Reyhaan sat at the kitchen table, palms wrapped around a plain white mug that had a small chip near the handle. The house smelled like cardamom that morning—chai simmering in the old dented steel pot his mother still insisted made the best brew. The scent drifted through the kitchen in slow waves, curling into curtain hems, woven into the wooden grain of cabinet doors, stitched into years of quiet mornings like this one.

The steam rose in soft spirals, warming the skin just beneath his eyes. The window beside him let in a pale, muted light, the kind that made everything feel softer—like the day hadn’t quite woken up yet.

Across the room, the ceiling fan hummed low. Utensils clinked gently on the kitchen counter. Somewhere upstairs, a door creaked open.

And then—thunder on the staircase.

Ayaan came bounding down two steps at a time, hoodie half-zipped, music blasting from his phone like it was late-night at a club instead of early morning at home. The beat was fast, layered with bass and joy. Their dad, halfway through his newspaper, simply adjusted his reading glasses and raised the paper a little higher.

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

Reyhaan smiled into his mug, then stretched slowly. His back arched with a familiar stiffness. “I like driving in,” he said, voice easy. “Feels… peaceful. Like I’m commuting to a different version of myself.”

His mother, behind the stove, didn’t say anything—just glanced over her shoulder with a smile and slid a second cup of chai onto the table beside him. Then, without a word, she added a hot stuffed paratha, its golden edges glistening, along with a small bowl of mango pickle placed neatly beside it. A square of butter melted slowly at the center, scenting the air with something warm and nostalgic.

Reyhaan blinked.

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

Lately, that kind of knowing felt rare. Like people were waiting for a version of him he no longer knew how to be.

He hadn’t asked. She just knew.

He stared at the plate for a second, then gave a low chuckle, more to himself than anyone else. This—this—he would’ve never gotten 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.

But this… butter and potatoes and spice… this was memory. This was permission—to stop proving something. To just eat, breathe, be.

He tore a piece off the paratha 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.

His manager would’ve raised eyebrows. There’d be someone tracking calories on an app and recommending a green smoothie instead. 

But here, no one blinked. No one reminded him what not to eat. There were no cameras watching. No schedules to chase.

Here, he was just Reyhaan. And this was home.

He finished most of it in easy silence, letting the taste settle on his tongue like an old song he hadn’t heard in a while. It grounded him in a way few things did these days.

“Take another one with you,” his mother said, already wrapping a second paratha in foil before he could answer. “You’ll get hungry before lunch.”

Reyhaan stood and took it with a smile. “Thanks, Ma.”

“Drive safe, Rey,” she replied, brushing an invisible crease from his sleeve the way she always had.

Ayaan offered him a thumbs-up mid-beat, still half-dancing as he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of grapefruit juice straight from the shelf. His father nodded from behind the paper. It was all wordless, ordinary, and oddly perfect.

He paused for a second, watching them—Ayaan humming to his music, his dad flipping the page with same worn concentration, his mother rinsing a spoon at the sink. Nothing had changed, and yet it all felt new.

As he neared the front door, his phone buzzed. He pulled it from the back pocket of his jeans and saw 5 Boys, 1 Brain Cell (Currently with Jay) has 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.

Lucian: …or dangerous. U overthinking yet?

Reyhaan read them slowly, a grin tugging at his mouth. They always knew how to ask if he was okay 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.

Lucian: Unless Jay tweets something again.

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

Jay: NOT MY FAULT. it was a flattering photo

Reyhaan chuckled to himself as he stepped outside, shaking his head. The air was cool against his skin, the city still stretching into its day. He slid into the driver’s seat, shut the door with a soft click, and took a deep breath before turning the key.

The car came alive gently. The playlist picked up where he’d left it—a live acoustic track filling the cabin with hushed guitar and the faint sound of someone cheering in the background. 

Reyhaan rested one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the beat lightly on his thigh. The windows were cracked just enough to let the morning in. 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 live inside.

He sipped 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 quiet.

He let the guitar carry the silence, even if part of him still ached for a stage he wasn’t sure he could return to.

And for the first time in a long while, the silence between songs didn’t feel empty.

It felt home, in his own name.

A quiet that reminded him of the days before microphones—when music was just something he loved, not something he owed.