7:58 p.m.
Chinmay sat in silence, staring blankly at his study table. The light in the room felt too white, too honest. His body was still. But his mind — his mind was spinning.
Thoughts collided. Memories surfaced. The weight of all the wasted time, all the lies, all the days of pretending he was "getting back on track."
He looked at his reflection in the black screen of his phone.
And then — without drama, without buildup — it cracked.
His chest tightened. His eyes burned.
The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.
> "I've wasted over a year…"
He said it aloud. To no one.
But it echoed like a bomb.
His breath quickened. Tears streamed down before he even realized he was crying.
> "I kept lying to myself... that I'd fix it. That I'd start again tomorrow. But the tomorrows never came."
He clutched his own knees, like trying to hold himself together.
> "I don't even know how to fix it anymore…"
---
9:03 p.m.
His mother opened the door softly, expecting to call him for dinner.
She stopped in her tracks when she saw him — shoulders slumped, face buried, eyes red.
> "Chinmay…?"
He didn't respond.
She walked closer, crouched beside him.
> "What happened, beta?"
And then, like a dam bursting:
> "I've wasted it all, Mom. More than a year. All the time. All the effort. All your money. I was stuck and I didn't tell you because I was ashamed. I lied every day. Every single day."
Her face changed.
Not to shock.
To confusion. Panic.
> "What are you saying? You were studying, right? You told us—"
> "I wasn't. I was pretending. For months. Mom… I don't even know why. I just kept falling. And I couldn't stop."
The air in the room thinned.
His mother slowly stood up. One hand on her mouth. The other bracing the wall.
> "What do I even say…?"
She left the room quietly.
Minutes later, his father entered. Chinmay didn't look up.
> "Your mother is crying in the other room."
He said it flat. Cold.
Chinmay looked at him now.
His father's face — stern, tired, clenched. Not shouting. Not scolding. But heavy with disappointment.
> "Do you even understand what you've done?"
> "Yes."
> "No, you don't. You don't get it. We gave you everything. I worked overtime. We skipped vacations. Your mother didn't buy a single saree this Diwali. All of it… so you could have what we didn't."
> "I know," Chinmay whispered.
> "And you threw it away."
That line hit harder than anything else.
> "Do you know how it feels to work like a machine and still not be able to give your child what he needs most — discipline?"
His voice broke, just a little.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Worse — disappointed. Defeated.
Chinmay didn't try to defend himself.
There was nothing left to say.
> "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't expect forgiveness. I just… didn't know how to come out of it."
His father looked at him, eyes narrowing.
> "Then figure it out. Because I can't keep saving someone who doesn't want to be saved."
And he walked away.
---
10:28 p.m.
Chinmay lay on his bed, the ceiling fan humming above. The house was quiet. No dinner came. No one spoke.
He had hit rock bottom.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way.
In a slow, hollow, ugly way.
But this was the truth now.
He had confessed.
They knew.
And now, something had begun — not redemption, not hope…
But responsibility.
---(To be continued in Chapter 21)---