We were on our way home, talking about everything and nothing. The kind of scattered conversations only old friends can have—jumping from old teachers to studies, from memories to memes. The city felt calmer than usual. Afternoon hours do that. Most people were either at work or indoors, avoiding the sun. Only the committed souls—the ones who truly had errands—were out.

We passed streets I didn’t recognize . I kept watching—shops, strangers, lives. After a point, we stopped talking. Eventually, the conversation faded. Not because we ran out of things to say, but because the wind in our helmets was louder than us. We gave up shouting over it

His house was on the second floor. First one was taken by the landlord. He stayed with his sister here. Both of them busy figuring out life through their respective studies. His room was simple, lived-in, and warm .

The moment we walked in, we both crashed onto like two potatoes thrown into a sack. The sun had drained us. It was one of those tired silences, like the ones we used to have after we were beaten the soul out of us by our mother at home as kids—lying still, staring , sharing the heat without saying a word. We stayed like that for a good 25–30 minutes.

It was around 5 p.m.—the sacred chai hour in every Indian household.

“I think it’s tea time,” I said, half-sitting up.

“You make it then,” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

“You make it,” I replied.

We stared at each other, both unwilling to move, both too tired to win. Eventually, after a few dramatic sighs and fake threats, we agreed to make it together. As some wars aren’t worth winning, especially when tea is at stake. So we walked into the kitchen together, like teammates facing the final boss

He took charge while I mostly stood there pretending to supervise, occasionally pointing at things like I knew what I was doing. Pretending to contribute by handing over sugar. A few minutes later, the kitchen smelled like cardamom and boiling patience. The tea was ready.

We returned to the room, each holding a cup like a trophy. The first sip hit just right—warm, strong, and oddly perfect.

With chai in hand and the evening slowly cooling down outside, we sat planning the next few days and what we have left for today