"No, I did good today. Let's do that tomorrow."
Those words echoed in Rohit's head like a cruel joke, their sweetness now soured.
Poison.
That's what they were—poison dressed as comfort. And now, morning light was crawling through the window again, laying across the bedsheets like guilt, reminding him of yet another wasted day.
Why did I say that yesterday? he thought, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Why did I give in?
His limbs felt heavy, as if regret had soaked into his bones. And then came the second wave—guilt about the guilt.
I'm poisoning myself again, he realized. Feeding on shame, on failure. Trapping myself in my own head.
A voice inside him—raw, angry—screamed:
Get up. Get out. Look at yourself!
Rohit sat up slowly, rubbed his face with both hands, dragging his palms down until his fingers hung limp. His shoulders slumped forward, breath shallow. The cotton sheets rustled faintly under him, warm from the night's sleep.
"Okay… okay…" he muttered, voice barely audible. "Wait… just wait…"
He closed his eyes.
Nothing had happened yet. No catastrophe. No miracle.
Just the quiet.
He took a deep breath.
"One thing at a time," he said, steadier this time. "Just one thing."
His eyes scanned the room—the same room that had once been a prison, now a little more like a space to live. Clean. Ordered. Clear. The faint smell of detergent lingered in the corners, and sunlight glinted off the newly dusted shelf.
What should I do today?
He sat still for a while, not wanting to fall back into the spiral. Silence hung heavy in the air, but it didn't suffocate him this time.
Then came a whisper of a thought—gentle, almost timid.
Let's go outside.
Rohit's head tilted toward the door. He blinked, as if surprised by his own idea. But then he nodded. A slow, deliberate nod.
He stood up and walked to the mirror, squinting at his reflection like he was seeing himself for the first time in weeks. A faint line marked the bridge of his nose—probably from the way he slept. His hair stood up at odd angles.
"Outside… but for what?" he asked the mirror. "What will I even do?"
Anything.
Nothing.
Just go.
Rohit stripped out of his sleepwear and threw on a plain grey t-shirt and light cotton joggers. Summer, he guessed. It must be. The fabric felt right, and the air didn't bite. He could feel the slight warmth pressing in from the windowsill, the kind of sun that made the skin on your forearm tingle softly.
At the door, he hesitated.
Hand hovering just above the knob. The metal felt slightly cool beneath his fingertips.
How long have I been cooped up in this place?
His PG was a three-story building—basic, no elevator, cheap rent. Students mostly, all faces that blurred into the background of his days. He hadn't spoken to anyone in… how long now?
The hallway smelled faintly of cheap disinfectant and drying paint. The pale green walls were chipped at the corners, and along the stairs, his hand brushed the metal railing—cool, rough with rust and flaking paint.
He stepped out into the hallway.
Each footstep echoed against the walls. The building was alive with muffled sounds—fans whirring, water running, someone laughing faintly behind a closed door.
As Rohit made his way down the stairs, he passed a few other residents. Eyes met, then slid away. Everyone minded their own business. No one said a word.
Just how he liked it.
And then—he was outside.
He stood on the cracked cement outside the PG, blinking at the sunlight. It hit his face directly, warm and almost blinding, like stepping into another realm. He squinted, lifting a hand instinctively to shade his eyes. The air smelled of dust, warm pavement, diesel fumes, and a faint whiff of frying oil from a distant food cart.
He looked left. Then right.
Which way?
He picked the right. Toward the park. His legs moved slowly, almost unsure, but they moved.
As he walked, each footstep on the uneven pavement felt like a small affirmation. The sun baked the sidewalk beneath his soles, and the faint rustle of leaves seemed louder than usual. Cars honked in the distance, distant but persistent, like the heartbeat of the city itself.
When he reached the garden, he didn't sit or jog or do anything dramatic. He simply walked. Step after step. Breathing. Feeling.
The leaves rustled in the breeze, brushing against one another like whispers. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Two children raced past him on bicycles, their laughter trailing behind them like kites.
Rohit kept walking.
His heartbeat was steady, but his mind was strangely quiet. The world felt… real again. Present.
Is this really me? he wondered, not quite believing he was outside, walking, existing among people again. Am I really doing this?
A gust of wind lifted the collar of his shirt slightly. He pulled it down absentmindedly, eyes scanning the trimmed hedges, the old park bench, the dusty trail. It all felt faintly surreal, as if he'd stepped into a memory he wasn't part of anymore.
But then came the pull.
Should I go back?
Not from panic—just the strange tug of familiarity. Home. Safety. Walls.
Still, as he turned back toward the building, something caught his attention.
A small roadside shop, nestled between two peeling signboards.
On impulse, he stopped.
"Milk," he told the shopkeeper, voice cracking slightly from disuse.
"And the paper," he added, pointing at the neatly stacked newspapers.
The man handed him both without a word. The milk was still cold to the touch. The newspaper felt slightly damp at the edges—fresh ink still releasing that faint chemical smell, earthy and sharp.
As Rohit paid, two uncles stood nearby, smoking and arguing lightly about politics.
"I'm telling you," one of them said, puffing smoke through his mustache, "this government's doing it right. The Gifted Registration Bill will finally bring order."
Rohit's eyes flicked to the headline on the paper in his hand:
"GIFTED REGISTRATION BILL DEBATED IN LOK SABHA"
His brow furrowed.
The word Gifted stirred something in his memory.
A classroom. Third bench from the front. A boy , who once lit up a compass without touching it. Everyone had gasped. The teacher said nothing. Just gave Harshit that look—fear, maybe, or awe.
But Rohit remembered his own face that day. Not surprised. Not curious.
Jealous.
Gifted.
The word now felt bitter on his tongue.
He folded the paper under his arm, picked up the milk, and began walking back.