Stuck Voyage of 20's

The house smelled of sandalwood and old books. Avantika stood in the doorway of her childhood room, watching her mother fold clothes with mechanical rhythm. It had been weeks since she visited home, but the moment she stepped in, it felt like time hadn't moved here — only she had.

Her father, Mr. Devendra Thakur, sat in the adjacent room with the newspaper, occasionally adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat. The usual background music of her childhood.

"You're quiet today," her mother finally said, not looking up.

Avantika leaned against the doorframe. "Just... tired."

Her mother paused mid-fold. "Tired or overwhelmed?"

Avantika didn't answer.

After a moment, her mother placed the clothes aside and sat down on the bed. "You've always been the kind who carries everything inside. Even when your heart broke the first time, you told me it was just 'exam stress.'"

Avantika looked at her, startled. "You knew?"

"Of course, I did. A mother always knows when her daughter starts forcing her smiles."

A silence settled between them — heavy but kind.

Avantika whispered, "Dhruv's back."

Her mother didn't flinch. "And?"

"We talked. Really talked. For the first time in years. I don't know what we are now… but something's shifted."

Her mother gave a small, understanding smile. "Maybe that's all love really is. Not big fireworks. Just… tiny shifts that feel like home."

---

Meanwhile, Dhruv was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, watching his father talk to a nurse. Mr. Kapoor had been in for a routine checkup, nothing serious — but the hospital smell always made Dhruv nervous. He hated it. It reminded him of when his mother was sick.

"Don't frown so hard," his father teased, finally joining him. "You'll get more wrinkles than me."

Dhruv chuckled. "You're lucky. You make wrinkles look like wisdom."

There was a pause before his father asked, "You've been somewhere else lately. Mentally, I mean."

Dhruv looked at his hands. "Just… figuring some things out. About life. About Avantika."

Mr. Kapoor nodded slowly. "You two always had a lot of fire."

"Yeah," Dhruv smiled faintly. "But fire doesn't always warm. Sometimes it just burns."

"And sometimes it clears the old weeds so new things can grow," his father said. "Have you asked yourself what you really want? Outside of her, outside of basketball, outside of expectations?"

The question struck something deep.

"I don't know," Dhruv admitted. "For the longest time, I thought being a national-level player was everything. Then when she left, I buried myself in it. But now… I want more. Not just medals. I want to make something meaningful."

"Maybe it's time you stopped running on autopilot," his father said gently. "You've got the heart. You just need a new compass."

---

Later that night, Avantika sat with her father on the balcony. The breeze was cooler than usual. She sipped from her mug slowly, waiting for the right moment to speak.

"Papa," she began.

"Yes, beta?"

"Do you ever regret choosing stability over passion?"

He turned to her, surprised. "What brought this on?"

"I don't know. I just… I feel stuck sometimes. Like I'm chasing a career in management, internships, numbers — but some part of me misses writing, creating. I don't even know who I am without all this performance."

Her father was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Regret? No. But I do sometimes wonder what would've happened if I had taken risks when I was your age."

She looked at him.

He smiled softly. "But you still can. You don't have to choose just one. Life isn't about choosing either security or dreams. It's about choosing how you balance them."

Avantika felt something loosen in her chest. "You really think I can balance both?"

"You always did," he said, reaching out to gently tap her forehead. "You just forgot."

---

A few days later, Dhruv stood on the basketball court after hours. Empty. Echoing. His coach entered, tossing him a ball.

"Take a shot," he said.

Dhruv smiled. "Why?"

"Because I want to see if you still shoot for the win or for yourself."

Dhruv took the ball, dribbled once, and launched it toward the basket. A clean swoosh.

His coach nodded. "You're back."

"I think I want to apply for the fellowship in sports psychology," Dhruv said suddenly. "I want to work with young athletes, help them balance pressure and life. I know what it's like to break from the inside."

His coach gave him the warmest look. "Then you'll be brilliant at it."

---

That night, Avantika's phone lit up.

Dhruv: "I'm applying for something new. Something that scares me but feels right. And I thought of you. You always saw beyond the surface."

She smiled and typed back.

Avantika: "Same here. I'm writing again. And maybe, someday, I'll write about us — not the perfect version, but the one where we learned everything the hard way."

After a pause, she sent another message.

Avantika: "P.S. My dad says love is like balance sheets. The assets stay if you handle the liabilities well."

Dhruv: "Tell him he's the wisest investor I've heard of."

And just like that, the echoes between them no longer haunted. They guided.

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