The first day of Tara's "break from the world" began at 11:47 AM — because she firmly believed mornings were a scam created by overly enthusiastic productivity YouTubers.
She rolled out of bed with the grace of a retired cat, opened her curtains just enough to feel like she participated in daylight, and headed straight to the kitchen. The familiar sound of her mother peeling vegetables with quiet fury greeted her.
"Tara," her mom said, without turning around. "Did you apply for the bank job your chitti sent?"
Tara took a deep breath, poured herself a cup of tea, and answered like a soldier going into battle.
"No."
This was the fourth job lead in two weeks — and the fourth one she had no intention of applying to.
"I'm taking a break," she added, casually stirring her tea as if this was a normal thing to say in an Indian household.
Her mother turned to face her, knife in one hand, half-peeled potato in the other. "A break? From what?"
"Life. Expectations. LinkedIn."
"You don't even have a job to take a break from."
"Exactly," Tara sipped dramatically. "I'm stopping before I crash."
Her mom muttered something under her breath that included the words "useless degree" and "spoiled generation." Tara chose peace and left the kitchen — not before grabbing a Parle-G.
Back in her room, Tara pulled out a cheap, spiral-bound notebook she bought last night. It wasn't pretty, but it was hers. On the first page, she wrote:
"Things I Actually Want To Do (but never do because I'm always tired, anxious, broke, or expected to be useful)"
She stared at the page for a while. The silence felt heavy — not sad, but unfamiliar. She'd never just… sat with herself without a deadline, notification, or someone asking, "What are you doing these days?"
After a minute, she scribbled:
Paint something. Anything. Don't delete it halfway.
Try yoga. Or at least pretend to.
Don't open Instagram until 6 PM.
Forgive yourself for not being "that girl."
She closed the notebook, satisfied. Day One: Begun.
She hadn't even picked up her brush when her phone buzzed.
Rhea: I'm eloping. Don't freak out. I'll explain later. Please don't tell your mom.
Tara stared at it, blinking.
First thought: Is this a joke?
Second thought: Oh god, it's Rhea. This could be anything.
She put down her cup, forgot the chai entirely, and walked to the door — not really sure what she was expecting. Her eyes scanned the corridor through the peephole. Nothing.
Still barefoot, she unlocked the latch, then stood there for a moment with her arms folded, like a tired getaway driver waiting for the bride to jump from a balcony.
Nothing happened.
She sighed, closed the door, locked it again, and muttered, "Dramatic little gremlin."
Still… she didn't touch her chai for another half hour.
She tossed her phone aside, finally dipped her brush in blue, and started to paint on the back of an old Amazon box. She didn't know what she was painting — just that it felt nice to do something that didn't involve checking off other people's boxes.
That evening, as the sun slipped behind the buildings and her hands were streaked with color, Tara sat on her balcony with a second cup of tea. The painting was messy, not great, and entirely hers.
For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel useless.
She didn't feel productive either.
She just felt… present.
And for Day One, that was enough.