But the excitement bubbling inside me was enough to override logic or comfort. I wasn’t picky—as long as something moved on tracks and headed toward Rajasthan, I was in. I booked a Sleeper Coach ticket without a second thought. No regrets.

Whenever I travel, I always select “SL”—side lower berth—as my preferred spot. It’s a personal favorite. There’s something oddly satisfying about having that stretch of space to yourself, especially during the day. The regular upper, middle, and lower berths are too… communal. You’re squeezed between strangers, silently negotiating elbow space, pretending to enjoy awkward small talk while trying not to fall off the edge of civility. But with side lower? You get your own little kingdom—until, of course, an aunty politely points at her upper berth and explains how her back doesn’t cooperate with altitude.

Still, it’s worth it. Day journeys on side lower are peaceful, and that peace is sacred—until proven otherwise.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of procrastination. Classic me. I told myself I’d start packing soon. Five minutes. Ten. Okay, maybe after one more reel. Before I knew it, hours had passed, and I had become one with the couch, lost in an endless scroll of half-baked content and digital noise.

It wasn’t until the next day that I finally dragged myself to start packing. Now, I’m not what you’d call a “methodical” packer. I operate more like a human tornado. Clothes tossed, bags half-zipped, socks mysteriously vanishing. It’s chaos with a hint of denial. I stood in the middle of the mess, staring at my belongings like they were foreign objects, until my brain declared a strike and walked off the job.

I might’ve happily ignored it all for another hour, maybe two, if not for my mother’s intervention. One sharp glance from her—followed by a classic scolding —and suddenly I was folding shirts with the discipline of a military cadet.

Packing, for me, has never been a task—it’s a full-blown internal crisis. I stood in my room, staring blankly at two shirts that were almost the same, save for a minor difference in design. And yet, my brain refused to settle. Ten minutes later, I was still holding them like they were ancient relics that held the answer to the meaning of life. The same chaos repeated with watches, facewash, socks… anything that required a decision. My brain treats every tiny decision like it holds the fate of the universe.

By the time I was done, my bed looked like a battlefield, with clothes scattered like fallen soldiers and my patience lying somewhere underneath them. Still, somehow, the bags were packed.

My little essentials bag—my favorite—sat neatly beside the bigger one. It always came with me. Inside, a half-read novel with a folded corner, a small diary that carried more intentions than entries, a couple of pens I probably wouldn’t use, a few instant coffee and tea sachets tucked in like treasures, some basic medicines, a can of energy drink and a stash of snacks .

Both bags rested quietly by the door, like they too were counting the hours. Tomorrow was near. And in a strange way, it felt like tomorrow was waiting for me just as much as I was waiting for it.