Eight in the evening (a short story)

With the view of the sea and the sky — wearing the same color and mood, the sound of birds singing their favorite song on loop, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee serving as the most beautiful wakeup call, Sid’s mornings were no less than a dream for people his age. At just 27, he was living a high life. He had built a beautiful nest in the heart of South Delhi, owned a four-storey office in Saket and switched between a shiny black BMW and a newly bought Ferrari F60 to commute. 

On weekdays, Sid spent his time at work, captivating people with his charisma. He was loved by many and envied by even more. Even the people who met him for a few minutes would think about him for hours and weeks. His presence was powerful — he was considered as addictive as morning coffee. Weekends weren’t different either, except, he would be spreading his magic in the most hep bars in the capital. He was popular for his handsome looks, agreeable personality, and great humor. With many credit cards in his wallet and a charming smile on his face, whenever he was around, both men and women would silently compete to win his attention. Wherever Sid would go, whoever Sid would meet, he was the sun, the moon, and the star. The shiniest star. 

At eight in the evening, every day, Sid would return home, divorced from the world. He would head straight to the washroom to switch to reality. There was a huge gold-framed mirror in his Pinterest-y washroom. The mirror was a contrast to the outside world. It was different from all the people he met. All of Sid’s charm and charisma, his million-dollar smile and his soaring shares in the market would fail to impress that mirror. And in front of that mirror, each evening, Sid would introspect, sometimes for a few minutes, and sometimes for over an hour. Sometimes he would feel numb. And sometimes a tear or two would fall down his cheeks.