J. Glass of water

I left the house, hopped into an auto, booked a ticket, and decided to watch a movie. Sipping my favorite cold coffee, I laughed at the absurdities of the movie. The kind of laugh that's too loud, too awkward, but it doesn't matter because the popcorn's way overpriced anyway. After the movie, stepping outside, I felt surprisingly good. No popcorn, no drama, just me and the world. I grabbed a vada pav from a street vendor. Honestly, I felt like a foodie on a mission, trying to discover the meaning of life through street food. The vada pav tasted like it was made by angels. Maybe vada pav had leveled up, or maybe I was just getting better at appreciating the simple things.

I grabbed a water bottle, and for some reason, a random thought popped into my head that made me smile. It was one of those rare moments where you realize that life, even in its mess, has a funny way of making you feel alive.

When I got back home, Mom had cooked dinner. I told her, "I'm not hungry."

She raised an eyebrow, "I made it, so you're eating it. Stop acting like you're too busy to eat."

Shraddha was already halfway through her food. I took a plate and sat down next to her. Mom was in full-on lecture mode, "If you weren't here, managing all this housework would be impossible. Thank God you help me. Divya doesn't even know how to fill her own glass of water."

Cue the awkward silence. I got up, dramatically, as if I were in a movie, and stormed to the rooftop. Because nothing says "I'm handling this well" like running away from your problems. Shraddha finished cleaning the dishes and followed me up. I was sitting on the roof with my earphones in, pretending the world didn't exist. She sat down a little farther away, like she was giving me space, but I knew it was because I was officially in my "don't talk to me, I'm deep" phase.

"What are you listening to?" she asked.

"Nothing."

She leaned in closer, probably trying to catch a glimpse of what masterpiece of music I was choosing for my emotional breakdown. I moved away and sighed, "Just ask already." I handed her one earphone, and the song started playing:

"Jo paas tere wahi tera, baaki sab moh ka fera

Tu kyun samajh na paaya, tan mitti hai, man maya?"

(What's near you is truly yours, the rest is just the illusion of desire. Why can't you understand? The body is dust, the mind is lost in illusion.)

She looked at me, eyebrows raised. "Why this song?"

"I just like it," I said. "Which part do you like?"

She blinked, obviously processing. "I thought you were upset about what your Mom said. Is that why you're listening to this dramatic, philosophical song?"

I shrugged. "Nope, she's right. I'm just... not doing enough."

She blinked again. "Do you feel bad for leaving your mom alone?"

"Don't judge me when you don't know anything," I snapped.

"I'm not judging you. I'm just asking," she said, looking genuinely confused. "You judge yourself before anyone else does, and then blame me for being wrong."

She turned to leave, but for a second, I felt a tiny pang of realization. She was right. I was my own worst critic. I didn't need anyone else to judge me because I'd already written the script in my head. The truth was, I hadn't really done anything yet. People my age were getting jobs, having actual lives, and I was just... here. My relationship with Mom was like a pressure cooker waiting to explode, and my love life? Let's just say I wouldn't win any awards for "Best in Romance." Sometimes, I thought it'd be easier to just marry someone rich. It seemed like a practical solution, honestly. Life with no struggles sounded great. But the idea of just existing like this... forever? Not so much.

Every day felt like a battle with my own frustration. Like I was stuck in a hamster wheel, running fast, but getting nowhere.