The next morning arrived far too early for someone who had emotionally prepared herself for greatness, not sunrise.
I woke up like a zombie who had been personally attacked by time. My alarm rang, my soul left my body, and for a brief, dangerous moment, I considered pretending I had never agreed to this trip and simply continuing my life as a blanket burrito. My eyes burned. My limbs refused cooperation. The universe had the audacity to expect me to function before the sun had fully woken up.
But then I remembered.
Ahmedabad.
New city.
New life.
New chaos.
That thought alone injected a strange kind of electricity into my veins.
I sat up, hair resembling a crime scene, excitement fighting sleep inside me like two siblings wrestling in a small room. I was grumpy—extremely grumpy—but underneath the irritation was anticipation so loud it made my chest feel tight. Today wasn't just a travel day. It was a departure. From comfort. From routine. From being the girl who stayed.
My bags were already packed—after three mental breakdowns, one dramatic farewell to my teddy bears, and my mother yelling "YOU ARE NOT MOVING COUNTRIES" at least twice. I dragged my suitcase out, blinking aggressively at the clock, muttering curses at early mornings and train schedules that had zero respect for my sleep cycle.
By the time I reached the railway station, I was half-awake and fully dramatic.
The platform buzzed with movement—families, vendors, announcements echoing in distorted clarity. I stood there with my bags, shoulders slumped, eyes puffy, but heart weirdly full. It hit me then.
This was it.
I was standing on a railway platform with my life packed into suitcases, dreams stuffed somewhere between clothes and chargers, ready to step into something unknown. It felt cinematic. Emotional. Slightly terrifying. Exactly like something that should be happening to a main character.
The only problem?
I was sleepy. And grumpy. And emotionally fragile.
I checked the platform number again. And again. And again—because anxiety demands confirmation even when logic says it's unnecessary.
And then I saw it.
The train.
Slowly. Painfully slowly.
Like it was on a casual stroll, taking in the scenery, having a personality crisis.
I squinted. "That... that cannot be the superfast express."
The irony offended me on a personal level.
SUPERFAST EXPRESS, MY FOOT.
It approached like a tired turtle with zero urgency, and I stood there watching it crawl in, jaw clenched, muttering, "I woke up at an ungodly hour for THIS?"
But still—my heart started racing.
The train finally stopped, and suddenly the noise, the movement, the reality of it all surged forward. I took a deep breath, adjusted my bag, and climbed aboard. Each step felt symbolic, even though my foot almost missed one and my life flashed before my eyes for half a second.
Inside, I found my seat, shoved my bags where they belonged after fighting gravity and physics, and finally sat down.
I exhaled.
Okay. I was on the train. Progress.
I closed my eyes briefly and did what any rational person would do in that moment.
I prayed.
"Dear universe," I whispered internally, hands clasped dramatically, "please. PLEASE. Let this be a peaceful journey. No disasters. No drama. No unexpected character development. I am tired."
And—shockingly—for once in my life?
The universe listened.
The train moved. Time passed. Nothing exploded. Nobody argued. No crying children nearby. No loud uncles discussing politics at full volume. I ate my snacks. I scrolled mindlessly. I even slept.
Peacefully.
It felt illegal.
Of course, the calm couldn't last forever.
Somewhere in the middle of the journey, peace betrayed me.
My phone buzzed violently against the seat, the sound sharp and aggressive, like it had personal issues with my sleep. I groaned, one eye cracking open in pure irritation, and immediately regretted my life choices when I saw my father's face flashing on the screen.
Oh no.
I answered without thinking, voice low and hostile, a perfect mix of sleep and suffering. "WHAT."
His face filled the screen instantly, concern written all over it. "Are you fine?"
"Yes."
"Did you reach?"
"I'm on the train."
"Did you fall?"
"No."
"Are you sitting properly?"
"Yes."
"Did you create any problems?"
"No."
"Did someone trouble you?"
"No."
"Did you trouble someone?"
I sighed deeply, patience hanging by a thread. "WHY WOULD I—"
That's when I noticed her.
The little girl sitting beside me.
She couldn't have been more than ten. Sitting alone, back straight, eyes wide and attentive, listening with intense focus to every word coming out of my phone. And suddenly—based entirely on my father's interrogation—I could feel it.
Judgment.
Hard, silent, devastating judgment.
She looked at me like I was a public menace. Like I was one loud sentence away from being escorted off the train.
"Papa," I hissed, lowering my voice aggressively, "KEEP IT DOWN."
He leaned closer to the camera, completely unbothered. "Why?"
"BECAUSE," I whispered sharply, "THE CHILD NEXT TO ME THINKS I'M A CRIMINAL."
The girl tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit.
I glared at her.
She glared back.
It was a full-blown silent standoff—two souls locked in mutual distrust.
"Misha," my father said loudly, choosing violence, "be careful. Don't fall. Don't fight. Don't lose your bag."
"I AM FINE," I snapped, mortified. "I HAVEN'T COMMITTED ANY CRIMES YET."
The girl's eyebrows rose slowly, like she was mentally updating her opinion of me.
I smiled at her.
Fake. Tight. Slightly threatening.
That was it. I ended the call immediately, cheeks burning, pride in critical condition. I turned slightly toward the girl. She was still staring.
I stared back.
She looked away first.
Victory.
I slumped back into my seat, muttering, "Mind your business," as quietly as my dignity allowed. Pulling my blanket up, I closed my eyes again, determined to sleep through the rest of the journey before my reputation suffered any more irreversible damage.
Five hours later, the train began to slow, the steady clatter of wheels surrendering to a long, dramatic screech.
Ahmedabad.
My heart leapt like it had been personally summoned. This was it. New city. New life. New version of me who was definitely going to be graceful.
I grabbed my bags, stood up, and merged into the human traffic inching toward the exit. The doors opened. The platform appeared. Fresh, unfamiliar air smacked my face like a welcome slap.
And then—
My foot slipped.
Not a fall. Not a stumble.
A betrayal.
Time slowed.
My bag flew out of my hand as if it had achieved consciousness and decided it wanted freedom. It hit the floor with a loud THUD, slid dramatically, and took another bag with it. That bag knocked into a third one. The third collided with a fourth.
Within seconds, the platform had turned into a luggage crime scene.
Bags toppled. A tiffin rolled. A water bottle escaped and went rogue. Someone's suitcase fell flat like it had fainted. A man yelped. A woman gasped. Somewhere behind me, a child laughed—laughed—at my suffering.
"Oh—OH NO—WAIT—STOP—" I shouted, crouching mid-chaos like I could physically negotiate with gravity.
Someone yelled something furious in Gujarati. Another voice went, "Oh my god!" A bag clipped my ankle. I almost slipped again, which would've officially made this a sequel.
"I'M SO SORRY," I cried, grabbing a bag that was absolutely not mine and shoving it toward the nearest human. "THIS WAS NOT INTENTIONAL. I PROMISE I'M NOT A MENACE."
The man I apologized to stared at me like I had personally attacked his lineage.
"I swear I don't usually cause public disasters," I said, panicked, hair everywhere, soul evaporating.
He nodded slowly.
The nod of a man who had seen things.
By the time the chaos settled, I stood there holding my bags, breathing like I'd just run a marathon, surrounded by mildly traumatized passengers and one smug child who would definitely remember this forever.
That's when it hit me.
Ahmedabad hadn't even fully met me yet— and I had already announced my arrival with a full-scale luggage riot.
My fingers shook slightly as I unlocked my phone.
I scrolled. Found her name.
Kiara.
I didn't even let the call ring properly.
She picked up almost instantly—and the moment she did, something inside me snapped.
"BITCH I AM HEREEEEEEEEEEEE."
The entire railway station froze.
People stopped walking. Heads turned. A chaiwala paused mid-pour. Birds probably evacuated the area. Somewhere in the cosmic realm, the universe flinched and whispered, not her again.
"MISHA—STOP—ARE YOU OKAY—" Kiara's voice exploded through the phone.
"I SURVIVED," I announced dramatically. "I FELL. I DIDN'T DIE. MY BAGS CAUSED A RIOT."
There was a beat of silence. Then—"CALM DOWN," she shouted back. "GET OUT OF THE STATION. THE AUTO IS WAITING."
"I AM COMING," I said, dragging my suitcase aggressively. "BUT I AM EMOTIONAL."
I hung up before she could say anything sensible and began hauling my bags toward the exit, adrenaline still buzzing in my veins. My heart was racing, my dignity was somewhere on platform two, and yet—somehow—I was smiling.
The moment I dropped into the auto, something shifted.
The chaos faded. The noise softened. The city started moving around me—new roads, unfamiliar buildings, signs I didn't recognize. Ahmedabad felt strange, but not hostile. There was a quiet excitement settling in my chest, like a promise I hadn't opened yet.
And then we reached the address.
She was standing there.
Kiara.
Waiting.
I didn't think. Thinking has never been my strength.
I jumped out of the auto, threw my bags aside like they had personally betrayed me, and launched myself at her. She barely had time to react before I wrapped myself around her like a koala with severe abandonment issues.
"DON'T LEAVE ME," I yelled into her shoulder. "I AM A DELICATE PANDA."
She laughed, arms tightening around me. "You're dramatic."
"I AM EMOTIONALLY DISPLACED," I insisted.
Our reunion quickly turned into spinning, laughing, talking over each other, and almost falling—twice. Eventually, between giggles and complaints about my luggage, we hauled my bags upstairs to the flat, breathless and grinning.
The moment we stepped inside, my body gave up.
I dumped myself onto the couch like I'd just returned from war, bags still abandoned somewhere near the door, shoes half off, dignity fully missing. I didn't even breathe properly before the words started spilling.
"OKAY FIRST OF ALL," I said, sitting up again immediately, "THE TRAIN WAS SLOW. NOT NORMAL SLOW. TORTOISE-WITH-ATTITUDE SLOW. AND THEN MY FATHER CALLED—WHICH IS NEVER A GOOD SIGN—AND HE ASKED ME IF I FELL, IF I FOUGHT SOMEONE, IF I ACCIDENTALLY STARTED A RIOT—"
Kiara nodded, calm, like this was a weather update.
"And then," I continued, waving my hands dramatically, "This little girl beside me—TEN YEARS OLD—was judging me. JUDGING. ME. LIKE I WAS A PUBLIC THREAT."
Kiara hummed. "Makes sense."
"I did not even do anything yet," I said, deeply offended. "AND THEN I ACTUALLY FELL. AT THE STATION. MY BAGS FELL. OTHER PEOPLE'S BAGS FELL. IT WAS A CHAIN REACTION. LIKE DOMINOS BUT WITH EMOTIONAL DAMAGE."
She handed me water without interrupting. A professional.
"I APOLOGIZED TO A STRANGER WHO WILL DEFINITELY TELL HIS FAMILY ABOUT ME," I added. "AND THEN I SCREAMED YOUR NAME IN PUBLIC. So if we get banned from this city, THAT'S ON YOU."
"Noted," Kiara said calmly.
Only then did I remember my parents existed.
I grabbed my phone, called home, and launched into reassurance mode. Yes, I reached. Yes, I was alive. No, I hadn't fallen again. Yes, Kiara was with me. No, I hadn't caused any disasters—yet. My mother responded with her usual sarcastic concern, reminding me to eat, sleep, and not embarrass the family name within the first twenty-four hours.
I promised everything. Obviously lying.
The call ended. My adrenaline crashed.
I finally sank back into the couch, eyes drooping, voice slowing mid-sentence. "Anyway... if I disappear... tell my story..."
Kiara laughed as I curled up like a defeated cat.
And within minutes, after all that chaos, I fell asleep—hard—right there, rant unfinished, soul temporarily at peace.
I woke up disoriented, face pressed into a cushion that definitely wasn't mine, brain taking a solid ten seconds to remember where I was.
Ahmedabad.
Right.
Before I could fully sit up, my phone buzzed like it had personal beef with me. Notifications. Too many. I squinted at the screen.
College group chat.
Rohan: WHERE DID YOU DISAPPEAR
Nandini: MISHA ARE YOU ALIVE
Anushka: She definitely ran away from responsibility
Saumya: Guys calm down, she probably overslept
Daksh: You okay?
I smiled, thumbs flying.
Me: ALIVE. BREATHING. IN AHMEDABAD.
Nandini: WHAT
Rohan: WHAT
Anushka: EXCUSE ME???
Me: Temporary shift. Character development. Don't cry without me.
Rohan: TOO LATE
Saumya: Proud of you
Daksh: Oh.
I locked the phone, stretched, and finally sat up, looking around the flat properly this time. Sunlight filtered in through the window. It felt... real. Like the start of something.
That's when the door clicked.
Vaani arrived.
Vaani Bhatt—Kiara's senior from college. She'd started off as the responsible guide, the "ask her, she knows things" person, and somewhere along the way had quietly turned into family. She walked in with calm confidence, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a smile that made you feel like you'd known her longer than five minutes.
"Misha?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, standing straighter like I was being inspected.
She smiled wider. "So you're the chaos."
"IN THE FLESH," I said proudly.
Dinner plans were discussed.
Poorly.
What started as "let's just eat something simple" turned into sandwiches—which apparently meant full creative liberty, zero rules, and unnecessary enthusiasm.
Vaani suddenly pulled out her phone and pointed the camera at us.
"WELCOME BACK," she announced dramatically, "TO COOKING CLASS WITH MISHA."
I gasped. "I HAVE ALWAYS DREAMED OF THIS."
"I am the chef," I declared, tying an imaginary apron around myself. "They are my assistants."
Kiara scoffed. "I refuse to be assistant."
"You don't know how to chop onions," I shot back.
"That is a personal attack."
Vaani zoomed in. "Assistant number one lacks basic survival skills."
Cooking began.
And by cooking, I mean Kiara stood dangerously close to the stove doing absolutely nothing useful, Vaani filmed everything like we were about to go viral, and I tried to maintain control like a deranged MasterChef contestant.
"WHY IS THE BREAD BURNING," Kiara yelled.
"BECAUSE YOU TOUCHED IT," I accused.
"I JUST LOOKED AT IT."
"YOUR AURA IS DAMAGING."
Vaani was laughing behind the camera. "Guys, please like, share, and subscribe. Pray for the bread."
At some point, I gave a serious explanation about sandwich layering like it was a life philosophy. Kiara dropped lettuce on the floor. Vaani narrated it like a wildlife documentary.
"And here we see the assistant making a fatal error."
Despite everything, the food turned out... edible. Shockingly so.
We sat down with our plates, still laughing, still teasing, still riding the high of shared chaos. It wasn't fancy. It wasn't perfect.
But it felt warm.
I looked around—at Kiara, at Vaani, at the messy kitchen and half-eaten sandwiches—and something clicked.
My first day in Ahmedabad ended exactly how it should have.
With noise.
With laughter.
With people.
And somehow, that felt like home already.