After talking to Danish, I placed my phone on the bedside table the way one places a cursed object—carefully, deliberately, and with the quiet hope that it would not come back to haunt me.
Enough human interaction for today.
This was my time.
Netflix time.
Tom Cruise time—because if I was going to ignore reality, I preferred someone else risking his life on my behalf. Also, watching him move like the laws of physics had a crush on him felt strangely healing. I told myself it was purely cinematic appreciation, but if confidence had a body, it would look exactly like that—and yes, it was doing wonders for my mood.
I changed into my comfort clothes, an outfit best described as emotionally unavailable but physically relaxed, and arranged my pillows into what could only be called a low-budget home theatre. Satisfied, I hit play.
Five minutes in, my soul whispered, Something is missing.
I paused the movie.
Popcorn. Obviously.
Because what kind of monster watches a movie without popcorn? Certainly not me—a woman with standards.
I marched into the kitchen, briefly admiring my one-bedroom apartment. One room. One kitchen. Fully furnished. Within budget. And most importantly—no roommates, no landlords hovering like unpaid ghosts, and no relatives dropping in with unsolicited career advice.
A sacred space where I paid rent, but my overthinking brain lived completely free of charge.
Just as the popcorn kernels began exploding like they had personal grudges, my phone vibrated.
I froze.
No. Absolutely not.
I had not signed up for Episode Two of People Ruining My Peace.
I picked up the phone with the enthusiasm of someone answering a spam call.
Caller ID: Social Butterfly Calling.
Fantastic.
"Hello, Ma. What's up?" I said.
"I'm fine."
There it was.
Two words.
Zero truth.
Maximum damage.
"You don't sound fine," I said instantly. "Why do you sound like that? Everything okay at home?"
Please say yes. Please say yes normally. With confidence. With punctuation.
There was a pause.
A long one.
Ah yes. The pause. The pause always means something is absolutely not fine.
"Yes… everything is fine."
Congratulations, my brain announced. Anxiety level unlocked.
"Ma, you're scaring me now."
"Your exams are over, right?" she asked.
Why are we changing topics? Why does this feel like a slow emotional ambush?
"Yes. They're done."
"Then when are you coming home?"
Oh.
This was that kind of call.
"Home? Why?" I asked carefully. "Is something wrong?"
Say no. Say no casually. Say it like it's not a trap.
"No, no. Nothing is wrong," she replied. "We'll talk when you come."
And there it was.
We'll talk later.
The emotional equivalent of a cliffhanger season finale.
"Talk about what?"
Please don't say relatives. Please don't say rishtas. Please don't say 'just come'.
"Just come home first, baby."
Translation:
Come prepared. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually.
"Okay… I'll book the tickets," I said, forcing my voice to stay calm.
I will also mentally prepare for every worst-case scenario known to mankind.
"Good. Come soon."
Soon.
Not alarming at all.
"Ma…"
Maybe—just maybe—I could still extract information. A hint. A clue. Anything.
"Yes?"
"Everything really is okay, right?"
Blink twice if it's a marriage discussion.
"Yes, beta. Don't worry," she said softly.
Too late.
"Okay. Take care."
"You too."
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
Wow. Truly inspirational communication.
As a certified overthinker—with years of unpaid experience—my brain immediately began working overtime. I tried to stop it.
Stop it. Shut up. You'll find out when you get home. Until then, no imaginary disasters allowed.
Naturally, my brain ignored me.
Over the next few days, I booked my ticket home, packed clothes for situations I hadn't been invited to yet, and mentally rehearsed conversations I didn't want to have.
Somewhere between anxiety spirals and emotional preparedness, Dristi messaged me, insisting we meet at a new café in the neighborhood. Apparently, it was important.
Honestly, if life was determined to confuse me, the least I deserved was coffee strong enough to numb my anxiety.
Because when adulthood hits without warning, the only reliable survival strategy is caffeine, sarcasm, and pretending—very convincingly—that everything is fine.