The morning sun slipped lazily through Ryan's half-open blinds, flooding his apartment with a warm, golden glow. His alarm clock had already rung twice, but he had ignored it, staring blankly at the ceiling fan. Today was supposed to be like every other day: wake up, lace his shoes, jog through the same park, and come back dripping in sweat, his mind refreshed. But as he dragged himself out of bed and walked into the bathroom, something felt… different.
He splashed water on his face, ran a towel over his wet hair, and then stepped in front of the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, tired but unmistakably handsome at least, that's what he used to think. He pulled on his gray joggers, then slipped a fitted black t-shirt over his shoulders. This morning, however, his reflection wasn't just a reflection. It was a judge, a reminder, an echo of the words he couldn't erase from his mind.
Her voice.
"You look hot even when you're jogging."
Ryan froze, staring at his reflection. Her words, playful yet edged with a kind of truth only Maya could deliver, echoed in the bathroom like they had been etched on the walls. He had brushed her off then, rolling his eyes, acting like it was nothing. But now, standing here alone, the words gnawed at him.
He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at his own reflection.
"Most guys would be thrilled if I said they look hot while running. But you? You act like I'm speaking another language."
A bitter half-smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He whispered to his own reflection, "Do I?", almost skeptically. He flexed his shoulder a little, adjusted his black jogging T-shirt, then stepped back from the mirror to get a full look.
The silence mocked him. To test it out, he actually jogged in place, watching himself in the mirror like some desperate man auditioning for a movie role. His hair bounced a little, his arms swung with that athletic grace, and his chest rose with steady breaths. But after a moment of critical self-assessment. He leaned toward the mirror, studying himself. The sweat hadn't even started yet, but still… he didn't see what she saw. "I don't think so," he muttered, shaking his head.
But the words lingered. Not about how he looked, Maya never really spoke only about appearances. What haunted him was her tone, the way her eyes had lit up when she said it, as though she found beauty in him even when he refused to see it himself. He grabbed his water bottle, slung a towel over his shoulder, and stepped outside.
The park was the same as always, dewdrops clung to the grass, and old men gathered in circles doing yoga. Usually, Ryan finishes his jogging routine in about thirty minutes. He had been disciplined about it for years. But today… Thirty minutes came and went, and he was still running. An hour passed. His feet were pounding, his chest heaving, yet he didn't stop.
It wasn't exercise anymore. It wasn't discipline. It was searching. With every step, his eyes darted towards the benches, the swing set, the narrow walking paths lined with gulmohar trees. He wasn't jogging for health; he was jogging for hope. The hope of seeing her.
The ridiculous thought made him slow down. Was I jogging or just trying to find what I lost last time? He asked himself. The truth stung. This was the first time in his life that he wasn't running for himself. He was running for someone else. He was looking for her, Maya. Looking for the chance to just… talk. Even one word. Even a glance.
Two hours slipped by. No sign of her. No accidental bump into her path, no coffee cup in her hand, no sarcastic remarks thrown his way.
When he finally dragged himself back to the apartment complex, the sky had already shifted from soft dawn to a sharper morning light. He wiped his face with the towel and climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavy with thought. He reached his floor, walked down the corridor, and paused. His eyes locked on her door. Maya's room.
The door looked ordinary, like any other. But to him, it felt like a fortress, one he had built with his own arrogance, his words acting as bricks that had sealed her heart away from him. He raised his hand, curling it into a fist. Just one knock. Just once, and maybe.. maybe she would open the door.... Maybe she would listen. Maybe he could tell her...
He stopped. His knuckles hovered inches from the wood. What would he even say? Sorry. The word formed in his mind, weak and pitiful. That was all he had? Sorry? For shattering her pride, for turning her warmth into coldness, for crushing her with the weight of his indifference? Would one sorry fix all of that?
He could almost hear her voice in his head, sharp and unforgiving: "That's it? Sorry? You think everything you said, everything you did, can be undone with one little sorry?"
He pulled his hand back, clenching his fist tightly at his side. "Ridiculous, Ryan," he muttered under his breath. "Ridiculous."
He turned away, pacing in the hallway. His thoughts ran faster than his morning jog. She had once been sunshine: bright, warm, impossible to ignore. A girl who laughed easily, who filled silences with ridiculous jokes, who noticed things no one else cared to. And he...he had dimmed that light. He remembered her sitting across from him at the cafe, sipping her coffee, her eyes sparkling as she teased him. She had been so full of life then. So unapologetically herself.
And now? He pictured her red eyes, swollen from crying, her voice trembling as she told him he didn't know her. He had turned her into a stranger. A girl he couldn't recognize anymore. And it was his fault. Ryan stopped pacing and leaned against the cold wall opposite her door. His head dropped back, hitting the plaster softly as he exhaled long and hard.
Maybe he wasn't ready to knock. Maybe he didn't even deserve to. But he couldn't deny it anymore. He wanted to. More than anything, he wanted to see her face, hear her voice, even if it was filled with anger. He wanted to tell her that her words had cut through him deeper than she could ever imagine. That he wasn't the man she thought he was, but maybe, just maybe, he wanted to try to be.
He pushed himself off the wall, glanced one last time at her door, and whispered, almost like a vow to himself: "Not yet. But soon. I'll find the words." And with that, he turned away, retreating to his own room. For the first time in years, the man who had once prided himself on never needing anyone couldn't silence the hollow echo inside him.
Maya had been right. One day, he wouldn't be able to shake her so easily. And that day had already come.
Ryan slammed his apartment door shut with the kind of dramatic finality usually reserved for people quitting jobs or storming out of family dinners. But no, he was just tired. Two hours of aimless jogging had drained his legs, his lungs, and most importantly, his patience.
Dragging himself into the bathroom, he flicked on the light and faced his own reflection. The man staring back at him looked like a mess. Hair sticking to his forehead from sweat, t-shirt damp at the chest, and eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. He looked… human. And Ryan Bennett hated looking human.
He straightened up, running a hand through his damp hair, then cleared his throat. "Okay. Practice," he muttered, pointing at himself like a coach hyping up a rookie. "You're Ryan Bennett. You've closed billion-dollar deals. You've stared down boardrooms without blinking. You can handle a girl."
Silence. His reflection blinked back at him, unimpressed. "Fine," Ryan sighed. "Not just a girl. Maya."
The name itself felt heavy, like he was admitting something treasonous. He tightened his jaw. Then, lifting his chin slightly, he softened his voice and said, "Sorry."
He cringed instantly, clapping a hand over his face. "That was pathetic. You sounded like a five-year-old caught stealing cookies." He dropped his hand and tried again, straightening his spine. This time, he gave his most charming half-smile, the one that usually melted interns into puddles.
"Maya," he began, testing it out. "I realize I might have… overreacted." Halfway through, he caught sight of his own mouth. The smile didn't look like a smile. It looked like someone had glued fishing hooks to both ends of his lips and stretched them uncomfortably. His teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw quivered.
He leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting the result. "This…" he muttered, wiggling his lips, "isn't a smile. This is… constipation."
He tried again, forcing his lips wider, but that only made things worse. Now he looked like a wax statue of himself, melted slightly at the corners. Ryan dropped his hands to the sink and groaned. "How the hell does she do it? She smiles like… like the sun. I look like a man auditioning for a toothpaste commercial and failing."
Because apparently humiliation wasn't enough, he actually tried talking through the fake smile. "Maya… sorry for being a jerk." The words came out muffled, the corners of his lips twitching like he was trying not to sneeze.
"Oh, brilliant," he mocked himself, switching voices to mimic her. ''Wow, Ryan, that's the most romantic apology ever. Did you practice in front of your bathroom mirror for hours?''
He slapped the sink again, groaning, but then he paused, looked at himself again, and whispered, "Yeah. Exactly that."
For the next ten minutes, Ryan alternated between "serious man apologizing" and "awkward man-child with a gummy smile." He tilted his head, widened his eyes, and even tried a soft chuckle
He covered his face with his palm. Then, like the stubborn fool he was, he dropped his hand and tried again.
"Hi, Maya. Sorry, I've been… uh…" His eyes darted around the mirror like they were searching for an escape route. "…an idiot. No, too casual. Okay. Hi, Maya. I wanted to say… I regret what I said. It wasn't true. You're not....ugh."
He rubbed his temples, then stood straighter, deepening his voice, attempting something smoother. "Maya, listen. I never meant to hurt you. I was..." He caught his own eye in the mirror and stopped.
"Why do I look like I'm confessing to a crime?" And then, against his will, he let out a low chuckle. Not because he was amused, but because he realized the absurdity of it all. Ryan, the grumpy, no-nonsense, straight-faced Ryan, was standing in front of his mirror at early morning, practicing an apology like a teenager rehearsing lines for a school play.
He sighed. "She'd laugh at me if she saw this."
Still, he tried one last time. He forced his lips into what he assumed was a smile. His mouth stretched. His teeth bared. His eyes, however, stayed the same: flat, unamused, tired.
Ryan stared. "You look like a tax collector," he muttered to himself. "Not a man trying to win someone back."
Nothing worked. And then his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then froze. The time glared at him in angry red digits. He was late. Ryan Bennett. Late.