The house was quiet.

Lights in the living room were on, but Aarohi wasn’t there.

He noticed the blanket folded neatly on the sofa.

She hadn’t waited.

In the kitchen, he found dinner kept aside, covered.

A small note lay next to it:

“Food is warm. Eat whenever you want.”

No smiley.

No extra line.

Kabir sat down slowly.

He ate in silence, the sound of the spoon louder than usual.

In the bedroom, Aarohi was already asleep, turned towards the wall.

Kabir stood near the door for a moment.

He wanted to say something.

Anything.

But words didn’t come easily to him.

The next day, Aarohi left early for work.

She didn’t wake him up.

That bothered Kabir more than he expected.

At work, he stared at his screen, unable to focus.

His colleague nudged him.

“Everything okay, man?”

Kabir nodded.

“Yeah.”

But it wasn’t true.

In the evening, Aarohi came home tired.

Kabir was in the living room.

They looked at each other.

For a second, both waited—

as if the other would start talking.

No one did.

Aarohi walked past him.

Kabir spoke without turning around.

“You didn’t wake me today.”

Aarohi stopped.

“I thought you needed sleep.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She turned.

“Then what did you mean?”

Kabir struggled.

“I don’t know.”

That was the truth.

Aarohi nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

She went into the kitchen.

Kabir stayed where he was.

That night, neither of them slept properly.

Two people.

One house.

And a distance that had no name yet.

When words fail, does distance begin… or was it always there?

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