Aarav D'Souza's alarm buzzed for the third time. He slapped it off and stared at the ceiling, trying to decide if dragging himself out of bed was even worth it. The room was stuffy and smelled like old food and damp clothes. He'd meant to do laundry three days ago. Didn't happen.
He finally got up, slipped into the same pair of jeans he wore yesterday—maybe even the day before that—and grabbed a cold slice of bread. No toaster, no butter. Just dry bread and a scroll through messages he didn't want to answer.
By around eight, he left his building. His mom used to remind him to iron his shirt, even if no one noticed. His dad had called the city a grinder—"keeps turning until you disappear." They had moved back to their hometown a year ago because they couldn't afford to keep living in the city.
He missed them more than he admitted. Even Vivaan, his little brother, who had a way of filling silence like it owed him rent.
Now, the street dogs slept on scooter seats, pan vendors were already shouting prices, and the auto guy near his gate pretended not to see him. He walked to the station because he didn't have the energy to argue for a meter.
The train was packed. He stood the whole ride, clinging to the railing like his life depended on it, earbuds in with no music. It helped him avoid conversations.
His call center was three floors above a dusty supermarket. The lift was always broken. He climbed the stairs and sat down at his desk right before his shift started. No one greeted anyone unless they had to. Just headsets on, mics down, fake smiles for strangers with complaints.
"Thank you for calling EverPlus Support, my name is Aarav, how may I help you today?" He said that line around 300 times a day. Sometimes more. He helped people reset passwords, cancel orders, and explain why their warranty didn't cover dropping their phone in a toilet.
The headset made his ear sweat. The script was boring. The customers were rude, half-listening, and always in a rush. Some cursed. Some cried. Most just didn't care that he was human. Aarav responded the way the training manual taught him. Apologize. Empathize. Offer solutions.
Lunch came and went. He barely noticed, just scrolled through job portals between calls and chewed through the break without tasting it.
Evenings were usually for video editing and cheap takeout. But that day was different. After his shift, he had plans. He was meeting some old college friends at a bar downtown. A mini reunion.
And Sarina would be there.
They hadn't spoken in a long time. She ghosted him. No warning. No closure. Just vanished from his life like he was a phase she outgrew.
He wasn't sure what to feel about seeing her again. Probably shouldn't have said yes to the invite, but here he was—dressing in his least-pathetic clothes, applying just enough deodorant to feel like he tried.
The streets buzzed. His chest felt tight. Not just from nerves, but from everything—work, bills, life.
On the way to the bar, Aarav passed an old TV repair shop that had been shut down for years. As a kid, he used to watch cricket matches through its window, surrounded by neighborhood uncles yelling at the screen. It had been struck by lightning once during a storm, and ever since, everyone said it was cursed. His mother told him not to walk near it after dark. Said spirits lived in broken things.
Normally he would've crossed the road, but something made him pause.
Through the dusty glass, the inside shimmered faintly, like a mirage. The air didn't look right. It bent in a way that made no sense.
He stepped closer.
He reached out.
Touched the glass.
It pulsed—just once. Like a quiet heartbeat.
Aarav pulled his hand back. The shimmer stopped.
But that moment stuck. Like something had just opened. Like the world blinked.
He stood there for a while, not really sure what just happened.
But he knew one thing.
He'd be back.