2.
The key turned in the lock with a faint click.
Aarav stepped into his apartment, dropped his gym bag unceremoniously near the door, and exhaled the weight of the day. The silence inside was a different kind than the one he left behind in the locker room — softer, lived-in, almost... comforting.
He didn't get two steps in before a high-pitched voice pierced the air.
"PAPA!"
A small blur shot out from the hallway like a firecracker with tiny feet.
Aarav barely had time to brace himself before Aarya, five years old and currently wearing a glitter-covered unicorn t-shirt, slammed into his legs with full enthusiasm and zero chill.
He scooped her up immediately, lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing — which, in comparison to a barbell, she absolutely did.
"My baby" Aarav murmured against her soft curls, already peppering her cheeks with kisses. "Did you miss me?"
"Nooo!" Aarya shrieked, squirming as he continued the onslaught. "Stop it! Papa you're stinky! Gym stinky!"
"You wound me," Aarav said, mock offended as he paused mid-peck."How could you say that to a handsome face?!"
Aarya pushed his face away with her small hands, pouting like a cartoon villain — before giggling helplessly, caught between indignation and delight.
At that moment, a voice came from the kitchen — tired, dry, and coated in British sarcasm.
"If you're done attacking your child with your sweat, maybe give me a hand before I burn this place to the ground? Mujhpe bhi koi nazar dalo".
Eve appeared around the corner holding a bowl of chips, one slipper on, the other MIA, hair pulled into what could generously be called a bun and less generously described as a bird's failed nest. Aarya's unicorn stickers were stuck on her pajama pants, and there was what looked suspiciously like peanut butter on her cheek.
Aarav blinked.
"I see babysitting has really brought out your... domestic goddess energy."
Eve raised an eyebrow and popped a chip in her mouth like a threat. "This 'goddess' just watched Frozen four times in a row and had to explain to your daughter that Elsa doesn't need a boyfriend because she's too busy creating snowmen".
"Valid," Aarav said, deadpan.
"She also tried to feed the fish yogurt."
Aarya, still in Aarav's arms, gasped. "I did not! It was smoothie!"
"I still don't understand this little brain of yours sometimes", Aarav said, pinching Aarya's cheeks.
"It's all yours mister. If I didn't know that 'he'- .
"Yep now stop", Aarav gave Eve a look. "My baby needs a shower and I need too".
"I need a haircut too Papa! And not from YOU!"
"We'll see about that".
"You impossible Papa".
The scent of lavender shampoo filled the bathroom, mingling with the faint humidity that still clung to the air.
Aarav sat cross-legged on the floor, a fluffy towel draped over his lap and another wrapped around Aarya's head like a turban, her wild hair now damp and smelling faintly of bubblegum and conditioner.
She was unusually still — only her feet wiggled a little, tapping a tune only she knew.
Aarav gently patted the towel around her curls, careful not to pull, even when the tangles made his job near-impossible.
"You're gonna give me grey hair before forty", he murmured.
"You already have one," Aarya shot back, eyes narrowing. "Right there."
He gasped, fake-offended. "You take that back."
"Nope. Evidence collected." She stuck out her tongue, then giggled at her own genius.
But just as he was about to launch into another teasing comeback, she went quiet — too quiet.
And when Aarya was quiet, something serious was brewing.
"Papa," she said slowly, tugging at the towel's edge. "Why don't I have two parents?"
Aarav's hands paused, towel mid-air.
She wasn't looking at him. She was staring at her knees, her voice thoughtful but unwavering — not whiny or sad. Just curious in that clear-eyed, too-old-for-her-age way that always caught him off guard.
"Like... all my classmates have two," she went on, still not meeting his eyes. "Some have a mom and dad. Some have two moms. Some have two dads. I only have you. So... where's my other one?"
Aarav swallowed. The air around them suddenly felt much heavier than the humidity.
He slowly lowered the towel into his lap.
"That's a good question, sweetheart," he said gently. "And you know I'll always tell you the truth, right?"
She nodded without looking up.
"You do have two dads," Aarav said quietly. "You've just only ever known one of us."
Aarya tilted her head. "Where's the other one?"
Aarav drew in a breath. This was one of those moments — one of those fork-in-the-road, don't-lie-to-her moments. He could tell her a bedtime story. He could dodge. He could charm his way out of it.
But Aarya was sharp. Like him.
"He's not here," Aarav said softly. "He's... busy. And far away."
"Is he bad?" she asked after a pause. "Does he not love me?"
Aarav's heart broke a little at that — not with a crack, but a slow, dull ache that radiated somewhere behind his ribs.
"No," he said, steady. "He's not bad. He's actually a very good person. A good son. A good brother. And I think... I think he would've been a good dad too."
Aarya turned to look at him now, those big eyes catching the flicker in his.
"Then why didn't he stay with you?"
Aarav looked away for a moment, his throat tightening.
"We didn't make each other happy anymore," he said finally. "So I decide to stop forcing something which wasn't possible. He just doesn't know about you yet".
There was silence after that.
Aarya didn't ask anything else. She didn't cry. She didn't pout.
Instead, she climbed gently into Aarav's lap, small knees tucked to her chest, towel slipping off her head. She rested her damp hair against his shoulder and exhaled softly, the way a child does when they know more than they should.
She didn't speak — but the way she leaned against him, the weight of her, the tilt of her head against his collarbone...
It was exactly the way he used to do it.
Shaurya.
The name hung like smoke in Aarav's chest, unspoken but suffocating all the same.
Every day, Aarya's face grew more and more like his — not just the eyes, but the quiet defiance in them, the way her thoughts played behind her expression like shadows on silk. Her stillness spoke more than words. Just like him.
And yet, Aarya also smiled like Aarav — wide and wicked and full of sunlight.
His daughter.
Their daughter.
A living contradiction wrapped in glitter t-shirts and ancient wisdom.
Aarav pressed his lips to her temple.
"I love you, Aarya," he whispered.
"I know," she said.
And in that quiet, with nothing left to say and everything still unhealed, Aarav closed his eyes and held her just a little tighter — as if holding her tightly enough might somehow keep the ghosts at bay.
Aarya's head was still resting against Aarav's shoulder, her fingers absently playing with the collar of his t-shirt, when she murmured, "Papa..."
"Hmm?" Aarav whispered, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.
"What's his name?" she asked, voice low — curious again, but not pressing. Like someone flipping to the next page of a storybook they weren't quite sure they wanted to finish.
Aarav paused, his fingers still mid-motion.
Then, softly, like saying it might wake the past, he replied,
"Shaurya Shekhawat."
Aarya mouthed the name slowly, testing its weight like she did with new vocabulary words. "Shaurya... Shekhawat."
It fit in her mouth the way it still echoed in Aarav's bones.
She didn't say anything for a while. The room settled into the comfortable silence of bedtime — the kind only interrupted by distant city noise and the occasional creak of an old cupboard.
Then, just as he thought she'd fallen asleep, her small voice piped up again.
"Can I meet him one day?"
Aarav blinked. His heart caught in his chest like it always did when she reached into places he thought he'd buried too deep for a five-year-old to reach.
He didn't answer right away.
But before he could speak, she added, almost matter-of-factly, "Not now though. I'm not ready. Maybe when I'm six. Or seven. Or seventy. Depends."
Aarav blinked again — then laughed, surprised by the sob-laced chuckle that escaped him.
"Seventy, huh?"
"I'll send him a postcard when I get my own mailbox," she said gravely.
He grinned, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You're something else."
"I know," she said smugly, then yawned so wide her jaw popped.
"Alright, little grandma. Bed."
She groaned dramatically as he stood up with her still in his arms, carrying her to her room like a sack of tired potatoes. He set her down on the mattress and tucked her in, pulling her favorite blanket — the one with dinosaurs wearing crowns — up to her chin.
"Papa?" she said sleepily, one eye half open.
"Yes?"
"If you see Shaurya Shekhawat," she whispered with the seriousness of a royal decree, "tell him I like mangoes. And glitter. And Elsa. But not Olaf. He's suspicious."
Aarav stifled a laugh. "Got it. Mangoes, glitter, Elsa. Olaf is under investigation."
"And I don't like socks that match. They make me feel... suspicious too."
"Understood, Madam Unmatched."
Aarya rolled onto her side, clutching a stuffed dragon like a shield. Her lashes fluttered closed.
Aarav stood for a moment, just watching her — the tiny hurricane that had turned his life inside out and somehow made the mess feel like home.
He turned to leave, but just as he reached the door, her voice floated out again.
"Papa?"
He turned.
"Yes?"
"Did you put your gym socks in the laundry bin or under the couch again?"
Aarav stared. "What—how did—?"
"Suspicious," she mumbled, already half-asleep.
Aarav pressed a hand to his forehead and chuckled under his breath.
This child. His child.
He flicked off the light with a final, fond sigh.
"Goodnight, you little detective."
"Goodnight, you gym-stinky socks man."
And just like that, the night closed its arms around them — quiet, honest, and still holding the echo of a name that had never really left.
Shaurya Shekhawat.
Even now, it still found its way into their story — in whispers, in laughter, in a five-year-old's sleepy wisdom.
Tomorrow, the world would spin again.
But tonight, Aarav stood at the threshold of something both broken and beautiful — and, for once, he didn't feel alone in it.