Both of Aarav's parents were around 45. His mother, a woman of average height with a physique neither heavy nor light, moved with an air of quiet exhaustion, while his father, a man whose every movement screamed years of hard work, barely had the energy to take off his shoes as he stepped inside. Their faces lined with fatigue.
His mother paused for a moment, her voice dull with exhaustion. "Did you eat?"
"Yeah," Aarav replied.
His father nodded and gave him a small, tired smile—a acknowledgment of his reply. Then, without another word, they both headed straight to their bedroom and disappeared behind the closed door.
Aarav made his way to the sink. The cold water ran over his fingers as he scrubbed the utensils he had dirtied, the sound of clinking metal the only thing breaking the silence of the house. His reflection wavered on the soapy surface of the water, distorted and unfamiliar.
When he finished, he sat back at his desk, flipping open his biology textbook. The sight of it made his stomach clench. He wasn't frustrated—he was terrified.
He was in 11th grade, preparing to become a doctor. But the weight of that title—doctor—felt suffocating. It was never his dream. It had always been his father's.
His dreams were wild and untamed, a stark contrast to the sterile precision of medicine. He wanted to create, to express, to feel—whether through a YouTube channel, writing stories, painting on blank canvases, or losing himself in music. He wanted to try new things, to breathe in the ocean air as he went scuba diving, to stand on a stage with a mic in his hand, to chase passion instead of expectation. But instead, he was here. Staring at the same walls, the same ceilings, memorizing the same textbooks that held no meaning for him.
And why?
Because he owed his father that much. Because his father had spent his entire life working to provide for him. Because every time Aarav even thought of saying no, of choosing a different path, guilt choked the words before they could ever leave his lips.
He was not a bad son. But he wasn't a good one either, was he?
His mind drifted again, but this time, it wasn't frustration that pulled him away. It was longing. He let himself slip into daydreams, picturing what it would be like to truly live. What it would be like to wake up and actually look forward to the day, to feel excitement instead of dread. To pick up a paintbrush, a camera, a guitar, instead of a pen meant for taking notes on things he didn't care about.
And then, like always, the whisper crept into his thoughts. A voice that wasn't entirely his, but one that had made a home inside him.
"All of this will make you stronger and more mature."
This time, something inside him snapped.
"I never asked to be strong and mature." His own voice, bitter and aching, echoed in his mind. "I just wanted to be happy."
Silence.
The whisper had no answer.
Neither did he.
With a slow, shuddering breath, he forced himself to turn back to his book. He studied for the next three hours.