Aarav woke up before the alarm rang.
He always did—at 5:42 a.m., give or take a minute. His body had learned the time the way it learned everything else now: through repetition, not desire. The alarm buzzed a few seconds later, sharp and unnecessary. He turned it off without looking at it, already sitting up in bed.
The other side of the bed lay untouched.
Morning light filtered through the thin gap between the curtains, falling softly on the pillow beside him. Aarav’s eyes flicked there out of habit—and then away, just as quickly. Six years was a long time to grieve, people said. Long enough, they implied, to stop noticing absence.
They were wrong.
He got out of bed and folded the blanket with careful precision, smoothing the creases the way he did every morning. Order was easier than emotion. Code made sense. Routines made sense. Feelings did not.
In the bathroom mirror, a man in his mid-thirties stared back at him—well-groomed, neatly dressed, eyes permanently tired. Aarav brushed his teeth, shaved, and tied his hair back. He dressed in muted colours: grey, blue, black. Nothing that drew attention. Nothing that asked questions.
The kitchen smelled faintly of yesterday’s coffee.
He set the kettle on, toasted bread, packed a small lunchbox with fruits and snacks, moving through the space like a well-written program—efficient, predictable, error-free. Somewhere between boiling milk and spreading jam, his mind drifted briefly to a different kitchen, a different time, laughter echoing off the walls.
He shut that thought down instantly.
“Appa?”
The voice came from the doorway, small and hesitant.
Aarav turned.
Siya stood there, rubbing sleep from her eyes, her hair a riot of curls sticking out in every direction. She wore her faded pink nightdress, one strap perpetually slipping off her shoulder. She clutched her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
“I’m here,” Aarav said at once, his voice changing without effort.
Her shoulders relaxed. She padded toward him and climbed onto the chair near the counter, settling close enough that her arm brushed his. Aarav adjusted his position instinctively, angling himself so she wouldn’t have to strain to lean against him.
This—this he could do.
“How did you sleep?” he asked, pouring milk into her favourite blue cup.
Siya shrugged. “Okay.”
It was the same answer she gave on mornings she didn’t want to talk about her dreams. Aarav didn’t push. Some things needed silence more than questions.
He slid the cup toward her and watched as she drank, a faint milk moustache forming above her lip. She didn’t notice. He smiled—just a little.
She talked while she ate, her voice filling the quiet space between them. About a colouring book at school. About how her teacher had praised her handwriting. About how her friend wanted to borrow her crayons.
Aarav listened closely, nodding at the right moments, asking gentle follow-up questions. He stored every word away, as if these small details were fragile things that needed protection.
After breakfast, he braided her hair—still clumsy at it after all these years, though he had watched countless videos and practiced relentlessly. Siya winced when he tugged too hard, then forgave him immediately.
“You’re getting better,” she said generously.
He hummed in response, focusing intently on the braid.
By the time they stepped out of the house, the city was already awake. Traffic hummed. Vendors called out. Life moved forward, relentlessly.
At school, Siya ran toward the gate and then stopped, turning back suddenly.
“You’ll come, right?” she asked.
“I always do,” Aarav replied.
She smiled, reassured, and disappeared inside.
Aarav waited until she was completely out of sight before turning away.
At the office, Aarav blended into the background the way he always had. As a senior software engineer at a mid-sized tech company, he was respected but rarely engaged beyond work. His code was clean. His logic precise. He fixed bugs others overlooked and met deadlines without complaint.
Colleagues spoke to him about sprints and deployments, never about weekends or family. They had learned, over time, that Aarav did not invite personal questions.
He preferred it that way.
He spent hours staring at lines of code, losing himself in logic trees and debugging sessions. Code was honest. It either worked or it didn’t. There were no half-truths, no false promises.
During lunch, he sat alone, scrolling through Siya’s school app on his phone—checking attendance, reading updates, reviewing photos from class activities he had already seen twice.
At 4:58 p.m., he shut down his system.
At 5:10 p.m., he was in his car.
He picked Siya up on time, as he always did. She ran into his arms with unrestrained joy, nearly knocking him over.
“You came!” she said, breathless.
“I told you“ He replied quietly, holding her close.
At home, they ate dinner together—simple food, familiar flavours. Siya told him about her day in more detail now, acting out conversations, exaggerating expressions. Aarav watched her with a mixture of pride and ache.
Later, after homework and a story read aloud—always the same one—Siya finally drifted to sleep, her small hand curled around his finger.
Aarav sat on the edge of her bed long after her breathing evened out.
He looked around the room—the drawings on the walls, the toys carefully arranged, the nightlight glowing softly. This room was full of life. His own room was not.
Standing at the doorway, Aarav allowed himself one quiet truth.
Love scared him.
Not because it hurt—but because it could disappear.
He had learned that once. He would not learn it again.
For Siya, he would remain steady. Predictable. Present.
For Siya, he would build a life made of safety and certainty.
And for now, that was enough.
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