Lia reached the meeting point first.
She stood near the corner of the old street, phone clenched tightly in her hand, eyes scanning every passing face even though she already knew he wouldn't be there. The air felt heavier here, like the place itself remembered things it didn't want to let go of.
When Aryan arrived, she noticed it instantly—
He looked tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep fixes, but the kind that comes from carrying worry for too long.
They didn't greet each other properly. No hugs. No smiles. Just a quiet nod that said we're both here for the same reason.
"Let's go," Aryan said, his voice low.
They walked toward Nani Rahnima's neighborhood together.
The place looked the same—and that somehow made it worse.
The same narrow lanes. The same cracked walls. The same doors that had once opened for Zayan and now stayed shut like they had never known him at all.
Lia's chest tightened as they stopped the first passerby.
"Excuse me," she asked, carefully. "Do you know Zayan? He lived here… with Rahnima aunty."
The man frowned, thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"He left," he said. "Months ago."
Aryan stepped forward. "Do you know where he went?"
The man pointed vaguely down the road.
"Bus station. After that—no idea."
They heard the same answer again.
And again.
And again.
Every door they knocked on closed a little than the last. Every name mention felt like it faded more.
"He went to the bus station."
"Never came back."
"No one saw him again."
Lia's hands started shaking.
She turned away once, pressing her fingers into her palm, trying to steady herself. Her breathing grew shallow.
What if they were too late?
What if the world had already swallowed him whole?
Aryan wasn't doing much better.
He asked questions mechanically now, voice steady but eyes hollow. Zayan had always been there. Loud when he needed to be, quiet when it mattered. The thought of him being gone—truly gone—felt impossible.
Yet every answer pushed that impossibility closer to reality.
Then—
"Are you looking for Zayan?"
They turned sharply.
The man standing there looked older than he remembered himself being. His shoulders were slumped, his face lined with regret rather than age.
"Yes," Lia said instantly. "Do you know him?"
The man exhaled deeply, shame flooding his expression.
"I was his landlord," he admitted. "The room he rented. Or… tried to."
Aryan's heart sank.
The man looked away.
"I shouldn't have kicked him out," he said quietly. "He was just a kid. Lonely. Barely holding himself together."
Lia felt something crack inside her.
"He never complained," the man continued. "Never argued. Just nodded… like he expected it. Like the world had already told him he wasn't welcome."
Aryan swallowed hard.
"Where did he go after that?"
The man shook his head slowly.
"The world ahead of him is cruel," he said. "Crueler than any of us admit. And whatever happened… it already happened. I can't undo it."
Lia's voice trembled.
"Please," she whispered. "Anything."
The man hesitated, then spoke again.
"He used to go to bars," he admitted. "Drank. Smoked. Not to enjoy it—more like to forget. But even that didn't last."
Aryan stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"One day," the man said, "he just stopped coming. He quit. Completely. And after that… I never saw him again."
The silence that followed felt endless.
Then the man added, "There might be someone who knows more."
Hope flared painfully.
He took them to a bar—dim lights, stale air, the smell of old regrets clinging to every surface.
Lia's stomach churned.
They showed Zayan's picture.
The bartender squinted, then shook his head.
"He hasn't been here in a long time."
Another man leaned over.
"Yeah," he said. "That kid? He quit long ago."
Quit.
As if walking away from that place meant something better had replaced it.
But no one knew where he went.
No one knew where he ended up.
They walked out of the bar into the night, streetlights flickering like they were unsure whether to stay on or give up.
Lia stopped.
She pressed her hands to her face, breathing uneven.
"I'm scared," she admitted, her voice breaking. "I've already lost people once. I can't— I can't lose him too."
Aryan stared at the road ahead, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
"He's my brother," he said hoarsely. "Not by blood. But closer than that."
His phone buzzed.
Lia's parents.
She didn't answer at first.
When she finally did, the argument was inevitable.
"You need to come back."
"This isn't your responsibility."
"You're being reckless."
Her voice rose, cracked, shattered.
"You don't understand," she said. "He matters."
But they didn't listen.
They never did.
Aryan watched as she ended the call, tears streaming down her face.
"I have to go," she whispered. "They won't stop."
Aryan nodded slowly.
"I know."
They stood there, two people broken in different ways by the same absence.
They came back without Zayan.
Without answers.
Without peace.
And that hurt more than anything else.
Because not knowing where someone is…
Is worse than knowing they're gone.