The Morning He Didn't Complain
The alarm rang at 5:10 a.m.
Aarav did not turn it off immediately. He stared at the cracked ceiling, listening to the sound of the fan struggling above him. Another day had arrived—quiet, heavy, unavoidable.
He got up without complaint.
Outside, the street was still half asleep. Shops were closed, dogs lay curled near tea stalls, and the sky carried a tired grey color, like it had not decided whether to become morning yet.
Aarav washed his face at the public tap and adjusted the strap of his old backpack. Inside it were a notebook, a pen that often stopped working, and a lunch box that was usually half empty.
He walked.
He always walked.
People often said nothing was wrong with his life. He had work at a small repair shop. He earned enough to survive. He was young, healthy, and invisible—which, according to some, was a blessing.
But Aarav felt something pressing on his chest every single day.
A feeling that this life—this routine—was not meant to be the end.
At the repair shop, the owner barely looked at him.
"Late again?" the man asked.
Aarav checked the time. He was early.
"I'm sorry," he said anyway.
Apologies were cheaper than arguments.
As he worked, tightening screws and wiping grease from his hands, his mind drifted elsewhere—to words, to stories, to a version of himself that existed only when he wrote.
At night, after work, when the world finally stopped demanding things from him, Aarav opened his notebook.
The pages were filled with crossed-out sentences, rewritten thoughts, and quiet hope. He never told anyone about it. Dreams were laughed at in places like this.
That evening, his mother noticed the notebook.
"What do you write?" she asked gently.
"Nothing important," Aarav replied.
She smiled. "One day, make it important."
Her words stayed with him long after she fell asleep.
That night, Aarav wrote a single line on a fresh page:
I don't know where I'm going, but I know I can't stay here forever.
He closed the notebook.
Outside, the city kept breathing.
And somewhere deep inside him, something had begun to move.