~04

College ends at four, and by then my brain feels like someone has squeezed every bit of logic out of it. The last lecture is heavy and the assignment is complex. I like it, of course, complexity fascinates me. But fascination doesn't cancel exhaustion.

I walk out of the lab with Ritvik beside me. We've just spent an hour debugging a compiler assignment that refuses to behave.

"Bro remind me again," Ritvik groans, rolling his shoulders, "why did we choose Computer Science. "

"Because we thought we're geniuses. " I say.

"And now?"

"Now it's proving us wrong."

He laughed loudly, earning a glare from a professor passing by.

We grab our bags from the rack and head toward the exit gate.

Outside, the traffic screams in layers of honks, engines, vendors shouting. Typical city chaos. But somehow after the constant hum of code and machine noise, it feels odly comforting.

Both of us come from comfortable lives. More than comfortable actually. Our fathers are business partners, well known in their circles, and our houses are barely two lanes apart in the same upscale neighborhood. Money has never been the issue. Time has.

Our college sits on the opposite end of the city. Travelling every day means wasting four hours, and our course doesn't forgive lost time. Labs stretch late, projects demand nights, and deadlines arrive like uninvited guests.

And at home, silence doesn't exist.

So the decision is simple.

"Stay near college. Focus. Come home on weekends."

So now we share a rented apartment in a four-storey pale blue building, tucked into a quieter lane not far from campus.

Independence. Discipline. Responsibility. They say it will help us grow.

They were not wrong.

Except they didn't calculate how expensive groceries are when you have to buy them yourself.

We reach the flat, unlock the door, and the familiar smell of stored notebooks, carpet dust, and leftover coffee greets us.

Ritvik tosses his bag onto the couch like it has personally offended him.

"Bro, I swear practical submissions will kill me before coding does."

"They're working together," I say while sitting on the couch."Team effort."

"You're emotionally unavailable."

"I'm academically traumatized."

Ritvik snorts and tosses a cushion at me.

A little while after freshning up, we go to the kitchen. Ritvik takes the leftover rice out off the fridge, looks at me, and says with a small grin, "Fried rice?"

"Proper fried rice," I warn. "Not experimental fried rice like last time."

"That was innovation." He shoot back.

"That was edible revenge." I said while rolling my eyes.

He grins and switches on the stove. Garlic hits the pan, oil sizzles, and for once, the flat smells like actual food instead of desperation.

While chopping vegetables, Ritvik eyes me suspiciously.

"You're quiet today."

"I'm tired."

"That's not your tired face. That's your overthinking philosopher face."

"Please," I say. "I reserve philosophy for debugging errors."

He smirks,"Sure. Mr. Naksh-the-future-tech-tycoon. Rich kid struggling with onions."

"At least I know how to code," I shoot back.

"Barely. The compiler rejected you today like a bad resume."

I throw a napkin at him. "Coming from a guy whose presentation slides are still imaginary. "

"Visionary," he corrects."I visualize success."

"You're father would disown you if he heard that."

"Bold of you to assume he doesn't already."

Dinner is chaotic, sarcastic, and somehow comforting.

Later, while he scrolls through memes, I open the new project sheet.

Database design.

Deadline: Monday.

Weightage: Terrifying.

"You're starting it now?" Ritvik groans.

"Yes."

"Please tell me you hate happiness."

"I hate panic more."

He looks at me with a deadpan expression, then ignores me and buries himself in his phone again.

As I began writing, my phone rings.

Mom ❤️ calling.

I stare at the screen for few seconds before answering.

"Hello mom."

"Hello beta, come home for dinner tomorrow," she says softly.

"Mom," I say gently, "I can't. I have a project to submit. Next week pakka aaunga."

There's a pause.

And then a quiet, understanding hmm.

She never express disappointed loudly. She never has to.

"It's okay," she says."Just eat properly. And keep your room clean."

"It is clean," I lie smoothly.

"Ask Ritvik to call his mother," she says he forgets."

"I'll tell him".

"Hmm and take care, Love you Beta,bye".

" I'll. Love you too, mom, bye".

When the call ends, something heavy settles in my chest.

Living away isn't loneliness.

It's measurable distance.

Ritvik looks up from his phone."My mom called too."

"She wants you home?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

"You going?"

He falls back on the bed. "No".

We didn't say it out loud. But guilt sits between us, quiet, familiar.

Our mothers used to care for us and serve food on the plates we never noticed.

And now, now we cook half burnt food at mid-night and call it independence.

We work till late, two laptops open, one charger shared,  notebooks scattered everywhere. A random lofi track plays in the background.

Around midnight Ritvik looks at me.

"You okay? You're unusually quiet today."

"I'm just thinking."

"Dangerous habit."

"Necessary one."

"About what?"

I shrug.

Deadlines. Pressure. Expectations.

And may be a girl who sketches buildings like they're alive.

But I didn't say that.

"Just work." I reply.

He looks at me but said nothing.  He doesn't push me.

Some friendship understand silence.

We finally sleep around 3A.M, not because work is done, but because our eyes give up.

As sleep take over, my last thought isn't about college or projects.

Its about a girl sitting quietly, sketching not beauty but belonging.

Someone who doesn't know her presence has reached beyond her sketchbook.

And strangely, that awareness follows me into sleep.

Not love.

Not affection.

Just something that has begun silently.

── .✦