The return

Atlas

The chaas sits heavy in my stomach as I stare at the ceiling of my rented room. I shouldn't have gone to the restaurant. Shouldn't have let Aarav's aunt drag me inside with her infectious warmth and hospitality. But after years of running, of calculated distances and careful masks, I've forgotten what it feels like to be treated like a person instead of a mark.

My phone vibrates. Mom.

She texts: "Come see me tomorrow."

Sunday is tomorrow, which I used to think of as a day off, but apparently not anymore. When I check my pockets, I realize I left my identity card at Aunt Nita's restaurant.

In the morning, I eat noodles and head straight to my mother's house. I sit in front of her as usual, and she orders oysters for us. As if they're my favorite. I swallow them without complaint.

"You have a friend," she says acerbically.

I have no choice but to tell her after her guard caughted me.

"Yes," I say. "Just a day ago, we met."

"What is his name?" she asks.

I hesitate before answering, "Aarav."

"You will give me all of his information after college tomorrow," she says, as if it's a simple request. As if she isn't ordering me. But this isn't new to me—I've heard it from her before.

"Well," I mutter.

Sunday passes too quickly, leaving me with an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I don't want Monday to come. I don't want to go to class, pretend to be a normal student, and stay away from everyone.

But first, I need my identity card.

I go straight to Aunt Nita's restaurant. It's full when I walk in.

"Atlas!" she calls out with a warm smile. "What are you doing here?"

Before I can answer, she adds, "You left your identity card here."

"Yes," I say. "I apologize for disturbing you."

"It's fine," she says. "Have you received it?"

"No," I say, though I'm not surprised.

She frowns. "Aarav went after you yesterday to return it."

I feel like an idiot now.

"You should contact Aarav and get it from him," she advises.

"Well," I say quietly. "I don't have his number."

She gives me a knowing look before handing over both his number and his address. I pocket them and leave.

It takes me ten minutes to reach the location. A purple building stands next to a beige one, with what looks like an extra room built on the beige building's rooftop.

I climb the stairs to the upper level and knock twice. No response. I knock a third time.

The door swings open, and Aarav stands there in track pants and a half-sleeve shirt. His hair is a mess, his expression a mix of shock and irritation.

"Why the hell are you here?" he snaps.

I grin. "To get my stuff."

He doesn't let me in. Just stands there, blocking the doorway.

"Let's talk inside," I say, pushing his hand off the door.

His eyes narrow. "Did you leave your ID here on purpose?"

I smirk, glancing around his room. The place is small but functional—kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, common area, and a balcony attached to his bedroom.

"And why would I do that?" I say.

His scowl deepens. "Shut your mouth."

I pretend to examine the space, then make a face. "Cute room."

"Get out," he mutters.

I can tell he's annoyed, which should bother me—but it doesn't. His bad mood is oddly satisfying.

"Do you live alone?" I ask.

He shoves a glass of water into my hand. "None of your business. Drink and go."

I sip the water, unbothered.

"Where's my identity card?" I ask.

He turns toward his bedroom, and I follow, but he stops abruptly and glares at me.

"You want your identity card?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes."

"Then don't follow me, or I'll throw it away."

I hold up my hands in surrender and wait in the common area.

A few moments later, he returns, my identity card in hand.