Her voice left no room for negotiation. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. Sharp. Final. Like the slam of a gavel that echoed down the spine.
The phone trembled slightly in Mansh's hand, the edges biting into his palm where his fingers had curled too tightly. He stood there, rooted in place, the cold plastic pressed against the side of his face, feeling as if it weighed more than it should.
He opened his mouth.
A slow inhale came first, shaky and uneven, pulling past the tightness in his throat. He wanted to speak. Wanted to explain. To plead.
Just a little more time. Please. I'm not ready to leave yet. There's still something wrong. Something here. Ankhush…
But no words came out.
They dissolved before they could take shape, lost in the back of his mouth where doubt and fear had made a home. He knew better. He knew exactly what tone that was.
His mother's temper wasn't a storm that passed after a few droplets of guilt. It didn't fade with soft apologies or melt under the weight of reason. No, it was fire--tight, contained, but scorching when tested.
And right now, he didn't have the strength to fight fire.
Not when his insides already felt like ash.
He exhaled softly through his nose. A breath that did nothing to ease the pressure in his chest.
So he did the only thing left to do.
He closed his eyes--shutting out the sterile hospital hallway, the distant beeping monitors, the ghostly quiet that had crept back in. And then he nodded--slowly, as if to himself. As if the nod would make this feel like a choice, not a command.
"...Okay," he whispered.
The word left his mouth like a loose feather, fragile and directionless.
There was no response.
Just the sound of the call ending. A soft click. Like a door closing. Like a seal locking in his silence.
He lowered the phone, his arm falling limp at his side. For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't blink. His eyes were glassy, fixed on nothing in particular--just the void where decisions used to be.
Everything inside him buzzed with frustration, with worry, with the helpless ache of being yanked away from a place that still held too many questions.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to go back and tear the hospital apart brick by brick.
But instead, he stood still. Frozen by the invisible weight of obligation.
Seconds passed. Maybe a minute. He wasn't sure.
Eventually, as if his limbs were rediscovering how to move, he took a small step backward. His shoes made no sound on the floor. Another step. Then another.
The hallway stretched behind him, empty and dim, swallowing his silhouette as he turned his back on it.
He descended the staircase in silence. The echo of his footsteps trailed after him like something unfinished. Something abandoned.
When he reached the main floor, the sterile light overhead hummed faintly. The air smelled of disinfectant and something colder--something that clung to him even as he passed through the sliding glass doors.
The world outside greeted him with fading sunlight.
The sky was washed in burnt orange and pale violet, the last breath of the day bleeding into dusk. A soft breeze stirred the leaves of a nearby tree.
Mansh walked to the bicycle rack. Each step felt disconnected from the next, like his body was moving ahead of his mind, each motion automatic.
He reached the bike and crouched down, fingers fumbling with the lock. It clicked open with a small metallic snap, jarring in the quiet.
He swung his leg over the frame, settling onto the seat.
Then--without thinking, without pausing--he kicked off the ground and began to pedal.
The tires bit into the road with a soft hiss.
The ride home was different this time.
Not like the breathless sprint through urgency that brought him to the hospital. This was faster--reckless. As if the act of moving quickly could somehow outrun the thoughts clawing at his skull.
He leaned forward, head low, the wind rushing past his ears in a constant whisper. Buildings blurred on either side. Shadows lengthened across the pavement like reaching arms. The streetlights blinked on one by one.
But he didn't notice.
To him, the world felt distant. Blurred. Like he was inside a snow globe that someone else was shaking. Every image passed too quickly to register. Every noise felt muffled.
The only sound he truly heard was the tight thud of his heartbeat, drumming a rhythm of guilt and dread.
I left him there. Alone. Vanished. And now I'm just… going home?
He gritted his teeth and pressed harder on the pedals. His legs burned, but he didn't care.
Finally, his house came into view--familiar, yet strangely unwelcoming tonight. The sky above it had darkened, and the warm glow from the living room window felt almost accusing.
He pulled the brakes, the tires skidding slightly on the edge of the concrete. The sudden jolt nearly sent him forward over the handlebars.
His heart hammered.
Not from the ride.
But from everything else.
He jumped off the bike in a motion too quick, like he'd just been burned. The lock clicked hurriedly. His fingers were shaking.
He approached the front steps. Each footfall slower. Heavier. He felt them in his knees, in his chest.
His hand rose toward the doorknob--
But he didn't touch it.
Because--
The door swung open.
Wide. Unmistakably so. Not just a casual crack to peek through. It opened with purpose. With force. With presence.
And there-- Framed in the entryway, backlit by the soft light of the hall-- Stood his mother.
Mansh stopped short.
All the air seemed to leave his lungs at once.
She didn't say a word.
But her face said everything.
A portrait of simmering frustration, drawn in sharp lines. Her eyebrows furrowed into a single, unmoving arc. Her lips pressed together so tightly they seemed carved from stone. Her arms crossed over her chest like a final judgment.
Mansh stood on the threshold, unable to move forward. The doormat felt like a cliff edge.
His throat went dry. He tried to clear it, but the sound caught halfway. He lowered his eyes. His voice, when it came, barely reached her ears.
"Sorry…" he muttered.
Just one word. Fragile. Small. Like dropping a pebble into an endless void.
He didn't look up. Couldn't.
His shoulders hunched forward. The weight of everything--of the hospital, of the silence, of her eyes--pressed down on him like a punishment he hadn't prepared for.
Still, she didn't respond.
No gasp. No sigh. No words.
Just a pause.
A long, cold pause.
Then-- With a single step back, she moved aside. Creating space.
A gesture not of welcome, but of expectation.
He stepped in.
And the door closed behind him with a sound too soft to be called a slam-- But too firm to be anything gentle.
The air inside the house was thicker.
Stiller.
Not warm or familiar. Just… heavier.
As if the house had absorbed the mood.
His mother's presence behind him was undeniable. She didn't touch him, didn't grab his arm, didn't speak.
But he felt her frustration like a storm cloud hovering above.
He walked deeper into the hallway, his footsteps unnaturally loud on the tiles. He set his shoes aside in slow motion, almost ritualistically, trying not to make noise. Not to provoke.
Every gesture felt wrong. Timed incorrectly.
He turned toward the living room--
And her voice came at last.
Not shouting. Not screaming.
Just sharp. Precise.
The scolding began.
***
A/N: is this also a dream, noo i think it is real.
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