The Paracetamol You Left on the Tray

The next day, you go for a walk instead. It’s a conscious trade — the jittery, chemical clarity for the slow burn of your own tired muscles. You take the long route to the market, past the construction on 7th Cross, the smell of wet cement and diesel heavy in the afternoon heat. You buy oranges. Four of them, their skins dimpled and bright.

You don’t write down the date or make a vow. The thought just surfaces less. When the next headache comes, a tight band from staring at the debugger for six hours straight, you drink two glasses of water from the blue Bisleri bottle on your desk and stand on your balcony for ten minutes. The neighbor’s washing machine thumps through the shared wall. You count the thumps until the pain recedes to a dull hum.

Three months later, you’re walking that same long route every evening. You know the security guard at the white apartment building nods at 7:15, and that the stray dog near the paan shop prefers the left side of the road. You start noticing the temperature drop, a real chill coming into the Bangalore air after sunset. You buy a grey hoodie from a street vendor for two hundred rupees. It’s too big and smells faintly of incense.

The real change is smaller. It’s your friend Rohan, who you meet for mutton rolls on Sundays, asking why you’re never on Slack past ten anymore. You shrug and say you’re just tired. He doesn’t press. You don’t explain the fear, the specific weight of that second pill in your palm that one Tuesday. You don’t have to.

You finish your oranges. The peels sit in a neat spiral on the counter.