Mansh nodded silently and walked to the kitchen.
He didn't speak. Not even a word of acknowledgment passed his lips. His head simply dipped—barely—and then he turned away, moving with the kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful, but heavy. The soles of his feet brushed against the cool floor with each step, the distant echoes following him down the narrow hallway. Every movement felt deliberate. Measured. As if any sudden motion would crack open the fragile shell he was holding himself together with.
The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the kitchen. The light overhead buzzed faintly. On the table, a stainless steel plate sat waiting, covered with another plate to keep the warmth trapped. A slight curl of steam still rose from the edges.
He pulled the chair back slowly.
The legs made a quiet scrape across the tiled floor, startlingly loud in the hush of the evening.
He sat down.
His fingers lifted the plate on top, revealing the meal underneath—simple dal, a heap of rice, two chapatis folded carefully, and a small portion of sabzi off to the side. The colors were warm. Golden, earthy. Comforting, in another life.
But to him, it all looked gray.
He picked up a spoon and began eating.
Mechanical. Robotic.
He didn't think. He didn't feel the warmth of the food. He didn't register the flavors. It all moved from plate to mouth to throat without meaning. His hand moved on its own, repeating the motion over and over, like a wind-up toy wound too tightly.
His eyes never left the plate. He didn't glance up. Not once.
Not at the empty chair across from him. Not at the ticking wall clock. Not at the shadow that his own figure cast on the wall behind him, bent slightly, hunched with an invisible weight.
Just kept chewing. Swallowing.
And all the while, his thoughts… they circled back like vultures.
To the sterile smell of disinfectant.
To the fluorescent lights overhead.
To the empty bed.
Room 969.
Ankhush.
His mind played it over and over—the way the sheets had looked so neatly folded, the way the pillow still had the faint indent of a head, the absence of sound, of presence, of everything.
Gone.
He clenched his jaw without realizing.
A small muscle twitched beneath his cheek.
The food—though still warm—felt like ash on his tongue. Texture without taste. He forced each bite down, as if punishing himself for something he couldn't name.
The room around him felt like it was folding in slowly, like the air was thickening with each passing second. Even the dull hum of the appliances felt too loud now. Too intrusive. The light overhead flickered once, briefly, casting a shadow across his face.
He didn't react.
He just kept eating.
Eventually, the plate was empty. Every bite was gone. Not because he was hungry. Not because he wanted to eat. But because something inside him needed to finish—needed to go through the motions, as if pretending everything was still normal could make it so.
He sat there for a moment longer, the spoon resting loosely in his fingers, the cold edge of the metal pressing against his palm.
The silence pressed in again.
Tighter now.
He stood up slowly.
Carried his plate to the sink.
The water ran as he washed it, the sound oddly deafening in the quiet house. He scrubbed the edges clean, even though there wasn't much left. He rinsed, dried it with a cloth, and set it back in the rack with a muted clink.
His movements were slow, unhurried.
Almost ritualistic.
As if dragging each second out might delay the inevitable return to his thoughts.
But he couldn't stay here forever.
He turned the tap off, wiped his hands on the towel by the counter, and took a deep breath.
His feet were heavy as he left the kitchen, the hallway stretching ahead like a tunnel. Every creak of the floorboards beneath him seemed to echo, bouncing back off the quiet walls.
Each step up the stairs felt like it demanded more than the last—more strength, more willpower, more energy than he had left.
One step.
Then another.
And another.
The wooden handrail felt cool beneath his fingers. He gripped it, not because he needed support, but because he needed to hold onto something.
The hallway upstairs was dim, painted in half-light from the streetlamp outside filtering through the sheer curtains of the windows.
He walked toward his room.
The door stood closed.
He stared at it for a second, unmoving.
Then, slowly, reached out and turned the knob.
The hinges creaked softly as the door opened inward.
Darkness greeted him.
He didn't turn on the lights.
There was no need.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft click. The familiar scent of his room—the faint trace of old books, worn clothes, and something uniquely his—settled around him like a quiet shroud.
He didn't change.
Didn't even take off his socks.
He walked to the bed like a ghost in his own home. The room blurred in the corners of his vision—the posters on the wall, the books stacked haphazardly on his desk, the faint glow of the digital clock flashing red numbers.
He pulled back the blanket.
The cool air from underneath brushed against him like a whisper.
Then, wordlessly, he lowered himself onto the bed.
Collapsed into it, really.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Springs groaned faintly in protest. The sheets rustled softly as he shifted, barely tugging the blanket over himself. The fabric pressed against his body, but it didn't feel warm.
He stared up at the ceiling.
Or maybe he didn't.
Maybe his eyes were closed already—he couldn't quite tell. Time had stopped meaning anything. Seconds stretched and bled into each other, thick and shapeless.
His body sank deeper into the mattress, as if the bed were trying to pull him down, away from thought, from memory, from the ache coiling tight in his chest.
The pillow beneath his head was soft.
Too soft.
It offered relief—but only on the surface. Beneath that comfort was the pulsing reminder of what waited behind closed eyes.
Still, he welcomed it.
Welcomed the numbness.
His breathing began to slow, chest rising and falling with a rhythm that wasn't peaceful, but resigned. The kind of breath someone takes when there's nothing left to do but sleep—because if he stayed awake any longer, he might break.
And just before sleep took him completely…
One final thought drifted through the quiet, echoing somewhere deep inside, soft and aching.
Where are you, Ankhush…?
His lips didn't move.
But the words were real. The emotion behind them raw, open, and filled with a sense of helplessness he could no longer hide from.
The darkness embraced him fully.
Then—
He fell asleep.
/*** Preview ***/
The next morning, Mansh woke up to the sound of the doorbell.
Ding-dong!
Ding-dong!
Still groggy, he ran a hand through his hair as he made his way downstairs. He reached the front door, took a deep breath, and opened it.
Then—
He saw him.
He saw Ankhush.
Ankhush smiled. "Hey. How are you doing?"
***
A/N: Hey everyone! my data pack ran out. I'm actually using someone else's Wi-Fi to upload this pls donate me some coins pls.
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