The first thing Reyan Malhotra heard that morning was his sister yelling, "Maa! Reyan's using all the hot water again!"
"I'm not even in the bathroom!" Reyan shouted back, voice groggy.
There was a pause. "Oh," Diya muttered. Then came the usual door slam.
He blinked awake, phone buzzing under his pillow. 7:21 a.m. The ceiling fan above him wobbled slightly—just enough to make him consider fixing it, and just enough for him to decide not today.
His mother, Priya Malhotra, opened the door with a single knock and the confidence of someone who knew her son wouldn't get up unless she barged in.
"Reyan beta, get up now. You'll miss the metro. And your toast's already cold."
"It was cold yesterday too," Reyan mumbled.
"So was your attendance," she shot back, and vanished down the hall.
By the time he stumbled out of bed, Diya was already at the dining table, aggressively buttering toast and reading some fantasy book that looked thicker than his chemistry textbook.
She gave him a sideways glance. "You forgot to print my project again."
"You forgot to remind me again."
"Touché. Still your fault."
Their father, Sandeep Malhotra, sat across the table, sipping chai and reading the newspaper like it personally disappointed him.
"There's a guest lecture today, right?" he asked without looking up.
"Yeah," Reyan said, yawning. "Something about antibiotics resistance. Sharma sir arranged it."
"Pay attention this time. Not like that workshop where you sent me a picture of you sleeping in the second row."
"That was educational," Reyan replied. "I learned I snore in public."
His father muttered something into his cup. His mother tapped Reyan on the back of the head with a spoon. Diya just rolled her eyes and took a bite of toast like it was a mic drop.
The metro ride to college was packed, noisy, and familiar. He found a quiet corner, headphones in, no music playing—just a good excuse to be left alone. At the Hauz Khas stop, Arjun joined him.
"BRO," Arjun said at a volume that could wake coma patients. "You have to see what I did yesterday."
"No, I really don't."
Arjun shoved his phone in Reyan's face anyway. A blurry video played—Arjun leaping off a low wall behind the science block, landing badly, and toppling sideways into a bush.
"I'm going to caption it, Gravity's a liar. Or maybe Trust fall—on myself."
"I liked it better when you were afraid of heights," Reyan muttered.
Arjun grinned. "Growth, baby."
They arrived at campus, and the usual chaos welcomed them. Dogs asleep under benches. Samosa oil in the air. A printer kiosk already out of ink.
Inside the canteen, Tanish was filming something on his phone, holding a vada pav in dramatic slow motion like it was Oscar-worthy.
"Reyan, my man!" he shouted. "Can you film me pretending to cry because the vada pav is 'too emotional'?"
"No."
"You didn't even—"
"No."
Tanish turned to the camera, eyes wide. "This is what betrayal looks like, people. Remember this face."
On the library steps, Meera sat hunched over a sketchpad, earbuds in, pencil moving like it was tracing something only she could see. Reyan walked up, nudging her foot gently.
She looked up. "Hi."
"Hi," Reyan said. "Drawing today's apocalypse?"
"Not yet. This one's just... teeth."
He blinked. "Cool."
Meera turned the page. It was mostly teeth. She smiled, like she'd made a joke he hadn't heard yet.
Then came Niyah, appearing like a caffeine-fueled storm with two phones, a laptop bag, and a mismatched pair of sneakers.
"Did you guys hear?" she said, eyes darting. "The power cut last night in South Campus? NOT an accident. I'm telling you—surveillance glitch. They were wiping something."
Reyan raised a brow. "You say that about everything."
"Because it's true about everything."
They headed into the biology wing, where Sharma sir—one of the more feared lecturers—was pacing in front of the lab with a stack of graded papers and a look that suggested someone would cry today.
"Reyan," he barked. "You called this a diagram? Looks like a crow dipped its feet in ink."
Reyan nodded solemnly. "Thank you, sir. I call it 'Mitochondria in Crisis.'"
Sharma blinked, then almost smiled. Almost.
The rest of the day was classes, coffee, a guest lecture on superbugs that Reyan half-listened to, and a long stretch in the library pretending to study while playing chess on his phone.
By evening, everyone peeled off—Arjun to the gym he never actually entered, Meera to her sketch cave, Tanish to record a monologue about "being misunderstood," and Niyah to a webinar about "Deep State Education."
Reyan took the metro back home, bread in his bag because his mother asked, and exhaustion in his limbs because life asked.
At home, dinner was simple—aloo gobi, rice, and Diya dramatically announcing her English marks like it was a presidential win.
After clearing his plate and arguing over which playlist Diya couldn't play on the speakers, Reyan went to his room, flopped on the bed, and let out a breath.
The window curtain fluttered from the breeze.
His shadow stretched across the wall, long and ordinary.
Almost.