Aarav
I can't believe he's in my house.
The identity card feels heavy in my hand as I stare at it, standing in my bedroom. Through the doorway, Atlas waits in the common area, looking far too comfortable for someone who should be a stranger. His casual inspection of my home makes my skin crawl, like he's memorizing every detail for some unknown reason.
Yesterday's scene keeps replaying in my mind—Atlas crying, talking to that man about his mother. But now he's here, grinning like nothing happened, acting like we're friends. The contrast makes my head hurt.
When I walk back out, he's examining the family photo on my wall—me and my parents.
"Stop that," I snap.
He turns, that infuriating smirk still in place. "Nice picture. Your parents look happy."
"Here's your card." I hold it out. "Now leave."
He takes it but doesn't let go of my hand.
"What are you doing?" I ask, confused as his gaze lingers.
"Don't look at me like that. It makes me sick," I say, pulling my hand free from his grip.
"You followed me yesterday."
My heart skips. "I was returning your card."
"And what did you see?"
The question hangs in the air. I could lie, pretend I left before seeing anything. But something in his expression tells me he already knows the answer.
"Nothing that made sense," I say finally.
He nods, as if I've confirmed something. "Good. Keep it that way."
"Is that a threat?"
"No." He tucks the card into his pocket. "It's advice. For your safety."
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "My safety? You're the one who got chased through a park and ended up hiding in my aunt's restaurant."
"And you helped me." His voice is softer now. "Why did you do that?"
The question catches me off guard. I've been asking myself the same thing since yesterday.
"I don't know," I admit. "Probably because I'm an idiot."
"Or because you're kind," he says. "Like your aunt."
"Don't." My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "Don't talk about her."
He holds up his hands in surrender, but his eyes are still studying me, still trying to figure something out. "You're protective of her."
"And you're leaving. Now."
He moves toward the door but pauses with his hand on the handle. "Thank you for keeping my card safe."
"I didn't keep it safe. I chased after you to return it, remember?"
"But you could have thrown it away when you saw..." he trails off. "When you realized I wasn't who you thought."
"I still don't know who you are."
"Better that way." He opens the door.
"What? No, you won't—"
But he's already gone, taking the stairs two at a time, leaving me with more questions than answers.
I lock the door and lean against it, trying to make sense of everything. The crying Atlas from yesterday. The smirking Atlas from today. The mystery man in the car.
My phone buzzes. A text from Aunty: "Did Atlas get his card?"
I type back: "Yes."
"Good! Such a nice boy. I told him to come for dinner anytime."
I close my eyes and curse under my breath. Of course she did.
My phone rings. Unknown number. It rings again when I ignore it.
I hesitate before answering.
"Hello Aarav, are you there?"
My grip tightens on the phone. That voice. Atlas.
"Aunt told you to come to the restaurant right now," he says.
My jaw clenches. "She can call me herself."
"She's busy with customers," he murmurs. His voice is quieter this time, almost like he's at the restaurant already.
When I walk into the restaurant, I see customers eating and talking. Atlas and Aunt are at the counter, and he gestures for me to come over. My aunt hands me a paper list of vegetables and groceries. "Go with Atlas and shop and buy them for me," she says hurriedly.
Atlas looks at me, smiling like he's admiring something. I tell Aunt I could go alone, but Atlas stands up and declares, "I want to help my Aunt Nita, smartly."
I glare at him, my smile sharp. "Your aunt?"
She pushes us and hands me the paper. "Come on, boys, stop it and just go already," she says, also giving me a key to the truck.
My aunt has had a small truck ever since she opened the restaurant.
"You can drive?" Atlas asks incredulously.
"Yes," I sigh.
We drive to the convenience store for groceries and the market for vegetables. We shop quickly.
On our way back to the restaurant, he says, "Maybe we could visit the park?"
"Really?" I say.
He mentions that he wants some fresh air, so we get a drink and go to the park. He sips his drink and remarks, "I don't usually go to parks."
I ignore him, but he keeps talking.
He looks into my eyes. "But something happened to me in this park."
He's talking about the day we met.
"What do you mean?" I pretend not to be interested.
"Let's go," I say, feigning boredom.
"Why are you talking about leaving when we just got here?" he says, acting like a schoolchild.
"If we're late, Aunty will make faces," I say.
As we make our way to the truck, I notice a black car parking nearby. A woman with glasses steps out, a man following her. I recognize the man—he was with Atlas yesterday.
Atlas stiffens beside me. His fingers tighten around his drink, knuckles white.
"Mom." The word escapes him, barely above a whisper.
I glance at him. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by something I can't quite place—fear? Unease?
Why does he look like he wants to run?