Yeh Hai Aashiqui

One

Aakash's home had once pulsed with life. Every corner, every piece of furniture held the warmth of his family's memories, bursts of laughter from his sisters echoing down the hall, the clatter of his mother's bangles as she set the table, his father's deep voice drifting through the rooms with strength and pride. But now, it was a tomb of silence.

The large living room window, which had always poured sunlight across the floor, was now cloaked in heavy curtains, casting a dim, gray light over the space. The sunlight barely touched the room, as if it, too, was reluctant to enter. A thin film of dust had settled on everything, the polished wood of the coffee table, the corners of framed family portraits. In one, his brother's toothed grin was frozen mid-laughter; in another, his mother's arm rested lovingly on his father's shoulder, her smile a reflection of his. Now, they felt more like relics than memories, untouched and motionless, blanketed in dust as if preserving them would somehow keep them closer.

Aakash barely noticed these details anymore. His days had become a mechanical blur, a monotonous rhythm he moved through without thought. He woke up, checked his phone for work messages, and shut himself in his study, where his world shrank to the size of his laptop screen. He buried himself in numbers, in emails, in client calls that bled one into the next, trying to drown out the quiet that filled every crack in the house. Meals were an afterthought; a cup of coffee left to cool, barely sipped, sat on his desk until evening. His bed remained untouched, often bypassed for the living room couch where he would sit awake until dawn, staring at nothing.

And on those nights, when the rest of the city slept, the house was at its loudest. It was in the silence that the memories crept in, his sisters' gleeful squeals as they played, his mother's soft humming from the kitchen, his father's hearty laugh from the living room. Now, those sounds were only ghosts, echoes trapped within these walls that refused to leave him alone.

Sometimes he would lock himself in his room for days, blocking out calls, ignoring messages, and letting the darkness wrap around him. Here, behind closed doors, he could allow himself to feel the full weight of the emptiness. His heart, hollowed out, throbbed dully within him, and it was in those isolated hours that he felt the truth, that his world, the one he had known and cherished, had crumbled away, leaving only these fragments to torment him.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Aakash's uncle sat across from him, the older man's brows furrowed in gentle concern as he leaned forward, hands clasped over his knees.

"Aakash beta," his uncle began, his voice soft but persistent, "it's Diwali, son. Come stay with us in Mumbai, just for a few days. It won't be the same as... as before, but we all miss you. You shouldn't be alone." The words were tentative, as if his uncle feared that one wrong move might send Aakash spiraling further into himself.

Aakash's gaze fell to the carpet, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the armrest of the chair. He couldn't summon the words to say no, yet every part of him recoiled at the thought of celebrating Diwali without his family. 

Diwali had always been a sacred affair for them, the house filled with the warm glow of lamps, him and his siblings racing around in festive attire, his mother's diwali snacks laid out on silver trays, his father setting up the diya arrangements with quiet pride. 

Now, that vision was a faded photograph, cracked and peeling, incapable of being restored.

"I don't know, Uncle," Aakash murmured, his voice barely audible. "I don't think I can... not this year."

His uncle's hand found his shoulder, firm and reassuring. "You don't have to celebrate if you don't want to. Just... come be with family. You'll feel better, I promise."