The alarm clock screamed its shrill anthem across the small bedroom, but it was silenced by a single, lazy hand.
Aarav Sen didn't even open his eyes. His palm landed perfectly on the snooze button, an art honed by years of practice. He could navigate his morning in a half-sleep, and that's exactly what he intended to do.
Tomorrow was his eighteenth birthday. A supposed milestone. A date circled on calendars, whispered about by relatives, exaggerated by teachers. To Aarav, it was just another number.
The sun bled through the curtains, casting stripes of light across a battlefield of clothes, open books, and half-finished sketches. His school bag lay deflated in a corner, half-zipped, with papers peeking out like white flags of surrender.
From the kitchen, the soft clink of a spoon against a ceramic cup echoed through the house. Rajveer Sen was already up. Of course, he was. His father probably hadn't slept.
Aarav swung his legs over the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. His muscles felt stiff, unusually tight. He winced, rotating his shoulders. "Must've slept weird," he muttered to himself. Stretching didn't help.
He shuffled into the bathroom, barely glancing at his reflection. The boy in the mirror was the same as always—disheveled black hair, sharp jawline, amber-flecked eyes dulled by sleep. Handsome, if he cared. Which he didn't.
As he brushed his teeth, the ache in his arms lingered. A dull, pressing weight, as if his own skin was hugging him too tight. He didn't think twice. Sleep stiffness. Nothing more.
By the time he ambled into the kitchen, Rajveer was on his second cup of tea, reading the newspaper with military precision. His crisp white kurta contrasted sharply against Aarav's crumpled uniform, untucked and careless.
"You're late." Rajveer didn't look up.
"Morning to you too, Dad." Aarav opened the fridge, stared blankly at its contents, and grabbed a leftover paratha.
Rajveer folded the paper with a measured flick, placed it aside, and leaned against the counter. His eyes, sharp and tired, settled on his son. "You turn eighteen tomorrow."
"So I've heard," Aarav replied between bites.
"It wouldn't hurt to act like it."
"Maturity isn't on sale this week. Maybe next month."
Rajveer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you ever think about what comes next, Aarav? What you want to be?"
"Alive and well-fed sounds good."
"Anaya Rathore doesn't need such reminders. She knows where she's going. She's prepared."
Aarav chuckled. "There it is. The Rathore reference of the day. I was starting to worry."
"Don't mock it. You should learn from her."
"Learn what? How to breathe in bullet points? Relax, Dad. We can't all be Rathores."
Rajveer's lips thinned. He wanted to say more, but the words stayed lodged in his throat. There was a heaviness in his posture, as if he carried more than disappointment.
Aarav noticed but pretended not to.
The silence was interrupted by the loud crunch of Aarav's paratha. He chewed slowly, eyes drifting towards the window. Outside, Navran was waking up. Shops rolling open, kids dragging bags to bus stops, the usual.
"Tomorrow is important, Aarav." Rajveer's tone dropped lower, not with anger, but with something closer to unease.
"Every birthday is important, Dad. You get older, people expect more of you, and you pretend to care. It's a cycle."
"Some cycles can't be ignored."
Aarav raised an eyebrow. That was new. "Is this about your bedtime stories again? The Sen family legacy stuff?"
Rajveer's eyes narrowed. "One day, you'll realize they weren't just stories."
Aarav shrugged, grabbed his bag, and slung it over one shoulder.
"I'll save the realization for tomorrow then. Wouldn't want to waste a dramatic moment."
Rajveer said nothing. He just stood there, watching as Aarav slipped on his sneakers with the grace of a sleepwalker. There was a weight in his stare—a thousand unsaid warnings buried under years of discipline.
"Anaya will be at the bus stop. Try not to be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Aarav muttered.
He stepped out of the house, into the warm morning haze. The moment the door shut behind him, Rajveer allowed himself a deep breath.
In one day, his son would turn eighteen.
But it was tomorrow that terrified him.
Outside, Aarav dragged his feet lazily towards the bus stop. His backpack felt heavier than usual. His body was sluggish, as though wrapped in invisible weights. The tightness in his arms had now crept to his shoulders. He rolled them, trying to shake off the discomfort.
"Old man's stress must be contagious," he muttered.
He passed by familiar faces. Shopkeepers arranging their displays, kids running after cricket balls, uncles nodding in half-hearted greetings. The city was alive, but for some reason, it felt distant to him today.
His muscles throbbed with a strange pressure, not painful, but noticeable.
Still, he dismissed it.
He was a master of dismissal.
As he turned the corner, the silhouette of Anaya Rathore came into view.
And just like that, the weight in his body found a temporary outlet.
It was time for their daily war.
Tomorrow, he might be forced to care.
But today?
Today, he was still Aarav Sen.
And the world could wait.