with a shawl pulled around her. Looked smaller than I remembered. Not physically—just... tired. Like someone carrying too many versions of herself. Like a burrito made of soft fabric and unfinished conversations.

Then, out of nowhere, she said, “You cried here once.”

I looked up.

“Right there,” she nodded toward the far side of the couch. “You were sitting on that side. We were fighting about the Delhi job.”

Yeah. That day.

“You said it felt like you had to pick between me and your future.”

I nodded. Slowly. The kind of nod that says, yeah, I remember every second of that.

She didn’t look at me. Just stared ahead.

“I wasn’t mad that you wanted to go,” she said. “I was mad that you didn’t ask me to come.”

I didn’t know what to do with that. Still didn’t.

“You would’ve said no,” I said after a while. Not defensive, just honest.

“You didn’t ask,” she said back.

And that was it. The room didn’t shift. Nothing exploded. It just went quiet again. Not the awkward kind—just... quiet.

Like we were both sitting with our own versions of the same memory, trying to figure out what would’ve happened if either of us had said something.

The rain picked up again. Louder now. Slamming into the windows sideways, like it was trying to force its way in.

I got up and walked into the bedroom. The cupboard was still the same—slightly off its hinges, always made that soft wooden creak when opened. Most of our stuff was still in there. Neither of us ever fully cleared the place out after the breakup. She took the basics. I stayed a little longer. Then I left too. Since then, no one came back. The flat had just been sitting here, stuck in time.

I reached up behind a pile of folded bedsheets and pulled out the grey hoodie. Hers. Oversized, sleeves stretched out at the ends. It smelled faintly of cupboard wood and something warm I couldn’t name. I must’ve seen it on the first night back and ignored it. But now, with the rain and the cold and the way she was curled up on the couch, it felt like the right thing to do.

I walked back to the living room and held it out.

She looked at it, then at me.
“You kept this?”

“It was in the cupboard,” I said. “Didn’t even realize it was still here.”

She didn’t say anything. Just took it from my hands and pulled it on over the shawl. Like she didn’t need to think about it. Like it still fit in more ways than one.

Later, she fell asleep on the sofa. Curled up tight, knees tucked in, sleeves half-covering her hands. The hoodie looked too big on her now. Or maybe she looked smaller. Hard to tell.

I didn’t go back into the bedroom. Just sat on the floor nearby, back against the wall, watching the candlelight flicker across the ceiling. Listening to the wind throw itself at the building.

And for the first time all day, the place felt quiet.

Not fixed. Not back to anything.

Just... okay.

Like we’d both stopped trying to steer the moment.
And finally just let it be what it was.

**********

Do you still have an old hoodie that technically doesn't belong to you but also... totally does?

And be honest—have you ever blamed mood swings on hunger and called it an "emotional reset"?

Anyway. That's it for now. The story's not over—just the chapter. Go stretch, hydrate, maybe text someone you almost talked to today.

See you in the next one.