Good Morning, Pratap

The sunlight in my room is unapologetic. It cuts through the gap in the curtains, a sharp, golden blade that insists the day has begun, whether I’m ready for it or not.

I reached for my phone, the movement mechanical, born of a thousand mornings just like this one. My thumb hovered over the screen. I didn't need to search for it; it was pinned to the top of my mind, even if it was buried in the archives of my chat.

I put on the Nirvana Ion ANC Pros. I didn’t need the noise cancellation to block out the world this time; I needed it to build a wall around the sound I was about to hear. I needed to be entirely alone with her.

I pressed play.

"Sorry... mai late uthi... good morning."

The voice was thick with sleep, soft and slightly frayed at the edges. It wasn't the voice of the woman who had sat across from me in that café with a cold paper cup. This was the voice of the girl who had just opened her eyes, whose defences were still down, who hadn't yet put on her armour for the world.

It was a "baby voice," not because it was childish, but because it was innocent. It sounded like trust.

My eyes drifted shut. The ANC did its job, erasing the distant sound of traffic and the hum of the ceiling fan. In that artificial vacuum, her voice felt physical. It felt like she was leaning over me, her hair brushing against my shoulder, her breath a warm secret against my ear.

I could see her. I could see the messy tangles of her hair, the way she probably squinted at her phone screen as she recorded this, her face still flushed from sleep.

For a heartbeat, I wasn't Pratap, the man who had learned to live alone. I was the Pratap who belonged to her. The urge to reach out, to pull that voice into a physical embrace until she "melted”, was so visceral it made my arms ache. It’s a strange kind of torture, wanting to protect a version of someone that no longer exists for you.

The recording ended. The "hiss" of the digital silence that followed felt like a cold splash of water.

In the "Good Night" message, there was a finish line. There was a period at the end of the sentence. But this "Good Morning" was an ellipsis... it was an invitation to a day that we would never spend together. It was a beginning without a middle.

I looked at the "Record" button on my screen. For a split second, the ghost of a habit took over. I wanted to tell her it was okay. I wanted to tell her I had just woken up, too. I wanted to say, "Good morning, stay right there."

But the earbuds stayed silent.

I took them off and laid them on the nightstand. The room rushed back in, the dust motes dancing in the sun, the unmade bed, the reality of 2026.

The "Good Night" message helps me sleep because it tells me it’s over. But the "Good Morning" message? It’s the one that makes it hard to get out of bed. Because for five seconds, it’s not the end of "us." For five seconds, she’s still waking up next to me.

I stood up and walked toward the window. The sun was getting higher.

"Good morning," I whispered to the empty room.

Not to her. Just to the day.