Where am I?
Morning sunlight danced across his skin.
He lay there for a long moment—eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He didn't move. Just breathed, letting the blank white surface fill his vision until the fragments of last night started crawling back.
Did I black out again?
He tried to remember, but nothing came.
Nothing but the quiet sound of his own breathing.
He pushed himself up slowly. The blanket clung to him, heavy and warm, smelling faintly of detergent and something softer.
"Fuck…" he muttered under his breath, his voice low and hoarse.
He used his right arm for support and pulled his left hand out from under the blanket.
Wrapped tightly around it, the bandage was clean and neatly done. Someone had patched him up.
He stared at it for a few seconds, his thumb tracing the edge of the fabric. The tension in his wrist pulsed faintly.
He leaned his back against the wall then.
The paint felt cool through the thin layer of his shirt.
He glanced around the room. At first glance, it felt like his own—same size, same placement of things—but the details were off. The wardrobe stood a little wider. The curtains were cream instead of gray. The bedsheet had a faint floral pattern. A book rested open on the table, a small glass of water beside it.
Everything was wrong.
And the smell.
Soft, feminine
Perfume mixed with soap; it lingered, familiar and not.
His chest felt constricted as realization clicked.
This was her room.
Varsha.
He sat up too quickly. Pain shot through his ribs, sharp enough to force a breath out between his teeth. His hand pressed against his side, feeling the dull ache beneath the skin.
What the hell was he doing here?
He didn't do anything wrong, did he?
His mind was scrambling for details. What happened last night?
Did I—? No. No, I didn't.
He swallowed hard, rubbing a hand over his face. His skin felt dry, rough. "Hey… did you—" he whispered to the empty room, then stopped himself. The sentence died halfway. "Forget it. I just need to get out of here."
He braced his weight against the wall and rose to a stand. The ache followed, alive in his legs, his shoulders, his spine. He moved slowly, careful not to wake any pain that had fallen asleep.
Balancing with his left hand, he took one step, then another, the floor cool beneath his feet.
It was when he finally straightened up that he noticed his clothes—still the same as yesterday.
Black t-shirt. Black jeans. The fabric was stiff where the blood had dried. His reflection in the wardrobe glass showed a faint bruise along his neck, a shadow of something heavy.
He rubbed his temple, eyes closing tight, trying to remember.
Blank. Nothing.
He moved toward the door. Each step a quiet drag of soles on marble.
His body wasn't as weak as it was yesterday. He could walk. Slowly, but still.
When he touched the handle, it felt warm.
He turned it and stepped out.
The air outside was lighter, carrying the morning's smell: dust, detergent, and something faintly citrus. Sunlight stretched in wide lines across the room, cutting the space into soft gold and shade.
The hall opened in front of him: a sofa against the wall, a folded blanket over its armrest; to the right, a dining table with four chairs; on the far wall, there was a flat-screen TV reflecting the light from the window.
He stood there a few seconds, his eyes drifting across everything. It was quiet. Not silent like his own place, but quiet enough to feel real.
Then—footsteps.
His head turned instinctively.
Varsha came out of the bathroom, brushing her teeth, hair still slightly disheveled from sleep. She was attired in a loose T-shirt; the edge grazed her thigh as she moved.
He froze; his lips parted, but nothing came out.
She blinked once, saw him standing there, then spoke through the toothbrush, voice casual, like it was any other morning.
"Oh. So you're finally awake."
He nodded quietly, his throat dry.
She regarded him for a second, evaluative, before turning back into the washroom. The splashing of water sounded for a few seconds before she reappeared. This time, a folded piece of black cloth was in her hand. She moved over and flipped it toward him.
He caught it with his right hand.
His hoodie. The fabric stiff with dried blood.
"Don't expect me to wash your clothes," she said, voice dry. "Also…" She stopped, her eyes catching on the stains. "There's a lot of blood on that thing."
Her tone softened a little towards the end. Maybe she wanted to ask what happened—but didn't.
"Yeah," Paul said softly. "I'll wash it."
"I just cleaned the wounds with antiseptic," she added, glancing at his hand. "God, you were really beaten to a pulp. Anyway, take some medicine from the clinic later-you'll be fine."
He looked down at his bandaged hand for a second. "Thank… you."
She froze a little. The words hung awkwardly in the air. Maybe she didn't hear them. Or maybe she did and just didn't know how to respond.
"No," she said finally, brushing it off. "Don't thank me. It was repayment, remember?"
Paul opened his mouth, but whatever he meant to say tangled somewhere in his chest.
"And besides," she said, her tone lightening, "it doesn't sound right coming from your mouth. So just leave it at that. We're even now."
He let a faint smile appear, subtle enough to be missed had she not been looking.
He didn't reply. Just stood there, calm, quiet.
"Your key's on the table," Varsha said, nodding toward the dining area. "Take it and leave, will you? Or do you still have something else to say?"
"Don't mention this to anyone," Paul said, his voice low but steady.
"Chezz, why would I?" she replied, one brow lifting.
He looked at her for a moment, his eyes steady. The pause stretched, neither of them moving.
"Did you really think I'd tell someone at school?" she asked finally. Her tone carried that half-mocking edge again. "Please. I don't need to be known as the girl who lives next door to the most edgy kid in class. I'd rather stay anonymous, thanks."
"Fair enough."
He gave a short, dry laugh, and then started walking toward the table.
She watched him move. His steps were slow, one leg dragging slightly, the movement careful. He picked up his keys from the table and turned toward the door.
The silence in the room settled again.
Between them, the distance grew-small, steady.
The only sound was that of a hum in the morning.
Varsha exhaled as her shoulders relaxed. She turned toward the washroom again, brushing off whatever remained of that strange tension.
Behind her, the door clicked once.
He was gone.
;
Paul unlocked the door to his room.
The soft sound of the latch echoed faintly in the narrow hall. He stepped inside and closed it behind him.
The air felt still, as if it hadn't been stirred since yesterday.
A thin layer of dust sparkled in the morning light. The curtain near the balcony hung limp but fluttered weakly, stirring the silence.
He threw his shoes near the wall and walked ahead.
The small hall looked the same, the sofa, table, stack of unopened mail on the counter. Everything was exactly where he had left it, but the air inside was heavy, colder somehow.
He moved past it and into the bedroom.
The light fell unevenly across the floor, a bright strip cutting through the middle.
He opened the wardrobe; the hinge gave a soft metallic creak, and the smell of old wood wafted out. He pulled out a towel and a clean set of clothes, folding them once under his arm.
He stood stock-still for a moment. The towel was pressed against his chest, his eyes unfocused. Then he turned and walked into the washroom.
The light came on.
Water started running.
The sound filled the narrow space. Steam fogged the mirror soon, turning his reflection into a vague outline.
He stepped under the stream, letting the first touch of cold water slide across his shoulders before it turned warm. Then the sting struck as the water reached his left hand: sharp, then fading. He didn't flinch. Just stayed there, breathing slow, the droplets running down his back.
He ran a hand through his hair. Soap, water, silence. The world reduced to small sounds—the rhythm of water, the soft echo against tile, the faint hiss of the pipe. When he stepped out, steam followed. The towel brushed across his skin, gentle, deliberate.
He wiped his hair once and left the towel draped around his neck. His bandaged hand was cleaner now, with the edges of the fabric pale from water. He dressed quietly. The sound of fabric sliding over skin. The soft thud of a drawer closing. Outside, the light had shifted a little—brighter, sharper.
The day had properly begun.
He walked to the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator; the motor hummed low. He reached for the loaf of bread, pulled it out, and then two eggs. He set them down on the counter.
A frying pan clinked against the stove, and oil poured in a thin line, spreading quickly with a faint shimmer. He cracked the eggs. The sound was clean, soft. The whites hissed as they touched the pan. The smell lifted through the air—warm, familiar. He waited, leaning slightly against the counter, eyes on the pan. The bread browned unevenly. He pressed it down with a fork.
The crust cracked faintly. Steam curled up in small waves, disappearing just below his chin. He flipped the eggs, pressed the toast again, turned off the heat. The stove ticked once and fell silent.
He opened the refrigerator once more and brought out a half-full bottle of milk. The liquid flowed smoothly into the glass and created a thin layer of white foam at the top.
He carried everything to the table. Set it down. Sat.
The chair creaked lightly beneath him. He ate quietly. Each bite measured, unhurried. The toast crumbled between his fingers. He chewed, swallowed, reached for the fork, repeated.
The eggs were slightly overcooked, the edges crisped to gold. It left behind faint lines on the inside of the glass after every sip of milk.
The clock on the wall ticked evenly. With each second a small, hollow sound. Nothing else moved. When he had finished, he sat quite still for some time—hands stationary, eyes relaxed.
The sun reached the end of the table, spilling into his lap. He blinked once, slow. Finally, he pushed the chair back; the legs scraped softly against the floor.
He stood, picked up the plate and glass, and walked to the sink. The tap squeaked when he turned it. Water ran, hit porcelain, and stopped. He dried his hands on the towel hanging beside the counter.
"Have to go to school now, huh," he said, almost to himself. The words hung there a moment, silent and without weight, before dissolving into the light.