Running Away, Without Leaving - Short Story

A story about burnout, breathlessness, and the tiny joys that begin to heal us.

I don't remember the last time I took a full breath.

Like—the kind that fills your lungs and clears your head. These days, all I do is inhale stress and exhale disappointment.

Every morning starts the same way. The alarm screams like it’s angry at me personally. I drag myself out of bed, brush my teeth with a grump, and iron my shirt like I’m about to meet the Prime Minister.

Pointless, really. Because the second I step out the door, Mumbai begins its daily assault.

I am already dreading the day before it even begins.

First comes the traffic—a crawling, honking, suffocating mess. I squeeze myself into a rickshaw and we inch forward at the pace of a dying snail. 

Exhaust fumes sneak into my nostrils like uninvited guests. The honking is relentless. It is like a symphony composed by angry crows with car horns.

Then comes the local train.

Source: trak.in

Ah yes, the great equalizer.

The crowd at Nalasopara station is increasing. Is there any space left to stand on this platform? 

I leap into the Churchgate fast like it’s the last chopper out of a war zone. Bodies pressed against bodies. Someone's elbow in my ribs. Someone else’s bag is in my face. My perfectly ironed shirt? Crumpled beyond recognition before I even make it past Andheri.

We sway together, this sea of humanity. We are united by misery, sweat, and the smell of coconut oil.

By the time I reach the office, I’ve fought at least two mini battles: one for space in the train, and another with a man who thought my shoulder was a great place to rest his head.

And then… the real war begins.

“Jadhav, where’s the report I asked for yesterday?”

That’s my boss. Every. Single. Day.

My boss doesn’t greet. He attacks.

No “good morning,” no smile. Just complaints dressed up as conversations.  I swear, if he ever says “good job,” the heavens might split open.

And no, the pay doesn’t make it worth it. Let’s not even go there.

The AC hums, but I still feel hot. Maybe it’s the simmering rage or the fact that my cold tiffin—rice, sabzi, two chapatis—now tastes like sadness. I eat alone. Sometimes in the stairwell, where at least I can hear myself chew.

I used to dream of switching jobs. Maybe a quieter desk job. Less drama, more respect. 

Source: Firefly AI

But have you seen the job market lately? It’s like musical chairs—except there are no chairs. It is a complete wasteland. 

Interviews are rare. The offers are worse. Just broken promises and unpaid internships for people half my age.

And I’ve got a family to feed. So I stay. Like a prisoner with a Wi-Fi password.

Home? Don’t even ask.

You’d think that would be my sanctuary. It's not. It's a battlefield.

The moment I step in, it’s war part two. 

“Your mother doesn’t respect boundaries!”

“Your wife has no sanskaar!”

My wife and my mother—like oil and fire, coexisting only to erupt.

And me? I’m the referee. No whistle. No power. Just a tired man being pulled in two directions, with no one bothering to ask how I am doing.

Then my son—my bright, moody, permanently scowling teenager—gets suspended. 

Misbehavior, backtalk, fighting. Again.

I had to sit across from the principal, nodding like a bobblehead, saying, 

“I’m sorry. We’ll take care of it at home.”

Honestly, I am tired of apologizing with a fake smile while my son looks bored out of his mind. This kid sat next to me, arms crossed, not an ounce of remorse on his face.

That night, after dinner, I lay on my bed. Lights off. Fan humming. And the thought comes—louder than ever:

What if I just… left?

Not forever. Just enough to breathe. No goodbye. No note.

Just… walked out one morning and didn’t come back.

Maybe book a lodge in Vasai. Or a cheap Airbnb in Thane. One night. No questions. No arguments. 

No “beta, listen to me.” No “you never take my side.”

Just vanished like a badly-written character in a soap opera.

I even start to pack. A shirt, my toothbrush, the charger. 

Photo by Axwell Wallets

The next morning, I stood in the mirror adjusting my tie and whispered to myself,

“Today’s the day.”

But every plan I make has a loophole.

“What about your medicines?”

“What if someone calls HR at your office?”

“What if your son gets into trouble again?”

“What if your wife breaks down and your mother falls sick and…”

I sighed. Deeply. Almost a breath.

"Maybe tomorrow," I muttered, unzipping the bag. 

And so, like always, I don’t leave.

But that Wednesday was different. I left the office earlier than usual. I took a different route home. 

I didn’t catch the 7:32 fast. I walk instead. Past a chai stall. Past a street musician playing a broken flute. Past a man laughing at something on his phone, completely unaware of my storm.

I sit at a park bench. Watch the sun dip behind buildings. Watch children run barefoot, screaming with joy.

And for the first time in a long time… I just sit.

That’s when it hits me—maybe I didn’t need to escape from everything.

Maybe I needed to escape to something.

So the next day, I did something wild. Radical.

I took a half-day. No emergency. No excuse.

I walked into a bookstore and bought a blank journal for ₹75 and started writing.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where my real escape begins.

I sat in a quiet café tucked between two garment shops—one of those places where the furniture doesn't match and the chai is served in chipped cups. It was perfect.

The first page stared at me, blank and judgmental.

I didn’t know what to write. I wasn’t a writer. I didn’t have poetic words or profound thoughts. So I just wrote what came naturally:

"I’m tired."

And then the dam broke.

I wrote about the local train madness. About my cold lunches and crumpled shirts. About my boss’s voice that followed me even in my dreams. 

About how I missed laughing. I felt invisible at home. How I sometimes envied stray dogs for their freedom.

And it felt… good.

Photo by Felicity Tai

Not fixed. Not healed. But lighter. Like I’d dropped a stone I didn’t realize I was carrying.

That became my new routine. Every couple of days, I’d steal an hour for myself. 

Sometimes I’d sit on a bench at Marine Drive and write with the waves in the background. 

Sometimes it was a café, or even the last seat of the train as it rattled past my stop.

Each entry felt like a breath.

And slowly, things started to shift.

Not dramatically. Life didn’t suddenly become a Bollywood movie where everything resolves in a musical montage. No. But I started noticing things I hadn’t before.

Like how the aunty who sells idlis outside the station always gives an extra chutney if you smile.

Or how my mother paused mid-argument one evening to ask if I wanted a second roti.

Or how my colleague shared the last piece of gulab jamun with me.

Or how my wife would reach out in bed and play with my hair absentmindedly. The same way she did when we were newly married. Her fingers, tracing tiny circles on my scalp, not saying a word.

Or how my son left a crumpled comic book on my desk with a post-it:

“This one’s cool. You’ll like it.”

Small things. And for those few seconds, it felt like the world wasn’t falling apart.

Quiet, ordinary moments that felt extraordinary because I was finally seeing them.

And maybe I didn’t need to run away to find peace. Maybe I just needed to reclaim pieces of myself, one small act at a time.

So I made a promise.

Every week, I’d take myself out. Like a date. With me.

One hour. No family drama. No office calls. No expectations.

Just a man, a notebook, and whatever version of peace I could find.

And the next time someone asked, “How are you?” I wouldn’t say “fine” out of habit.

I’d say, “Getting there.”

Because I was.