11:47 p.m. — The night before.
The message arrived at the precise moment Madhan decided that the day had taken enough from him.
His laptop was still open. A half-finished task occupied one corner of the screen, tomorrow's responsibilities were already lining up in his head, and the cup of tea beside him had long since surrendered its warmth.
He had been staring at the same paragraph for nearly four minutes.
Not because it was difficult.
Because he was tired of looking at it.
His phone vibrated.
Yazhini
Dei.
Madhan glanced at the screen.
He waited.
Another message arrived.
Are you awake?
He typed, No, I'm replying from the afterlife.
The reply came almost immediately.
Seri. Come back to life. I need something.
He smiled despite himself.
There it is.
What?
The actual reason you remembered I exist.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
I hate you.
You have excellent taste in friends.
Unfortunately.
Madhan leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders. Somewhere outside, a dog barked at something only it seemed capable of understanding. The ceiling fan continued its slow, unenthusiastic rotation.
It was an ordinary night.
He had no reason to remember it.
Not yet.
His phone vibrated again.
Let's go somewhere tomorrow.
He read it once.
Then again.
Where?
Somewhere.
Super. Very helpful. Shall I ask Google Maps to locate Somewhere, Tamil Nadu?
Somewhere far away from all the noise.
His fingers stopped above the keyboard.
It was a strange thing to say at nearly midnight, especially for Yazhini, who usually treated silence as a personal challenge.
She could turn a five-minute journey into a podcast episode. She had once spent an entire phone call explaining why a particular movie character was an idiot, only to defend the same character with alarming conviction ten minutes later.
And now she wanted somewhere quiet.
Madhan looked at the message again.
Everything okay?
Her reply took longer this time.
Yeah. Just want to go out.
He could have asked another question. He almost did.
Instead, he typed:
Okay. Where should I pick you up?
My PG. Morning.
What time?
Morning morning.
Yazhini.
Fine. 8:30.
That's a time. Proud of you.
Wear something nice.
Madhan looked down at his faded T-shirt.
Why?
Because I said so.
Is this a kidnapping? Should I inform someone?
I'll kidnap you first and inform them later.
He laughed.
Actually laughed, alone in his room, at a phone screen.
He shook his head and typed:
Fine. 8:30. Be ready.
You be ready.
I'm always ready.
Last time you made me wait twenty minutes.
That was traffic.
You were buying tea.
Traffic was thirsty.
She sent a voice note.
He played it.
Her laughter filled the room before her voice followed.
"You're impossible, Madhan. Eight-thirty. Don't be late. Goodnight!"
The recording ended with a small rustle, followed by what sounded suspiciously like her laughing at her own message.
He replayed it.
Once.
Then, with the dignity of a man who would deny everything under oath, he listened to it again.
Goodnight.
He typed it back.
Then he placed the phone on his desk, closed his laptop, and switched off the light.
For approximately twelve seconds, he was perfectly prepared to sleep.
His phone lit up again.
Dei, one more thing.
He grabbed it.
WHAT?
Don't wear that black shirt with the tiny white squares.
Madhan stared at the message.
He had worn that shirt exactly once in her presence.
Once.
Why?
It looks like a chessboard.
You have hurt me.
Goodnight, chessboard.
He threw his head back and laughed so loudly that someone in the next room knocked on the wall.
Madhan covered his mouth.
Then he typed one final message.
Sleep, Yazhini.
This time, she didn't reply.
He put the phone down.
The room was quiet again.
Yet something about the night had changed, though he couldn't have explained what. Tomorrow was still tomorrow. His responsibilities hadn't disappeared. His unfinished work remained unfinished.
But there was now a place in the morning that belonged to someone else.
Eight-thirty.
Outside her PG.
Somewhere far away from all the noise.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time that day, he found himself looking forward to the next one.
Somewhere else, at 12:16 a.m.
Yazhini lay on her bed with her phone resting against her chest.
Her roommate had already switched off the lights, and the faint hum of the air conditioner filled the room.
She opened their conversation.
Read his messages again.
Okay. Where should I pick you up?
Sleep, Yazhini.
She smiled at the screen, then immediately stopped smiling, as though somebody might have caught her.
There was nobody to catch her.
That made it worse.
She rolled onto her side and opened her gallery.
A photograph appeared.
Madhan, caught mid-sentence, looking away from the camera with one hand raised as if he were explaining something terribly important. He hadn't known she was taking it.
She had never told him she liked that photograph.
She liked the way he looked when he forgot to be conscious of himself.
She liked that he listened, even when he pretended he wasn't listening. That he remembered little things she mentioned in passing. That he could be annoyingly practical about everything except the things that made him happy.
And she liked making him laugh.
Especially when he tried not to.
She locked her phone and placed it beside her pillow.
Then she picked it up again.
Don't be late tomorrow.
She had already sent that.
She knew.
She put it down.
Picked it up.
Opened their conversation.
And typed something she didn't send.
I just want one day with you.
She stared at the words for a long moment.
Then deleted them.
Not because they weren't true.
Because some things, she had decided, were easier to say when the person was standing in front of you.
Even if you had to spend the entire journey working up the courage.
She turned off her phone.
In the darkness, she smiled to herself.
Tomorrow, she would see him.
That was enough.
For now.
7:12 a.m. — The following morning
Madhan's alarm went off.
He reached for his phone without opening his eyes and silenced it.
Five more minutes.
His phone vibrated.
He ignored it.
It vibrated again.
He opened one eye.
Yazhini calling…
He answered with the voice of a man who had personally been betrayed by the concept of morning.
"Hello?"
"Where are you?"
He looked at the ceiling.
"Good morning to you too."
"Madhan. Where. Are. You?"
He sat up.
"At home?"
"Very funny. Did you wake up?"
He glanced at the time.
7:13.
"Obviously."
"Have you brushed?"
He paused.
"Why is that relevant to our journey?"
"Madhan!"
"Yes, yes! I'm awake."
"Breakfast?"
He looked at the kitchen door.
"Pending."
"Go eat. Don't skip breakfast. And don't rush on the bike."
He was quiet for half a second.
Then he smiled.
"Seri, amma."
"Dei!"
He laughed.
She hung up.
Madhan stared at his phone, still smiling.
Then he swung his legs off the bed.
Outside, the morning was beginning without waiting for him. The sky was pale, the roads were waking up, and somewhere across the city, a girl in an icy-blue kurti had probably begun adjusting her earrings.
He had no idea what she planned to do that day.
He didn't know about the lake, the photographs, the ginger tea, or the rain.
He certainly didn't know that a few hours from now, beneath a tree on a deserted road, he would forget how to speak his own language.
For the moment, he knew only three things.
He had to eat breakfast.
He had to find his sunglasses.
And if Yazhini called one more time before eight, he was going to tell her that the kidnapping allegations were becoming increasingly credible.
He got up, humming something he couldn't quite remember.
The day was waiting.
And Madhan, entirely unaware of what it had in store for him, was running late.