Stuck Voyage of 20's

Avantika

She hadn't expected the knock at 10:45 AM. Sundays were usually slow, sleepy mornings where the room smelled of moisturiser and toasts and half-read novels. But the knock wasn't from Riya or the PG staff—it was her mother, standing there in a crisp cotton saree, eyes scanning the cluttered room like it was a battlefield.

"Amma?" Avantika blinked, still in her oversized T-shirt, a bit of jam on her thumb.

"I was nearby, thought I'd drop in." Her voice was stiff, polite. That odd formality they'd adopted in the last couple of years.

The visit began with chai and light comments. Her mother inspected her bookshelf, noticed the dried-up plant, commented that she looked pale, and asked why she hadn't oiled her hair in weeks. Avantika smiled, nodded, offered Marie biscuits.

But it never stayed light for too long.

"You said you're interning at that… content place, right?" her mother asked, adjusting her pallu as if preparing for battle.

Avantika nodded.

"And how does it help your career again?"

She looked away. "It gives me hands-on learning, Amma. It's a startup—"

"But where's the structure, Avantika? Or security? Or even salary? You know your cousin Anita just got placed at HDFC as a junior analyst."

A sharp breath entered her chest. "I know, Amma."

"I'm not comparing," her mother added, which almost made Avantika laugh. "It's just... you were always the brightest. You wrote speeches, won awards. But now I see you doing this social media thing? We expected more. Your father expected more."

That was the nail. That one sentence.

Your father expected more.

Not because he said anything. Her father hardly ever commented directly. He just looked—with those eyes that could slice into her confidence. Disappointed, without ever saying so. Silent. Watching.

"I'm trying, Amma," she said softly, "Even if it doesn't look like what you imagined."

Her mother didn't respond for a long moment. Just stood up, smoothed her saree, and walked to the door.

"Fine. Just remember, talent fades if you don't direct it well."

The door clicked behind her.

Avantika stood frozen in the middle of the room, then slowly sat down on her mattress. The ceiling fan hummed overhead. She reached under her pillow to pull out a half-read copy of Little Women. An old drawing fluttered out—one she had made in Class 3, a stick-figure family holding hands, "My World" written in glitter pen.

Tears formed silently in her eyes. Not loud sobs. Just a quiet ache—the kind you feel in your bones when your roots start pulling away from the soil.

But somehow, she folded the drawing carefully and tucked it inside the back cover of the book, like a bookmark she didn't want to lose.

Dhruv

His father's white sedan pulled into the BHU hostel parking like a judge arriving at a courtroom.

Dhruv slipped into the passenger seat, feeling oddly small in his hoodie and sliders. The air inside the car smelled like cologne and faint paan—the kind of combination he'd grown up associating with tension.

"Lost some weight?" his father asked, not making eye contact.

"Training's been intense. We won the semis." Dhruv tried to sound light, but his throat felt like it was lined with steel wool.

"Hmm," his father replied, scrolling through WhatsApp on his other phone. "You know your cousin Ankit just cleared the IAS prelims. Everyone's talking about it back home."

Dhruv stared out the window, watching the ghats of Varanasi blur past as they drove. Narrow alleys, saffron flags, the occasional sadhu—he usually loved this city, but today it felt too loud.

They stopped at a small rooftop restaurant his father liked—one of those places with metal chairs and laminated menus that pretended to be fancy. His father ordered thali; Dhruv stuck with lime soda.

"So what's next?" his father asked midway through the roti. "After nationals… what comes after all this sports stuff?"

Dhruv blinked. "I'm thinking of coaching. Starting something of my own eventually. Maybe train kids who don't get opportunities. You know… give back."

His father raised an eyebrow. "That's noble. But passion doesn't pay electricity bills. Or buy land. Or build legacy."

The words hit harder than intended.

"I don't need a palace, Baba. I need peace."

"Peace won't feed your family one day, Dhruv," his father said, sipping water like he'd delivered a profound truth.

When they drove back, the silence was thicker than traffic. No congratulations. No mention of the game he'd limped through to help his team reach the finals.

Outside the hostel gate, his father finally said, "Think about what you're wasting," before driving off.

Dhruv climbed up the stairs to his room slowly. Inside, everything was exactly how he left it—shoes under the bed, towel half-dry, semi-final medal hanging from the nail on his shelf.

He walked to it. His teammates had scribbled "Beast Mode" and "Our Captain" on the ribbon with sketch pens.

He held it, stared at it.

Then whispered to no one in particular—

"Why is it never enough?"

Later that Night

Avantika couldn't sleep. Neither could Dhruv.

Miles apart, both stared at the ceilings above them, both thinking about voices that still echoed—some gone, some never understood.

No texts.

No calls.

Just silent rooms holding them like the past they were still trying to unlearn.

But somewhere between all the noise and stillness, both reached for something:

Avantika opened her journal and began writing—about family, about dreams, about the little girl who once believed anything was possible.

And Dhruv?

He picked up his shoes, walked quietly to the basketball court, and began shooting hoops under the pale orange light.

Each bounce felt like therapy.

Each shot felt like rebellion.

Each breath reminded him—he was still here.