"Growing up doesn't always mean becoming stronger — sometimes it just means getting better at hiding the ache."
The house felt quieter now.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn't comfort but reminded you of what — or who — was missing.
After his father left again, the boy returned to his studies with a strange numbness. His body was present, sitting in classrooms, flipping pages, solving equations. But his heart?
It was still standing at the bus stop.
Still waving.
Still holding onto the warmth of the goodbye hug.
He had stepped into Class 10 now.
The age where pressure gets a new name — expectations.
"You're growing now," his teachers said.
"You have to do well in SEE," his neighbors whispered.
"Study hard for your future," his mother pleaded.
But none of them saw the boy who sat on the rooftop at night, staring at the moon, wondering:
"What's the point of building a future when you're always missing pieces of your present?"
He tried, though.
Tried to focus.
He stopped writing letters. Stopped waiting for calls. It was easier that way — pretending not to expect anything.
But pain doesn't need an invitation.
It finds its way in.
One day, while walking home from school, he saw a father teaching his little daughter how to ride a bicycle.
The girl was scared. She kept falling.
The father laughed, dusted her knees, and helped her back up.
Again, and again.
The boy stopped walking.
Just stood there — watching.
His eyes stung. But he smiled.
"I wish I had those memories too."
Back home, he found his mother folding his father's shirts. Again.
Even after all this time, she still washed them, dried them, and folded them neatly.
Like she was keeping him alive in small routines.
"Do you miss him?" he asked.
She looked up, surprised. "Every day."
"Even though he always leaves?"
She placed the shirt down, walked over, and cupped his face.
"Loving someone isn't about timing. It's about heart. And your father's heart, even though far, beats for us."
He didn't say anything.
He just hugged her tightly.
For once, he let himself be the child again.
But life didn't pause.
Exams were nearby. Friends were busy. Everyone had their own storms.
And then came the bad news.
His father's health had worsened.
The cough had returned. He was losing weight. Tired more often.
Doctors advised him to return home — for good.
When the news reached the boy, he didn't know how to feel.
Happy? That his father was coming back?
Worried? That it might be too late?
Angry? That it took illness for him to finally stay?
His emotions were a tangled mess.
A month later, his father came back.
This time, for always.
The boy stood at the gate.
He didn't run like before.
He didn't carry the bag.
He just stood — silent.
When their eyes met, something unspoken passed between them.
A quiet recognition of all the time lost.
Of all the things never said.
The father looked older now.
Slower. Weaker.
He tried to smile, but his eyes gave away his exhaustion.
"Papa," the boy said softly.
His father stepped forward, arms open.
They hugged — tighter than before.
Not because they had the energy,
but because they both were scared…
scared that this time, the clock wouldn't give them another chance.
The next few weeks felt different.
His father stayed home. Slept a lot. Coughed often. Ate less.
Sometimes, they talked about small things — school, food, weather.
But never the big things.
Never the pain. Never the years. Never the dreams they couldn't live together.
One evening, while sitting under the neem tree, the boy finally asked:
"Why did you always choose to leave?"
His father looked up, surprised.
"I didn't leave because I wanted to," he replied. "I left because I thought I had to."
The boy bit his lip. "I needed you, not the things you sent."
Silence.
Then his father said something he had never said before.
"I'm sorry."
Just two words.
But the weight they carried broke something inside the boy.
He looked away, blinking fast.
"It's okay," he whispered. "Just… don't go again."
"I won't," his father promised.
They started spending more time together.
Early morning tea on the rooftop.
Evening walks by the river.
Talking. Laughing. Remembering.
It felt like they were trying to build years in days.
But something still felt fragile — like a dream that could break any second.
Then came SEE preparation.
The boy had to move again — this time for coaching.
Another town. Another school. More books.
"I don't want to go," he said one night.
His father smiled weakly. "You must. It's your time now."
"But you just came home."
"I'll still be here when you return."
The boy didn't believe it.
Not fully.
Packing his bag, he looked around the room.
The walls had memories. The bed still smelled of his father's medicine. His books, his letters, the silence — all stared at him.
Before leaving, he sat beside his father's bed.
"I'm scared," he admitted.
"Of what?" his father asked.
"Of forgetting this. Of losing you again."
His father held his hand.
"I'll be here," he said. "Even if I'm not."
As the boy boarded the bus, he looked back.
His mother stood waving.
His father was inside — too weak to come out.
But in the window, he saw his silhouette.
One hand lifted, slow and trembling.
The boy smiled.
A tear escaped.
He was growing up now.
But a part of him would always be that little boy chasing a bus — hoping for one more day, one more hug, one more laugh.
And maybe, just maybe...
That was okay.