The door didn't slam that day.
It closed the same way it always did.
Soft. Ordinary. Forgettable.
That was the cruelest part.
Nothing about that moment felt like an ending.
Six years ago, the house still had noise in it.
Not loud… just alive.
Voices overlapping.
Footsteps moving from one room to another.
The quiet comfort of knowing someone was always there.
Back then, Ayaan didn't pay attention to those things.
No one does… until they disappear.
"Stay here. We'll be back soon."
It wasn't a serious sentence.
It wasn't meant to carry weight.
Just something said on the way out.
Ayaan nodded without thinking.
Because there was no reason not to.
The others didn't question it either.
Why would they?
People leave.
People come back.
That's how the world works.
The first few hours passed easily.
Someone turned on the television.
Someone argued over something small.
Someone laughed.
Time moved normally.
Evening came.
The house got quieter.
"Maybe they're late," Zoya said, not really worried.
No one disagreed.
Night came.
The lights stayed on longer than usual.
Ayaan checked the door more than once.
Not because he was afraid.
Just… expecting.
The next morning felt different.
Not wrong.
Just… slightly off.
Calls didn't connect.
Messages stayed unanswered.
Still, no one said anything.
Because saying it out loud would make it real.
By the third day, the silence changed.
It stopped being temporary.
It settled.
Neighbors stopped asking.
Teachers started noticing.
People looked at them differently.
Not with kindness.
Not with cruelty.
Just… distance.
Like they didn't belong to something normal anymore.
And just like that—
Ayaan stopped waiting.
Not consciously.
Not all at once.
But something in him adjusted.
Quietly.
Permanently.
Back in the present, the same house stood exactly where it always had.
Same walls.
Same door.
But it didn't feel like the same place.
Ayaan stood in the kitchen, staring at nothing in particular.
Not searching.
Not thinking.
Just… pausing.
Like his body needed a moment before continuing again.
Behind him, the others moved around.
Soft footsteps.
Low voices.
Careful.
Everything had become careful.
"Ayaan."
Zoya's voice.
He turned slightly.
"There's nothing left for tomorrow."
She didn't sound upset.
Didn't sound scared.
Just… stating a fact.
He nodded.
"I'll handle it."
The same answer.
Every time.
She watched him for a second longer than necessary.
Like she was trying to understand something.
Then she looked away.
Because maybe there wasn't anything left to understand.
Across the room, Hamza sat still.
No anger today.
No reaction.
Just staring at the floor like he was thinking about something he couldn't fix.
Near the door, Areeba sat in her usual spot.
Not as hopeful as before.
But still there.
Still looking at it sometimes.
Out of habit.
Not expectation.
Noor leaned against the wall.
Quiet.
Always quiet.
But her eyes moved from one person to another.
Observing.
Keeping track of things no one said out loud.
Saad ran across the room, holding something broken.
Excited.
"Look—"
He stopped midway.
Not because anyone interrupted.
But because something in the room felt too heavy for loud voices.
He lowered his tone.
"Look what I fixed."
Ayaan crouched slightly, taking the object.
"It works," he said.
A small smile.
Carefully placed.
Moments like that still existed.
Small.
Fragile.
But real.
Later that night, the house fell into silence again.
One by one, the lights went out.
Until only darkness remained.
Ayaan sat awake.
Same place.
Same position.
Like time moved forward… but he didn't.
His eyes drifted toward the door.
Not waiting.
Not hoping.
Just… looking.
Six years ago, that door had taken something.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
Just… quietly.
And in return—
It had left something behind.
Responsibility.
Weight.
A life that didn't belong to someone his age.
And the strange thing was—
He had gotten used to it.
Not accepted it.
Not understood it.
But adjusted.
That was the part no one talked about.
Not the pain.
Not the struggle.
But the way it slowly becomes normal.
Ayaan leaned back slightly, resting his head against the wall.
His eyes closed for a moment.
Not to sleep.
Just… to pause.
Because tomorrow would come.
Like it always did.
And when it did—
He would get up.
Say the same things.
Do the same things.
Carry the same weight.
Not because he was strong.
Not because he wanted to.
But because there was no version of his life where he didn't.
And somewhere along the way—
Without noticing—
He had stopped asking when things would get better.