Rohit sat at his desk, hunched forward like a question mark, a half-filled water bottle beside him and an open notebook resting beneath his fingers. A cheap ballpoint pen twitched nervously in his right hand, tapping out a restless beat against the blank page.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The page stared back at him—pure, untouched, and judging. He let out a shaky sigh.
"Where do I even start?" he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between the page and the ceiling fan spinning idly above him.
His mind raced.
So many things. Too many things.
"I want to do well in my studies."
"I want to get fit."
"I want a girlfriend."
"I want to be... GIFTED."
He paused, the word ringing in his mind like a forbidden spell. A surge of longing twisted in his chest.
Then—SMACK—he slapped the notebook shut.
"Stop, stop. No, I'm doing it again," he growled, fingers pressing into his temples. "I'm trying to chase everything at once. I'll drown in it. Again."
He let the silence settle, took a deep breath, and asked himself a quieter question.
"What's the one thing I've wanted to do... but haven't been able to?"
The answer came soft. Whispered. Almost foolish.
"Let's go outside."
For a moment, the room fell still. Even the fan seemed to hold its breath.
Rohit stood up slowly, the chair scraping the floor with a reluctant screech. He dropped the pen onto the table, its plastic click echoing like a period at the end of a long sentence.
He stepped toward the door, one hand reaching for the handle. Cold brass met his palm.
One turn. That's all it takes.
Just one turn, and he would be beyond the threshold. Out of the shell. Out of the cage.
His thumb trembled against the handle. Sweat pooled at the small of his back. His mouth was dry, tongue heavy like sandpaper. The simple hallway beyond the door suddenly felt like another world—an alien land he no longer belonged to.
"When was the last time I went out... just to go out?"
His mind scrambled for memories. A late-night snack run? Picking up parcels? None of those counted. This was different. This was voluntary.
And then came the doubt. Thick and slow, like tar.
"Why even go outside?"
"What if someone sees me?"
"What am I even hoping to find?"
He froze.
Then, slowly—shamefully—he turned away.
He walked back to the chair, sat down hard, elbows on knees, face in hands. The silence roared.
"No. No. I can't keep running."
"Just one thing. One thing today. That's all."
He stood again, slower this time. More deliberate. Each step toward the door heavier than the last. He stopped once more in front of it, placed both hands on the knob like it was some ancient relic, and closed his eyes.
"I'm just going to open it. That's all. Not going out. Just opening it."
He clenched the handle, fingers white-knuckled, and turned it with a trembling breath.
Click.
The door creaked open.
Cool air from the hallway drifted in, smelling faintly of dust, plaster, and someone else's cooking. The fluorescent light outside buzzed softly, bathing the corridor in a sterile, unnatural glow. No crowd. No judgement. Just space.
Yet Rohit stood frozen at the threshold. Legs stiff. Pulse pounding in his ears. His throat constricted with nerves so sharp he could taste the salt of his sweat.
He took one shallow breath… then quietly shut the door again.
Click.
Silence returned.
Rohit leaned against the wood, a small, almost ridiculous smile twitching at the corner of his lips.
"Okay," he whispered. "I did one thing."
He wasn't proud. Not exactly. But the shame didn't sting quite as sharply now.
And in that quiet, modest act, something stirred again within him.
The beginning of movement.
The start of something.
A step.