He ate slowly, eyes fixed on the screen.
The world of fights, friendships, and impossible dreams felt easier to understand than real people did.
Every few minutes, though, his eyes drifted to the phone lying beside him — still no notification, no message from Priyanshi.
He sighed, pressed pause, then resumed again, pretending he didn't care.
By 4:30, the last scene faded. He set the tablet aside, crumbs on his shirt, his brain half buzzing with the anime and half with quiet thoughts he didn't want to chase.
He stretched, glanced at the phone once more, and muttered, "Two more hours."
The ceiling fan kept turning lazily, and somewhere beneath all the noise and stillness, his thoughts kept spinning faster.
Honey lay back for a moment, the tablet's glow fading into the dimming light of the room. The sounds of the anime still echoed faintly in his head — laughter, music, the kind of energy he couldn't quite feel himself.
He stared at the ceiling, one arm under his head. The phone was right beside him, screen dark, silent.
He unlocked it once. Checked Instagram. Nothing.
He locked it again.
A sigh slipped out — half frustration, half habit. Why am I even waiting? he thought. It's not like she promised she'd text right away. She's probably still on her way home… yeah… still on the bus.
He stood up, brushed the crumbs from his clothes, and went to the table. His physics notebook lay there, open from the night before, filled with equations and scribbled notes. He pulled his chair out and sat down, flipping through the pages.
The clock read 4:47 PM.
He tried reading about motion, velocity, and vectors, but every few lines his mind slipped again — back to the bus, to Priyanshi, to what she might be doing right then. Was she looking out the window like she always did in class? Earphones in? Maybe asleep?
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. "Stop it," he muttered. "Just… study."
But that never really worked. He solved one question, then stared at the next blank space like it was some endless stretch of thought.
By 5:30, he was half done with his revision, though not much had stayed in his head. The sky outside was softer now, golden light spilling into the room.
He stretched, leaned back in the chair, and whispered to himself — "Thirty more minutes."
That was the thing about waiting — it didn't feel like waiting until you caught yourself counting time.
By 5:35, the numbers on the page had started to blur. Honey rubbed his eyes and pushed the chair back, the wooden legs creaking softly.
He looked toward the window — the light outside was warmer now, brushed with gold. The street beyond his balcony buzzed faintly: vendors calling, bikes passing, a few kids laughing somewhere down the lane.
He stood, stretched, and grabbed the few notes lying on his table. "I'll just go out for a bit," he muttered to himself.
Downstairs, the late-afternoon air was different — thick with smells of samosas, dust, and freshly cut fruit. The market was alive in that lazy way evenings often were: half chaos, half calm.
He walked past the stationery shop, paused, and went inside. The bell over the door jingled faintly. Rows of sketchbooks, pencils, and color sets lined the shelves, all familiar yet comforting.
"New mechanical pencils?" he asked.
The shopkeeper nodded, pulling a few boxes from under the counter. Honey picked one, turning it in his hand. "This one's good," he murmured. He also grabbed a few charcoal pencils and a pack of A4 sheets — the kind he liked for portraits.
At the billing counter, he added a bar of chocolate, almost as an afterthought.
Outside, the sun had almost set. The air felt lighter, cooler. He walked home slowly, the sketchpad tucked under his arm, plastic bag swinging by his side.
For a few minutes, he forgot about the waiting, about his phone, about Priyanshi. The market noise, the small interactions — they all filled the empty space in his mind.
He reached home at 6:42 PM, keys jingling as he unlocked the door. The house was quiet again, just like before. He set the bag down on the table, unwrapped his purchases, and smiled faintly at the new pencils.
His phone lay where he had left it — screen still dark.
But he didn't check it. Not yet.
He went to fill a glass of water instead, the faint sound of it pouring breaking the silence. Somewhere in the corner of the room, the phone buzzed once — softly, almost politely — but Honey didn't turn around.
By 6:50, the light outside had melted into that in-between hour — not day, not night. The window glowed orange for a moment before the color slipped away, leaving the room wrapped in a soft dimness.
Honey sat cross-legged on the floor, unpacking the paper bag he'd brought from the market. The faint rustle of the plastic echoed in the room. He placed everything carefully on the low table — the new pencils, the charcoal sticks, the sketch pad that smelled faintly of pressed paper.
He pulled one pencil out, testing it against the corner of an old page. The graphite slid smooth, effortless. A few quick strokes — a curve, a shadow, the hint of a face. He didn't know what he was drawing, maybe not even trying to draw anything specific — just letting his hand move.
The house wasn't silent anymore. From the kitchen came the sound of oil sizzling, a spoon clinking against a steel pan. The familiar, homely chaos. He heard his mother's faint voice talking to someone — probably a neighbor, or maybe just to herself.
He stood up, walked toward the kitchen doorway, and leaned against the frame.
"Maa, what's for dinner?" he asked.
She turned briefly, smiling, her hands moving fast over the pan. "Lauki and dal. Simple food for a complicated boy."
Honey chuckled, shaking his head. "That's not fair. I didn't even ask for anything fancy."
"Good," she said, turning back to stir the dal. "Because fancy means more work for me."
He smiled, leaning against the door. "Need help?"
"Help? You? You'll burn the kitchen down," she teased, without looking back.
"Rude," he said under his breath, grinning. "I can at least cut salad."
She glanced at him then, pretending to think. "Hmm. Fine. Cut cucumber. But thin, haan. Not like those thick pieces you call 'modern art.'"
Honey grabbed a knife, sat at the counter, and started slicing the cucumber — thin, uneven circles that somehow looked better than usual tonight. The smell of dal filled the air, soft and warm, mixing with the faint hum of the ceiling fan.
"You were late today," his mother said casually.
"Yeah," he replied, still slicing. "Went to the market. Needed new pencils and sheets."
"Always pencils," she said with a sigh, though there was a softness in it. "You'll turn the whole house into a drawing book one day."
He laughed quietly. "You won't complain when I become famous."
She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Hmm. Let's see that first."
They both laughed lightly, and for a brief moment, everything felt easy — no school noise, no overthinking, no heavy silence. Just the sound of food cooking and words that didn't need effort.
The pressure cooker hissed once. The smell of fresh coriander filled the room.
"Go wash your hands. Dinner will be ready in five minutes," his mother said, still stirring.
"Okay, okay," Honey replied, placing the knife down. He looked around the kitchen once more — the steam curling up from the pot, the small glow of the gas flame, the way his mother hummed softly to herself while cooking.
Something about it all felt grounding, familiar. Safe.
He walked back to his room, wiping his hands on a towel, the faint traces of cucumber still on his fingertips. The desk light was still on, falling softly over his new sketchpad. The phone on the corner blinked once — a quiet notification. But Honey didn't notice.
He opened the pad again, tracing the faint lines he had started earlier. His mind was calm, almost peaceful — his world now reduced to the sound of his pencil scratching and the kitchen calling him for dinner.
By the time the clock hit 7:25, Honey's pencil had slowed. The lines on the page were soft now, uncertain — shadows of thoughts rather than drawings. He leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms until his joints popped. The smell of fresh dal drifted from the kitchen again, warm and comforting, like an invisible call.
"Maa!" he shouted. "Can I bring the plate here and eat?"
"No chance!" came her voice, sharp but smiling. "You'll spill everything on your bed again. Come out."
Honey groaned, pushing the chair back. "It was one time," he muttered, though even he couldn't keep from smiling.
He turned off the desk lamp, stepped into the brighter light of the dining area, and found his mother setting plates — two simple steel ones, still warm from washing. Steam curled from the bowl of dal in the center, along with the faint aroma of cumin and ghee.
"Smells good," he said, sitting down.
"It should," she replied, ladling dal onto his rice. "You only come alive when there's food involved."
Honey chuckled. "Food doesn't argue with me. That's why I like it."
His mother gave him a look — half amusement, half mock scold. "You and your dialogues. Eat before it gets cold."
They ate in the easy silence of people who didn't need to fill every space with words. Now and then she'd ask, "How was school?" or "Any homework left?" and he'd answer simply, just enough. When he mentioned that he'd gone to buy new pencils, she smiled faintly and said, "You'll never get tired of those things, hmm?"
He shrugged. "They're cheaper than therapy."
She laughed, shaking her head. "Then buy more pencils."
The ceiling fan hummed overhead. Somewhere outside, a scooter rumbled past. The world felt both far and near — quiet, slow, ordinary.
After dinner, Honey washed his plate and wiped the counter without being asked. His mother noticed, said nothing, but smiled to herself while putting the leftovers away.
"Going to your room?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, drying his hands. "Might draw a little. Or play something."
"Hmm. Don't stay up too late. And—" she paused, turning toward him— "keep your phone on silent if you're going to play. That game sound gives me a headache."
"Okay, okay," Honey said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Goodnight, Maa."
"Goodnight, beta."