The first light of dawn crept through the slats of his window, brushing against the face of AnshuWasRoused as he stirred.
The shy threads of dawn leaked into the room with a kind of hesitant gentleness, as if unsure whether it was allowed to disturb the quiet stillness that had settled over the small, familiar space. The sun had not yet fully claimed the sky, but its earliest rays found their way through the old wooden slats of the window, spreading out like pale ribbons across the floor before finally climbing up the side of the bed. When those faint strands of light touched AnshuWasRoused's face, the glow was soft, warm, and almost affectionate, like a careful hand brushing across his cheek. His eyelids fluttered ever so slightly in response, a small involuntary reaction to the shifting brightness. Though his mind was still adrift somewhere between dreams and waking, the new day's presence tugged at him, reminding him—slowly, steadily—that the world outside had already begun to move.
Eighteen now, on the cusp of adulthood, yet today he felt unusually weary.
Even as consciousness pulled at him, he remained caught in that half-drowsy heaviness that made his limbs feel as though they were filled with sand. Being eighteen didn't magically sharpen mornings; he knew that well. But today, the weariness was different—thicker, heavier, like an invisible blanket weighing down his chest. It wasn't simply the fatigue of a late night or restless sleep. It was the quiet heaviness of responsibility, the kind that sits inside the mind long before the body rises. The kind that only grows sharper as one's age steals closer to adulthood. That unspoken expectation to be mature, to be composed, to be prepared—he felt it more fiercely today than on any other morning in recent memory.
Today was no ordinary day—it was the day of his Plus Two second-year half-yearly examination at Revanshaw Higher Secondary School, and the weight of expectation pressed heavily on his shoulders.
The realization settled over him fully, like a stone dropping into a still pond. His Plus Two second-year half-yearly examination. The words echoed in his mind with the slow, inevitable clarity of something he could neither escape nor ignore. Revanshaw Higher Secondary School—the place where he had walked countless corridors, memorized countless facts, attended countless classes—was waiting for him. Teachers waited. Answer sheets waited. The clock waited. Even the echoing hallways of the examination room seemed to wait for him, already imagining his footsteps approaching. Everyone around him, from family to teachers to peers, carried their expectations silently yet unmistakably, and he could feel them like a solid weight pressing down on both shoulders. The very thought of the day ahead wrapped around him, not with fear exactly, but with a solemn heaviness that made his heartbeat feel slower than usual.
As he is sleeping a voice came from the kitchen, Anshu Wakeup.
Before his eyes even opened fully, a voice—familiar, warm, undeniably belonging to home—rose from another part of the house. It drifted in from the kitchen carried on the faint aroma of morning preparations, the subtle clinking of utensils, and the soft rustling of pots being moved. The voice wasn't loud, but it cut cleanly through the stillness of the room, landing directly in his drifting consciousness. "Anshu, wake up." Two simple words, yet spoken with the practiced rhythm of a mother who had been calling him for school mornings for years. The sound of it traveled through the hallway, pushing its way past the half-open door of his room, and curled itself gently but firmly into his ears.
It is his mother and then he checked time on his mobile phone it is 8:34 AM and then he woke up.
He knew the voice instantly—his mother. He didn't need to think, didn't need to question. Recognition was immediate, instinctive, deeply rooted in memory and routine. He forced one eye open, then the other, both blinking away the lingering haze of sleep as the rest of the room slowly sharpened around him. The ceiling above him looked the same as always—calm, unchanging—but somehow more accusing today, as though reminding him that he should have already been awake long before this moment.
His hand fumbled across the blanket for his mobile phone, fingers moving with the sluggishness of someone not entirely ready to face reality. When he finally wrapped his hand around the familiar rectangle and dragged it close enough to read the display, the numbers on the screen seemed far too bright, far too bold for this slow morning.
8:34 AM.
The digits stared back at him with merciless clarity. His breath caught in his chest for a short, sharp moment, a tiny spike of alarm breaking through his fog of drowsiness. 8:34 AM. The realization struck him with a jolt stronger than the sunlight on his face. The exam day had already begun around him while he was still lost in sleep. Time had slipped ahead without waiting for him.
The awareness rolled over him in a sudden wave, pushing away the last remnants of grogginess. His mother was still shifting around in the kitchen, unaware of the exact moment he had finally opened his eyes. But her voice—the call that had reached him moments earlier—echoed again in his memory, urging him with a mix of insistence and care.
With that lingering sound and the unforgiving glow of his phone screen to push him forward, he exhaled deeply, blinked twice, and then, finally, he woke up. This time fully. Completely. The day had begun whether he was ready or not.
He dragged himself out of bed with the sluggishness of someone still tangled in the remnants of sleep, feet touching the cold floor that made him shiver just a little. The house around him felt quiet in a way only mornings could be—soft, half-awake, and echoing faintly with the distant sounds of cooking from the kitchen. His body moved on instinct more than intention, carrying him toward the washroom in small, uneven steps.
When he pushed the door open, the dim light above the mirror flickered once before settling into a steady glow, painting the space in a pale, almost washed-out brightness. He approached the mirror with the heavy steps of someone whose mind was still lagging far behind his body. The glass greeted him with an image that looked just as groggy as he felt—hair flattened on one side, eyes only half open, face slack with the softness of lingering sleep. For a moment he simply stared at his own reflection, watching himself sway slightly as if he might topple back into the realm of dreams at any second.
His eyelids drooped, then lifted, then drooped again. Even his own face seemed to question whether he was truly awake. He rubbed a hand across his cheek, feeling the faint warmth left by the sunlight that had pulled him from sleep earlier. The cold washroom tiles grounded him a little, the faint echo of water dripping from the tap grounding him a little more.
He forced himself to focus.
Brushing came next—slow, mechanical, unthinking. He lifted the toothbrush, squeezed out the paste, and began moving his hand in motions so familiar they required no conscious input. The minty sharpness of the toothpaste cut through the haze clouding his senses, coaxing him little by little toward wakefulness. He stood silently in front of the mirror the entire time, watching his half-asleep reflection mimic his movements.
Bathing followed, and the water that cascaded down his skin chased away the stubborn fragments of drowsiness. The warmth of the shower seeped deep into his muscles, loosening the tension that always gathered before exam days. The faint fog rising in the washroom blurred the mirror, erasing the sleepy figure he had stared at moments earlier. By the time he stepped out, wrapped in the thin towel that clung to his damp skin, he felt lighter—not awake enough to feel confident about the day, but awake enough to take the next step.
He dressed quickly and carried himself to the dining table. Breakfast waited there—modest, warm, familiar. The aroma rose to meet him, comforting in a way only a mother's morning efforts ever could be. Yet his movements remained brisk, hurried, as though time itself had quickened its pace to spite him. He sat down with a heaviness that did not match the simplicity of the moment, picking up a piece of food almost automatically.
But his attention drifted.
As he chewed, his hand reached for his phone, fingers moving with an unconscious habit carved from years of repetition. The screen lit up immediately, washing his face in a cold bluish glow. He tapped into the reels section, and the short videos began playing one after another, sliding across the screen with rapid, merciless transitions.
A video about a rape case—loud, angry captions and grim background music flooded his ears. Swiping up, the next clip hurled corruption scandals at him in bold lines of text. Another swipe brought a compilation of construction failures, collapsing structures captured in jarring, shaky footage. His breakfast continued in hurried bites as his eyes absorbed the chaotic stream of negative news flashing past him. Each clip felt like a reminder that the world outside his small morning routine was messy, unpredictable, and far more burdensome than a single exam day.
He wasn't even looking for these things, yet the algorithm insisted on throwing them at him, forcing him to swallow the bitter taste of reality alongside his rushed breakfast. His brows tightened for a moment, and he let out a small breath—one too quiet to be called a sigh, yet too heavy to be called neutral. The videos kept rolling anyway.
Eventually he set his phone down, though the lingering images still hovered in his mind like dust that refused to settle.
Then came the bicycle.
His faithful companion, the one constant part of his daily rides to school. It waited for him outside, leaning slightly against the wall as though already prepared for the journey ahead. The morning air brushed against his skin when he stepped outside, cooler than the warmth of the house, but carrying a pinch of energy that made him straighten his back. He reached for the bicycle with the kind of familiarity that came from years of depending on it.
He mounted it, hands gripping the handlebars with the ease of routine, and for a brief moment he felt the soft flicker of readiness. The world seemed to align for just a second: the exam waiting ahead, the route he had taken a hundred times, the chill of morning air brushing his face.
Then the chain slipped.
A harsh metallic clang broke the calm, accompanied by a sudden jolt that threw off his balance. The pedals spun uselessly under his feet. He blinked, frowned, and dismounted with a forced patience that already felt thinner than usual. He crouched down, hands brushing away dust as he attempted to fix the chain, knowing the bicycle's quirks all too well.
Once fixed, he tried again.
The chain slipped a second time, this one accompanied by a louder grind of metal that grated against his nerves. He inhaled sharply through his nose. His jaw tightened ever so slightly.
He adjusted the chain again, wiping a faint smear of grease on the side of his trouser leg.
The third attempt ended just as badly.
This time he didn't hide the sound of frustration that escaped him, though it remained soft—swallowed quickly by the morning wind. He tried again. And again. Each slip of the chain felt like a betrayal. The bicycle had carried him faithfully for so long, yet today, of all days, it had chosen rebellion.
Five times.
By the fifth attempt, something inside him cracked—not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly, like a thread snapping under too much tension. The exam, the rushed morning, the negative reels, the expectations, the weight of being eighteen—everything collected inside him until even this small inconvenience felt impossibly heavy.
He stood there, staring at the bicycle with a mixture of disbelief and exhaustion. His patience was worn thin, scraped down to its last grain. The chain sagged mockingly out of place, as if daring him to try again.
But he didn't.
He exhaled one long, slow breath. His shoulders dropped, the weight shifting from frustration into resignation. The idea of school, the exam, the rushing—everything dissolved for that moment. It didn't matter that he had planned to go. It didn't matter that everyone expected him to go. The morning had carved its own path, and he no longer had the energy to fight it.
He abandoned the idea of school altogether.
The bicycle stood there silently, leaning still against the same wall, but now feeling like something distant, no longer part of his plan for the day. He turned away from it, slipping his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone.
Sighing softly, he unlocked the screen and scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he needed. His thumb hovered for a heartbeat, then pressed the call button.
The ring tone buzzed in his ear, steady, familiar, carrying with it the faint hope of escape. When his friend picked up, he didn't bother dressing the situation in excuses or explanations. His voice was simple, stripped of all the tension that had been rising within him since morning.
"Come over," friend said.
The words carried the quiet relief of someone freeing themselves from the invisible chains of duty—someone stepping away, if only for a moment, from the weight of expectations.
The air around him felt a little easier after that, as though the morning that had fought him so relentlessly had finally loosened its grip.
Two hours slipped by without either of them noticing, dissolving into the air like steam rising from a cup left unattended. Time never made announcements when it moved; instead, it slid quietly between moments, and today it disappeared inside the small room where two boys sat sprawled across the bed and the chair, talking about everything and nothing with the kind of ease that only comes when expectations have been shrugged off for the day.
Their voices rose and fell in bursts—sometimes laughter sharp and sudden, other times words drifting lazily, half-formed, half-serious. The sunlight outside shifted positions on the wall, but neither of them bothered to glance at the clock. The morning that had begun with stress had melted into something far gentler, something that felt strangely suspended from the world's demands.
They started—almost inevitably—talking about girls.
Not specific girls, not people they knew, but the mysterious force field surrounding them. The allure. The confusion. The unexplainable magnetism.
Anshu tossed his phone from one hand to the other, scrolling through Instagram reels that flashed across the screen with dizzying movement. Each short clip was filled with rhythm and deliberately crafted expressions, and he couldn't help but comment, "They know exactly what they're doing, man. They dance like they're casting spells."
His friend laughed, throwing his head back as if the ceiling needed to hear the joke too. "It's sorcery. Actual sorcery. They do one hair flip and suddenly the entire species forgets how to think."
Anshu snorted. "And the clothes—bro, they're barely clothes. It's like they're wearing the idea of clothes."
"Exactly!" his friend responded, tapping the screen dramatically as another reel showed a girl scrolling through outfits that grew progressively more revealing. "Look at that. One second she's dressed like she's going to a wedding. Next second—nothing. Just confidence and air."
"Confidence and air sounds like the title of some self-help book," Anshu muttered, earning another laugh.
They leaned closer to the screen for a moment, watching the fluid, practiced movements—bold, unapologetic. The daring of exposure, the comfort with nudity that didn't seem to faze the girls in the slightest. It felt unreal, distant, like some parallel digital world where shyness didn't exist.
His friend whistled low under his breath. "You know… sometimes I feel like Instagram isn't even a social media app anymore. It's a psychological weapon."
"You mean a distraction machine?"
"Exactly. A beautiful, dangerous distraction machine."
They let the conversation linger there, hanging somewhere between fascination and resigned amusement. Another burst of laughter echoed between them when his friend posed dramatically with a pout, mimicking one of the dancers on screen. The room felt lighter because of it. Warmer.
Eventually, like conversations always did when left to wander freely, it shifted course without warning.
One moment they were talking about girls, and the next they fell straight into anime—sliding from one universe of fantasy to another.
Anshu's friend stretched out on the bed, arms behind his head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Speaking of distraction… did you finish that anime I told you about?"
"No," Anshu said, but the guilt in his voice was soft. "But I saw a clip where the main guy pulls out that attack… you know, the one that looks like it breaks physics?"
His friend's face lit up with the passion of someone launching into a sacred lecture. "It doesn't break physics—well, okay, it does—but that's the point! That show doesn't even pretend to care about the rules. Their power system is basically: 'If you believe it, it exists.'"
Anshu propped his chin on his hand, smirking. "So basically manifestation, but with explosions."
"Exactly. That's what I keep telling you. If we had even half the abilities those characters have…" His friend lifted a hand dramatically, fingers spreading like he was channeling invisible energy. "Bro, reality would tremble in fear."
"Oh yeah?" Anshu asked. "What would you do first?"
"Easy," his friend said without hesitation. "Teleport to school, write my exam answers directly into the teacher's brain, then go home."
Anshu laughed, loud and unrestrained, the kind of laugh that made his stomach tighten. "That's your dream? Not flying? Not bending elements? Not time travel?"
His friend shrugged. "All that is cool, I guess. But imagine never having to write an exam again. That's real superpower material."
"Okay, fair point."
Their talk deepened, spiraling into debates about which anime had the most logical power system, which characters deserved more screen time, which fights were over-animated, which transformations were overrated. They argued with dramatic enthusiasm, gesturing wildly, pointing at imaginary diagrams in the air, reenacting scenes as though they were auditioning for an acting role.
Anshu folded his arms, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. "You can't seriously think that guy would win in a fight. His ability is literally friendship."
His friend sat up. "Friendship is stronger than half the other power systems, don't disrespect it."
"Bro. Be serious."
"I am serious. You think explosions and lasers matter when the protagonist has 'the power of emotional bonds'? Impossible to beat."
Anshu threw a pillow at him.
The pillow connected with a soft thud, and his friend's laughter filled the room again, spilling into the hall and bouncing off the bare walls like loose sparks.
And then something shifted.
Not abruptly, but subtly—like a spark catching fire.
The mood changed, just slightly. The laughter faded into softer chuckles. The energy settled into a calmer rhythm. Their eyes were no longer on the phone screen, no longer focused on dancing girls or animated battles.
The room quieted, letting a new kind of thought slip into the air.
Then, as though pulled by an invisible thread of mutual curiosity, Anshu spoke.
"What if…" he began, leaning forward with a little frown, the kind that came when an idea first started forming. "What if we started writing a story?"
The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be. They carried weight simply because they came suddenly, unexpectedly, cutting cleanly through the lazy chatter of the past two hours.
His friend paused.
For a moment he didn't answer. He simply let the suggestion settle in—a suggestion that felt like a doorway opening, small but inviting. His eyes shifted upward, as if replaying the idea inside his mind to test how it sounded.
Then a slow grin curved across his lips. He leaned back, planting his palms behind him on the bed, posture relaxed, eyes gleaming with interest.
"We can," he said, voice thoughtful but excited. "But it has to have twists."
His grin widened, playful and sharp.
"Real plot twists. The kind that makes people throw the book at the wall and pick it up again because they can't believe what just happened."
Anshu raised an eyebrow. "That intense?"
"That necessary," his friend replied, tapping a finger lightly against the side of his own head. "If there's no twist, no shock, no 'what the hell just happened' moment… then it's just… boring."
He stretched the last word like a rubber band, letting it snap back with exaggerated emphasis.
Anshu laughed, the sound soft but carrying a spark of excitement. "Fair enough. But what kind of twist? Like, someone dies? Someone secretly betrayed the others? A hidden villain?"
His friend shook his head. "No, no, those are basic twists. Everyone does that. I'm talking about twists that feel earned. Twists that make sense when you look back. Twists that are hidden in plain sight."
Anshu folded his arms again. "You sound like you're writing a guidebook."
"Maybe I should," his friend said dramatically. "Chapter one: Thou shalt not bore the reader. Chapter two: Shock them. Chapter three: Shock them again. Chapter four—"
Anshu threw another pillow.
His friend caught it this time, laughing. "Okay, okay. But seriously. If we write something, we don't hold back."
Anshu nodded slowly, absorbing the idea. The weight of the morning—exams, frustration, broken bicycle chains—felt farther away now. What he was left with was a quiet kind of curiosity. The possibility of building something. Creating something. Turning imagination into words.
He leaned back, mirroring his friend's relaxed posture.
"So," Anshu said, voice softer, a little thoughtful. "We actually doing this?"
His friend grinned again, eyes bright with mischief and ambition. "If we aren't doing it now, when will we? The universe literally freed your day for this."
"That's one way to look at it."
"It's the only way that matters."
Silence settled gently for a moment—not the awkward sort, but the kind that follows a shared decision. The kind that feels like the story has already begun, even before the first word is written.
His friend nudged him lightly with an elbow. "You know… this might be fun."
"Or chaotic."
"Chaos is fun."
Anshu allowed himself a small smile. "Then we'll write chaos with plot twists."
"Exactly."
The room felt different now—not larger, but alive, as if the blank spaces around them had begun listening in expectation. An idea had been spoken, acknowledged, accepted. And though neither said it aloud, something about that moment felt like the beginning of a story that existed not on the phone, not in reels, and not in anime—but in their own hands.