Vyom's POV:
Mornings.
They meant different things to other people.
Some would say they considered it a fresh start, a hopeful awakening, or even a miracle to be waking up day after day.
I regard them to be the most foolish people alive. Mornings are punishments in the highest regard. Life sentences you once again to another tormenting day.
And torment never stops.
Once again, I lay still on my bed, the clock on the wall frozen at 4:56 AM, mocking me with its perpetual stillness.
It's been a constant problem, no matter how late I fall asleep, no matter how much I drink the night before, my eyes automatically open up before 5 am.
It is almost like the world is laughing in my face, 'Haha, your agonizing day has begun, there is no escaping it'.
Just like every day, I put the voice into the back of my mind and pushed myself off the bed. A quick cold shower, a cup of black coffee, and my black suit are enough to get me ready for work.
I settle into the car and the driver starts driving, taking the same route we've been taking for the past 4 years.
Arriving at the front of the Gupta Firm, I'm met with a sea of discontent—a crowd wielding posters, a protest unfolding against the backdrop of my daily routine.
"What's all this?" I question the driver.
He meets my gaze through the rearview mirror, and a raised eyebrow prompts an explanation. "Protesting the new apartments, sir. This ground used to be a shelter for the poor, where they built their makeshift shelters. But now..."
He hesitates, aware that his next words carry weight. "Now, it's going to change."
Ignoring the swarm of protesters, I march into the company, almost reaching the door when something wet hits my back—a tomato squelching beneath my foot as I turn around.
"Tum humara ghar nahi le sakte!" A man shouts from the crowd. (You can't take our house)
My temple throbs as a fuel of anger grows in my stomach.
"Tumahre pass paper's hai ghar ke liye?" I ask out to him. (Do you have papers for your house?)
"Nahi hai lekin hum waha pe saalo see reh rahe hai," He answers. (No but we have lived there for years)
"Tum logo ko jaha khali jaga mili, waha pe ghar bana dete ho. Aaj yaha ho, kal koi aur ground pe chale jate ho. Ab sach ye hai ke mere pass uss zameen ke papers hai, USPE MEIN JO CHAHUNGA WOH BANAUNGA." I assert loudly. (You guys build homes wherever you find space. You're in one place today, another tomorrow. The truth is that I own that land, and I will use it however I want!)
I turn to leave. "Tum Gupta's ke pass dil nahi hai kya?" I hear him call out. (Don't you have a heart?)
The throbbing intensifies as anger courses through my veins. I charge at him, delivering a swift blow to his chin.
"SECURITY! GET THEM OFF MY PROPERTY, AND IF THEY DON'T MOVE, CALL THE POLICE." I command as I stride to my office.
"Mr. Gupta..." My security calls behind me, but I shut the door in his face, the vibration echoing through the floor.
My breathing is heavy as his words linger in my mind.
I'm not the Gupta with a heart. There's a cold, empty cavity in my chest. No matter what is poured into it, it never fills.
In my office, I pour a glass of bourbon, but even the strongest does nothing to me anymore.
The relentless ticking of the clock echoes the monotony of my existence, each second an unwelcome reminder of the void within. The walls of my office, adorned with success and accomplishment, now feel like a prison of my own making.
The glass in my hand reflects the amber hue of bourbon, a liquid that once held the promise of oblivion. Yet, as it slides down my throat, it fails to drown the emptiness that has settled in my chest—a hollow, echoing void that has become my constant companion.
"Are you serious Vyom? It's 8 am." Akshay, my brother, walks in.
I look at my brother, his features etched with concern, and for a moment, I see the vibrant connection we once shared. He has aged backward, the lines on his face telling a different story than the ones etched on mine. A story of happiness, with love.
"If you've come here to nag, go away." I down the drink in my glass and pour another.
"No, I'm here to invite you..." I put down my glass and looked up at him. "Come home, Vyom. It's been too long."
"No thank you," I give him a twisted smile and return to my desk.
He snatches the glass, throwing it into the trash.
"Hey! That's from Germany." I protest.
"I'll get you five more!" He retorts, determined. "Come home, Vyom. My kids will not grow up without knowing who their uncle is." He rests his hand on the back of my neck and pulls me close. "We are your family; you can't run away from us."
I study my brother closely, and the unwavering support he offers the family. I should've given him the same four years ago, but instead, I shut him and the rest of the world out.
I say nothing to him and he soon leaves and I return to the boring tasks of the office.
...
The clock on the office wall reads 11 pm, a stubborn reminder of the relentless hours I've poured into the day. The city, once glowing with life, now sleeps beneath a blanket of silence. Exhaustion seeps into my bones as I step out into the quiet corridor, the echoes of my footsteps filling the hallway.
The city's lights cast long shadows as I approach the waiting car. The driver, a mere silhouette behind the wheel, nods in acknowledgment as I sink into the plush leather seat. The engine hums to life, and we navigate through the deserted streets, my mind consumed by the day's trials—a relentless cycle of deals, protests, and the ever-present emptiness within me.
Skyscrapers, once proud symbols of success, loom above like silent witnesses to the passage of time. The car moves through the city's veins, tracing the same intricate patterns.
As we approach a dimly lit bus stop, my gaze is drawn to a solitary figure—the silhouette of a woman. A spark of recognition ignites within me, and my heart, long dormant, stirs like a garden coming alive after a winter's freeze.
Nidha.
The city's glow outlines the contours of her face, and her eyes, reflecting a quiet resilience, hold a history of shared moments. Time stretches, and the air thickens with unspoken words, regret, and the weight of years gone by. I can't move, nor can I tear my gaze away from her.
The car moves forward, the moment slipping through my grasp. I turn away, my gaze lingering on the diminishing figure at the bus stop.
As the car carries me towards the quiet solitude of my penthouse, I'm left with the echo of that heartbeat—a whisper of emotions I had buried deep within.
The cavity in my chest, once again had shown proof of its existence.
The place of my heart.
Precap: Jaira meets Vyom! 👀
I hope you guys enjoyed it! God writing Vyom so heartless was such a challenge! (Sorry it took so long)
If you liked it please do vote, save, and leave wonderful comments.
-💙
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