This silence rubs me the wrong way.
It isn't peaceful and quiet. It feels oppressive, dreary—the kind that dares you to look out for the reasons.
Beside my bed, a small brown drawer sat there. The usual piercing screech of my alarm—that cursed thing—never came. No vibrational buzz. No panic of waking up.
I sit sprawled on my bed with messy hair and limbs, tangled with the blanket. My brain buffers like an old PlayStation showing stuck screens.
One hand reaches for the alarm—the other rubbing away the comfort and hazy vision. My eyes feel heavy. It felt like my soul had risen out and entered the DSLR lying in my cupboard, but unfocused. I had been through "out of body" mornings before.
8:15 a.m.
Late.
There is no one yelling from the kitchen. No banging on the doors. No footsteps. No backup plans.
I had informed my mother yesterday to wake me up before the clock struck 8. She should have come and pulled me out of my blanket.
And—I had a flight at 9 a.m.
I overslept.
My eyes went wide and jaw dropped to the abyss of the earth. And my brain—that slow-functioning idiot—spills from infinite possibilities and overloading thoughts of what to do first.
For one glorious second, I stilled, then sprang out of my bed as if it were radioactive lava.
I looked at the alarm once again, hoping it would grant any assurance. Its gaze rested on me for a while, as if it were sitting on a chair with one leg folded over the other, enjoying the scene with warm coffee and toast.
I reached for my white towel from the closet in a hurried snap and slammed its wooden door. Then I walked toward my bathroom and closed its door with the same defiance.
I emerged from the bathroom like a soldier who returned from the border—terribly exhausted but standing determined—dripping wet with water instead of blood and a towel on my shoulder instead of a rifle.
I wiped my feet on the carpet hurriedly and sprinted toward the kitchen.
I reached for the bread packet. One hand cradled a slice, the other clutched a knife—poised to butter it. My brow furrowed. Jaw tensed. Teeth clenched together as I tried scraping the butter—but it had, unreasonably, turned into a frozen block of rebellion. Knuckles blanched around the knife's handle as I scraped—still no mercy. My face twisted, contorted into something I didn't recognize in the mirror. Then I decided to melt the butter.
THUD!
I froze—mid my sacred bread-buttering ritual. My jaw tensed, spine straight, eyes—Oh! They darted, dared to scan the room like a predator stalking prey.
My foot stepped back instinctively, sensing too many possibilities, while I turned—slow and cautious. Mid-turn, my body tilted, balance faltered, and my foot slammed the sharp edge of the dining table.
"Ouch! Ouch!..."
A stark pain emerged from my foot, traveling through every nerve like a fire that spreads—the kind that reassures destruction.
I hopped on one foot, cradling the traitorous other as if it betrayed me mid-war.
If I felt any pain, surprise, or anger—it could have been acceptable to my conscience.
But I did not.
Some creature had slipped in; its faint grey silhouette caught the corner of my eye. The curled tail—furry and defiant—questioned my very existence on Earth. She perched atop the crown of my brown sofa—Meethu.
Her posture—calm and confident—the kind that screams, "I own this place even if I enter it through the window."
Azure eyes stared into me, as if she meant to split me apart with those vertical pupils—a storm brewing in silence.
Soft white whiskers moved in a curl, as if smirk had incarnated itself in feline form.
I flinched at the furry creature's teasing sneer curling beneath her soft whiskers—I knew what she was up to.
Last time, she lunged onto my study table and made an imperial mess—coffee everywhere, including on my project.
I had to restart it from scratch.
But not today. 8:29 a.m.
I moved toward Meethu—calculated, slow, and patient.
I called her with a smile, arms flung open—a perfectly planned distraction.
With an implosive leap, she landed near the kitchen—smug and swift.
Her soft paws glided smoothly across the marble floor as she made her royal entry.
Just great. What an impetuous advancement she made! As I turned, she had made treacherous progress, close to my frozen battle—butter. Both only a few inches away. She stood there, cocky, and let out an appraising growl—low, guttural, and territorial. Her vertical pupils rested on me for a second, then at the butter block.
My lips pressed in a thin line, already mourning. A single drop of sweat trickled down my temple, and my mouth parted—but the words never made it out.
But—my hand lifted up and stopped mid-air, reflexively, as if it could control the chaos about to unfold.
With my eyes wide, eyebrows arched, and my forehead creased—I became the solitary witness to my butter's live assassination.
She dug into it with her paws, as if it were one of her known enemies.
I closed my eyes tightly in frustration, as if clenching them harder could undo what had happened.
"No, Meethu! Not today..."
Ding-dong.
Someone was at the door. I shoved aside the intrusive thoughts brewing in my head and walked toward it.
As the door swung open, I found Mrs. Geeta Rathore—my neighbor. She stood there with beads of sweat glistening on her furrowed brows, like fine droplets condensed on the chilled surface of a glass. Her hair, an impeccable blend of silvery white and ash gray, was made into a messy bun—the kind that never manages to tame all strands. Just like her pet—wild in spirit, impossible to contain.
No wonder—it's Meethu.
She peered at me through her miraculous spectacles perched at the crown of her nose and smiled.
Her hands were folded casually, damp with water; the sleeves of her red knitted wool cardigan rolled up neatly.
To keep them from getting wet.
"Beta Abhi, good morning. You look exhausted."
"I'm fine, Geeta Ma—just woke up late. That's all."
"How can I help you today, Ma?" I asked her, already knowing the reason for her arrival—but wanting to hear it anyway.
"Meethu—that mischievous little creature ran away to escape bathroom rituals. Abhishek! As if she'd rather burn calories than let me pamper her."
She said dramatically, waving her hands in the air like a soap opera actress.
"No doubt about that, Aunty," I chuckled, giving a small smile.
"She's in my kitchen. Time to hand you over her legacy of chaos."
I bowed slightly with a teasing glint in my eyes.
"You said you're late, Abhishek! I heard you have a flight at nine," she wheezed, laughing, as she gave my arm a playful smack.
"How did you know that, Aunty?" I said, matching her energy as I leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. For a fleeting second, I forgot about my flight altogether.
"Archana told me."
"Yeah, I could've guessed that."
"I'll get going. Sorry for the mess Meethu caused... And oh—your mother, Archana, told me to tell you she's doing just fine," she said, turning with Meethu squirming in her arms, struggling to escape.
I watched their fading silhouettes disappear down the lane—the same way my time was slipping away now.