TILL INFINITIES END

62. AARUSHI

The store was buzzing with people's voices, people going in and out, bags filled with purchases, yet it all felt like a distant blur to me. I was standing in the middle of the store, looking down at two pairs of shoes.

"She loves the white color," I murmured, my eyes tracing the clean lines of the simple white sneakers I held in my hands. I glanced at Varun, who stood beside me, holding a pair of black-and-white ones.

"Mhmm," he responded, with shorter words as always. His gaze shifted between the two options.

We were at the store to pick out a birthday gift for Tia. She had been talking about wanting new shoes for a while, so we thought this would be the perfect gift. Or rather, I had thought so. Tia loved white; she always loved the color, whether it was clothes, shoes, or accessories. It felt right to get her something she would love, something that fit her personality.

But Varun, of course, had a different opinion. He stood there, holding the black-and-white ones, clearly favoring them.

"I like these," he said, lifting the shoes slightly for emphasis.

I sighed internally, feeling the familiar sense of frustration that came when our preferences clashed.

"But the white ones are more comfortable," I argued gently, slipping one of the white shoes on since Tia and I shared the same shoe size. They were soft, and they felt like the kind of shoes she'd wear every day, with anything. "And they look better," I added, perhaps a little too quickly, trying to hide the fact that I too liked them more.

Varun barely glanced at me before nodding toward the black-and-white pair. "These ones are great," he insisted, with that same unbothered tone. He was decisive, stubborn even, and often I felt like I had to compromise just to avoid unnecessary arguments. Today was no different. I could have argued my case, pushed harder, but what was the point? Our views hardly ever matched these days. Why fight over something so trivial?

"Pack these," I told the sales assistant, gesturing toward the shoes Varun liked. It was easier to just let him have his way. The assistant nodded and began to pack them up.

"Wait." Varun's voice stopped me mid-turn. I turned to look at him, confused. He paused for a moment before speaking again, "Pack both of them."

I blinked at him in surprise. "Varun, they're expensive," I whispered, glancing at the price tags. I wasn't sure if I was trying to be practical or if I was just stunned by his sudden generosity. 

"So what?" he shrugged, his face completely serious. "Our daughter can have both. It's her birthday."

And just like that, he pulled out his debit card, handing it over to the cashier. I didn't argue any further. He was already paying, already making that decision for both of us.

It was typical Varun—always overindulging, always compensating with gestures when words were few. And I couldn't bring myself to fight him on it. Maybe a part of me even admired how he still found ways to care in his own way for his daughter, even though things between us had become so different, so distant.

As we walked back to the car with the bags in hand, I felt the weight of our silence settling in again. It wasn't the awkward kind of silence, but the kind that had now become routine. We didn't argue in these moments, but we didn't talk much either. The radio in the car hummed with some familiar song playing, but neither of us sang along.

I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the seat, letting my thoughts wander. I remembered how we used to sing in the car, how we used to laugh, our voices mixing with the tunes on the radio. Now, it was just silence. The absence of words, of that connection, felt like a constant weight on my chest.