The chipped white mug warmed Reyhaan's palms, its ceramic heat seeping into his skin.

Cardamom drifted through the kitchen in slow waves—chai simmering in the dented steel pot his mother swore by. It was a scent stitched into the curtains, woven into the grain of the wooden cabinets, and layered over years of mornings exactly like this one.

Steam spiraled up from his cup, softening the light that filtered through the window. It was a pale, muted glow, the kind that let the day wake up slowly.

Across the room, the ceiling fan hummed a low, steady bassline. Utensils clinked against the counter in a gentle percussion.

Then—thunder on the staircase.

Ayaan bounded down two steps at a time, hoodie half-zipped, music blasting from his phone like it was a club at midnight rather than a Thursday morning. The beat was fast, layered with heavy bass and aggressive joy.

Their dad, halfway through the newspaper, didn't flinch. He simply adjusted his reading glasses and raised the page higher.

"You sure you don't want a ride?" his dad asked after a moment, dropping the paper just enough to peer over the rim. His brow lifted knowingly. "Second week is still within the socially acceptable 'lost student' window."

Reyhaan smiled into his mug, stretching his back until it cracked—a familiar stiffness.

"I like driving in," he said, voice easy. "Feels... peaceful. Like I'm commuting to a different version of myself."

Behind the stove, his mother didn't speak. She just glanced over her shoulder with a knowing smile and slid a second cup of chai onto the table. Without a word, a hot stuffed paratha followed, its golden edges glistening, accompanied by a small bowl of mango pickle. A square of butter melted slowly at the center, scenting the air with nostalgia.

Reyhaan blinked at the plate.

Only here was he Reyhaan—not Rey, not R.H., not a lyric or a brand.

Lately, that kind of knowing felt rare. The world usually waited for a version of him he no longer knew how to be. But she just knew.

He stared at the food for a second, a low chuckle escaping him. This, he thought, would never fly on tour.

As much as he loved performing, his days used to begin with protein bars, black coffee, and reminders from someone on his team that carbs were the enemy of stage wear. There was always someone keeping score.

If he weren't on this break, a manager would be raising eyebrows, tracking calories on an app, and swapping the paratha for a green smoothie. But here, no one blinked. There were no cameras. No schedules to chase.

This was permission to stop proving. To just eat, breathe, be.

He tore a piece off and dipped it into the pickle. It was still crisp at the edges, soft in the center, the kind of comfort that didn't care what show he used to headline.

He hadn't realized how loud his life had been until he stepped into this quiet.

He finished most of it in easy silence, letting the taste settle on his tongue like an old song he hadn't heard in years. It grounded him.

"Take another one with you," his mother said, already wrapping a second paratha in foil before he could protest. "You'll get hungry before lunch."

Reyhaan stood, taking the foil packet. "Thanks, Ma."

"Drive safe, Rey," she replied, smoothing an invisible crease from his sleeve.

Ayaan offered a thumbs-up mid-beat, half-dancing as he pulled a bottle of grapefruit juice from the fridge. His father nodded from behind the paper. It was all wordless, ordinary, and oddly perfect. Reyhaan paused at the door, watching them—Ayaan humming, his dad flipping the page, his mother rinsing a spoon. Nothing had changed, yet it all felt new.

As he stepped out, his phone buzzed in his back pocket.

5 Boys, 1 Brain Cell (Currently with Jay) had a new message.

Jay: YO Rey. week 2 of uni. still alive or emotionally ghosting again?

Ilan: He's probably blending in with the local wind and being poetic about it.

Silas: Must be nice to hear your own thoughts.

Lucian: ...or dangerous. U overthinking yet?

Reyhaan read them slowly, a grin tugging at his mouth. They always knew how to check in without making it heavy.

Reyhaan: Overthinking: Yes. Overdressed: No. Just a hoodie, cracked mug of chai, and peace. Very retired pop star vibes.

Jay: bro said "chai and chill" like he's 47. You live in the hills poetic uncle?

Silas: Respect for the hoodie though. Growth arc in progress.

Lucian: When is your coming-of-age montage?

Reyhaan: Give it another week. If no one figures out by then, I'm changing my name to Ravi.

Jay: plot twist: we knew Ravi all along

Ilan: seriously though, you okay?

Reyhaan: Yeah. It's quiet. Feels... good. I'm breathing slower here.

Silas: Keep breathing. We've got the rest covered.

Lucian: Unless Jay tweets something again.

Jay: hey. one tweet. one time. let it go.

Reyhaan: That was my senior school ID, might I remind you.

Jay: NOT MY FAULT. it was a flattering photo

Reyhaan chuckled, shaking his head as he slid into the driver's seat. The air was cool against his skin, the city still stretching into its day. He shut the door, sealing out the world with a soft click, and turned the key.

The car came alive gently. His playlist picked up where he'd left it—a live acoustic track filling the cabin with hushed guitar and the faint, distant sound of a crowd cheering. He rested one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the beat lightly on his thigh.

He kept the windows cracked. The breeze carried the scent of damp leaves and distant bread—early morning things that didn't need an audience.

There were no lights, no crew, no countdowns. Just this street, this morning, and a quiet he hadn't earned but was learning to inhabit.

He drove slowly, careful not to speak much this early. Not because he couldn't, but because some part of him didn't want to test the silence. He let the guitar carry the weight, even if part of him still ached for a stage he wasn't sure he could return to. For the first time in a long while, the space between songs didn't feel empty. It felt like home.