TILL INFINITIES END

51. AARUSHI

I drove home with a knot in my stomach, my foot pressing harder on the accelerator than I normally would. The streets blurred by, but all I could think about was —whether she was still at home, whether I could catch her just once before she left. I needed to see her. 

As I parked the car I quickly locked it, rushing towards the home, pressing the button multiple times as if that would help in bringing the lift faster. I pressed my floor number, and as it moved forward I felt my heart drop. I quickly opened the door of the house and entered in hoping to see her. But instead of Tia, it was Varun sitting there on the couch, his head leaning back as if the weight of the day had pressed down on him too. His eyes met mine, tired, maybe as tired as mine were.

"Tia?" I asked, breathless.

"She went to Myra's," he said simply, his voice low and flat.

I stood there for a moment, the disappointment sinking in slowly. I had been so close, just minutes away from holding her.

"Did you meet her?" I asked, my voice barely audible, the regret already settling in.

"No." He shook his head and sighed. "I came home early just to see her, but... Vyom said she'd already gone."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "She looked fine on the call though," Varun added, as if to convince me—convince himself—that everything was alright.

I nodded, but I could barely find the words to speak. "She... she'll be fine," I said, though the words felt like a lie. 

The image of her face at the airport in the morning—the way her eyes were swollen with the weight of tears—flashed in my mind. I could see the exhaustion, the sorrow she had tried so hard to hide. I hadn't been able to comfort her then, and I had missed my chance now.

Our eyes met, and for a moment, there was a kind of silent understanding between us—an unspoken fear that neither of us wanted to voice. We both wanted to believe our daughter was okay, that she would come back to us whole, but deep down, we knew that maybe... she was breaking. And we didn't know how to stop it.

The weight of that realization hit me harder than I expected. My chest tightened, and I felt my eyes blur with tears. It was strange, really, that in this moment, Varun's gaze—so steady, so full of concern—was enough to break me. That look, that silent empathy, had been missing for so long, and now, when I needed it the most, it shattered the walls I had carefully built around my heart.

Before I could stop it, a tear slipped down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away, hoping Varun wouldn't notice. But he did.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at me. Then, without saying a word, he got up and walked over to the dining table, where I sat. I watched as he filled a glass with water, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he was trying to offer me some kind of support in the simplest way he knew how. He placed the glass in front of me, not saying anything, just standing there, waiting.

That small gesture—so quiet, so gentle—undid me. I couldn't hold it in any longer. I buried my face in my hands and squeezed my eyes. The pain, the guilt, the helplessness I'd been carrying for so long came crashing down all at once. My body shook with the way I was controlling my tears, and all I could do was sit there, drowning in the weight of it all.

I felt Varun's hand on my shoulder, almost a hesitant touch, but it was enough. That light pat, that simple act of comfort, meant more to me than any words he could have said. It was as if, in that moment, he understood everything I was feeling—every fear, every regret, every ounce of love I had for our daughter.

"I'll make dinner," he said softly, his voice steady but filled with quiet concern. "You need rest. Go to the bedroom and sleep for a while."

I wiped my eyes and looked at him, surprised. 

Varun, cooking dinner? 

It was so unlike him, yet the sincerity in his voice made me stop. He wasn't just offering to cook. He was offering me a break—a chance to breathe, to gather myself, to let go of everything for just a little while. I blinked back fresh tears, unsure of what to say.

"I'll... do it," I whispered, reaching for the knife he was holding.

But he shook his head and dodged my hand, his eyes gentle but firm. "No, Aarushi. Let me do this. Just for today."

I looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, I saw something in his eyes that I hadn't seen in months—care. Not the tired, unconscious, care of a man going through the phases of marriage, but the genuine, heartfelt concern of a partner who still, after all the distance and hurt, wanted to make things right. Even if for a day.

I nodded, unable to argue with him, and turned toward the bedroom. Maybe things weren't as broken as I thought. Maybe, after everything, there was still a chance for us—if not as husband and wife, then at least as parents who loved their daughter more than anything.

Just as I reached the bedroom door, Vyom came rushing in, his face lit up with excitement.

"Hi, Mumma, Papa!" he shouted, his energy filling the room. 

OH. MY. GOD. I wouldn't let him enter the house if he hadn't entered already. He was covered in mud, as if bathed in it, and shit, the football in his hand was even dirtier.

"Hi vyomiee!" Varun said, as he looked at him, "seems like someone had a good match today!"

"YES." He exclaimed and looked at me, "Mumma you know I played so well today!!"

"Yeah I can see that." I said as I rested over the wall, scanning him from top to bottom. Is he really my son?

"What's Papa doing in the kitchen?" Vyom asked, confused as he sat on the chair in that clothes.

I raised an eyebrow and looked at him, "He got punished," I said, trying to hint him, "Kitchen duty for today."

"Punished?!" Vyom's eyes widened in shock.

"Yes. He didn't take a bath after coming home and sat on the sofa with his dirty clothes," I explained, giving Vyom a knowing look. i can hear varun chuckle in the kitchen as i said this.

He understood immediately, jumping up from the chair and rushing off to the bathroom with his towel. I smiled softly to myself and walked back toward the kitchen.

Varun was chopping onions when I entered in again. He glanced up at me, his expression calm but focused.

"I'll... finish this," I offered, my voice softer now.

But again, he shook his head. "No, Aarushi. Let me do it. Please," he said, his voice firm but gentle. His eyes met mine, and this time, I didn't argue.

I nodded, my heart feeling lighter, and turned toward the bedroom. As I closed the door behind me, I couldn't help but wonder about this small moment of kindness, of shared understanding. But for now, all I could do was lie down and hope.