Three to four weeks had passed.
Rohit had stuck with his schedule—not perfectly, but consistently enough that it mattered. The once-chaotic room now bore quiet signs of order. Clothes were folded, not strewn. The desk was clear, save for a water bottle and his notebook. A few bananas rested on the counter—yellow, spotted, waiting.
His shift away from processed food was slow, sometimes reluctant. But it was happening. Where packets of chips once lay, there were now almonds in a jar. He had started to care. Really care. About his health. About his energy. About something.
Rohit sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, head slightly bowed. Fingers clasped together loosely, tapping against each other. The evening light filtered through the mesh curtain, soft and warm, making the space feel almost peaceful.
But his thoughts weren't peaceful.
He stared at the wall for a moment, then rubbed his palms together, as if warming up for a decision.
"What now?" he muttered.
The question hung in the air.
His mind drifted to the conversation he'd had with his mother a few days ago. Her voice had trembled—not out of sadness, but age. She'd mentioned her health, casually, the way people do when they don't want to worry you but still need you to know. That stuck with him.
Then came the image of his father—grinding daily, uncomplaining, shouldering responsibilities like muscle memory. Providing, enduring.
Rohit's shoulders tensed as he inhaled deeply. His fingers began tapping against his thigh—a quiet beat of frustration and urgency.
"Maybe it's time to stop drifting."
He reached for his laptop on the table. The lid opened with a familiar sound—the soft hum of awakening. He adjusted his posture, sat straighter, and pulled the chair in.
"Let's start simple. Frontend role. Something near Delhi or Gurugram."
He began typing slowly, unsure at first, but gradually his fingers found rhythm. Job portals, LinkedIn tabs, resume uploads. He worked in silence, brows furrowed, jaw set tight.
"College incident can't stop me now. That chapter's over. Let them try."
The job market was sluggish. He knew that. Everyone said it. Still, he pressed on. Application after application. Customizing cover letters. Hitting "Send."
But it wasn't enough. Not by itself.
He turned to his phone.
"Let's try another route," he thought, holding the device in both hands like it weighed more than it should. He stared at his contact list. Names scrolled by. His thumb hovered. Paused. Continued.
"There's no shame in this."
He said it aloud, like he needed permission from himself.
His thumb stopped at Sathya's name—his best friend. Full name: Satvanash. That ridiculous, glorious name they used to laugh at back in college. Rohit tapped it.
Calling…
No answer.
He stared at the screen a few seconds longer than necessary, then exhaled. Maybe he was busy.
Next name—Nitin. A good friend, or so he remembered.
The phone rang, then clicked. Connected.
Nitin : "Oye! Rohit! Long time!"
Rohit : "Yeah, man. Been a while."
Nitin : "How's it going? You sound… different. In a good way."
Rohit : "Trying to get back on track. Actually, I was wondering… do you know anyone hiring? For frontend roles maybe? I've started applying, but…"
Nitin : "Oh… yaar, I'm just a fresher myself. Barely made it in. Don't think I can help much."
Rohit : "Even a reference—"
Nitin : "Lunch break's over, bro. Talk later, okay?"
Click.
Rohit stared at the screen as the call ended. His fingers gripped the phone tightly, then relaxed. He looked away, jaw tightening.
"Of course."
He called two others. Old friends. Familiar names. Familiar voices. But this time, their responses were clearer.
"Sorry, Rohit… I don't want to get involved. Things are strict here."
"It's risky for me, man. I hope you understand."
And just like that, the line of support thinned.
Rohit lowered the phone slowly, placing it on the table like it might shatter. He didn't throw it. He didn't curse.
Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs again, and stared at the wooden floor.
One hand reached down, and his fingertips began tapping against the surface. A dull, steady tap, tap, tap. Not rhythmic. Not angry. Just tired.
"I'm more talented than them," he thought. "But here I am. Alone. Jobless."
The tapping stopped. He brought his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes with his palm. Then he leaned back and let out a deep, slow breath. The kind of breath that comes not from exhaustion—but from trying to not be exhausted.
The silence returned. But it wasn't defeat.
It was just the next moment.
He looked toward his calendar on the wall. Tomorrow was already planned—morning workout, reading, job applications. The chain hadn't broken. Not yet.
And that mattered.