After dinner, we exchanged a tired good night and went to sleep, deciding we'd talk about all the travel details in the morning—when our brains were functional again.
I took the bed.
My brother took the floor.
After the mini heart attack he'd given me, this felt like a fair punishment.
Justice, in my opinion, had been served.
Next Morning
I woke up to noise.
Loud noise.
The kind that drills straight into your skull and makes you question every life decision that led you here.
I groaned into my pillow.
I am not a morning person.
Not emotionally.
Not spiritually.
Not physically.
Not in any universe.
I was fully prepared to curse the world and go back to sleep—
When a smell hit me.
Sweet.
Warm.
Familiar.
Coffee.
Good coffee.
The kind that actually knows what it's doing.
My eyes opened slowly.
On my bedside table sat a cup of coffee—exactly the way I like it.
And breakfast.
I stared at it for a second, genuinely confused.
Because miracles don't usually happen before 9 a.m.
Then I turned my head toward the door.
My brother was leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, looking far too pleased—and far too awake—for someone who had slept on the floor.
He raised an eyebrow.
"You still haven't improved," he said. "Still impossible in the morning."
I blinked at him.
Then at the coffee.
Then back at him.
"…Did you make this?" I asked.
He smirked.
"Don't get emotional. It's called survival. If I wake you without caffeine, I risk my life."
I took a sip.
Perfect.
Of course it was.
I sighed dramatically.
"This doesn't erase the pan incident."
He shrugged.
"This is not forgiveness. This is a peace offering."
I sank back into the pillow, holding the cup like it was sacred.
"Still," I muttered, "I respect the effort."
He smiled—just slightly.
And suddenly, it felt… normal.
That thought caught me off guard.
As the warmth of the coffee settled in my chest, my mind drifted—quietly, without permission.
I think I want someone like my brother.
Not in the obvious ways.
Not loud.
Not showy.
He never announced his care. Never made a spectacle of love.
Yet somehow, he was the gentlest person I knew.
Sweet in ways that didn't demand attention.
Protective without being controlling.
Loving without ever making it feel heavy.
He was nothing like our father.
Not violent.
Not angry.
Not unpredictable.
Sometimes I wondered if that was why we'd both stayed single for so long—because we grew up watching a marriage that showed us exactly what love shouldn't be.
I smiled faintly.
Whoever ended up with him would be the luckiest woman alive.
Any woman would be happy with a man who could cook, who noticed the small things, who treated someone like royalty without ever calling it sacrifice.
A man who believed care was normal—not exceptional.
Once, I'd asked him—casually, like it didn't matter.
"Do you love someone?"
I hadn't been prepared for how carefully he'd looked at me before answering.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
Then he smirked.
"Planning my wedding already?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Shut up. I'm serious."
He laughed softly and leaned back.
"If I say yes," he said, "will you start stalking her Instagram?"
"Idiot."
He grinned.
"Relax. No tragic love story. No secret girlfriend."
Then, quieter—
"I just don't fall easily."
A beat.
"And if I do," he added casually,
"you'll be the first person I tell."
The memory slipped away the way it always did—unfinished and quiet.
My brother cleared his throat, pulling me back to the present.
"You done staring into space," he asked, "or should I make another coffee to revive you?"
I blinked and smiled faintly.
"Don't flatter yourself. One cup is more than enough generosity for today."
He scoffed and stretched, shifting gears into practical mode.
"So," he said, "we should talk about going home."
I nodded.
"Yeah. We should."
He pulled out his phone, already mentally planning routes and timings.
"We can take the train tonight or early tomorrow morning," he said. "Less tiring. I'll also get to look around a bit. Did you even buy anything for home? I didn't—I barely had time."
I hesitated.
Just a little.
Enough for him to notice.
"Why are you making that face?" he asked. "What did you do now?"
I inhaled slowly.
"Okay. So. Small update."
He narrowed his eyes.
"I don't like the phrase small update."
I smiled sweetly.
"Drishti is coming with us."
Silence.
The uncomfortable kind.
The kind where someone blinks one time too many.
"…She's what?" he asked carefully.
"With us," I repeated. "Home."
His jaw tightened—not in anger, just… discomfort.
"Ishu," he said slowly, "since when was that part of the plan?"
"Well," I shrugged, "since she decided she needed a break, and Mom already adores her, and—"
"And?" he prompted.
"And I already said yes."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Of course you did."
"She's my friend," I said, rolling my eyes. "And I honestly don't understand why you don't like her. She's sweet."
"Absolutely," he replied dryly. "Sweet like bitter gourd"
I stared at him, confused—and honestly amused.
I tilted my head.
"Don't worry, my warrior brother. You'll survive."
"I'm not worried about surviving," he muttered. "I'm worried about interacting."
I grinned.
Because I knew.
They were Tom and Jerry in human form.
Too different.
He was quiet, simple, controlled.
Drishti was talkative, expressive, and a walking drama queen.
And somehow, they always managed to clash.
Then I dropped the second bomb.
Casually.
"So," I added, "we're also not taking the train."
He froze.
"…Why?"
"Road trip," I said brightly. "Tomorrow morning."
He stared at me.
"Who decided that?"
"Me," I said.
"And Drishti."
He rubbed his face.
"You two decided this together?"
"Yes."
"Without asking me."
I gave him a guilty look—the kind that admitted I genuinely hadn't remembered we were even going home when the plan was made.
"Well," I said, patting his shoulder, "there is one good thing."
He looked wary.
"What?"
"You're the driver."
That earned me a look.
The kind that promised revenge.
Before he could argue, I grabbed my phone.
"I'll call her," I said quickly. "Before you emotionally process this and change your mind."
He sighed.
"Do whatever you want."
He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him—but not before throwing me one last resentful look.
I dialed Drishti.
Then—
She picked up on the second ring.
"ISHHHUUUU!" she shrieked. "Good morning!"
I winced and pulled the phone slightly away from my ear.
At this point, it felt like muscle memory—every time I called her, her voice automatically jumped an octave.
"Good morning to you too," I hissed. "You don't have to announce my name to the entire universe."
She laughed. "Please. I'm just making sure you're alive. You disappeared yesterday. No calls. No texts. Nothing."
I groaned. "I know. I'm sorry. Things just… happened."
"Oh?" Her tone sharpened immediately. "What kind of things?"
I took a breath.
"Okay. First—pack your backpack."
There was a pause.
"…Why?"
"We're leaving tomorrow," I said. "For home."
"What?" she burst out. "Tomorrow? Ishu, we were supposed to go in two days! Since when did you become this efficient?"
I swallowed.
"Plans changed."
Suspicious silence.
"That sentence never ends well," she said. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," I lied badly. Then corrected myself. "Okay, not nothing. But listen—there's more."
"Oh God."
"There are three of us."
The silence on the other end was instant.
Heavy.
Sharp.
The kind that presses against your ear.
"…Three?" she repeated carefully.
"Yes."
"And the third person," she asked slowly, "is…?"
I closed my eyes.
"My brother."
Dead silence.
No dramatic gasp.
No sarcastic comment.
No teasing.
Just… nothing.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and checked the screen.
"Hello?" I said cautiously. "Drishti?"
"…You invited him?" she finally asked.
I rushed in before she could build momentum.
"Okay—before you say anything, this is entirely my fault."
"Shocking," she replied flatly.
"I forgot," I admitted. "Completely. We talked on the phone a few days ago, I was not sober, and apparently I invited him to come to my apartment so we could go home together."
Another pause.
"…You," she said slowly, "forgot you invited your own brother?"
"Yes."
She exhaled sharply.
"Wow. That's… impressive consistency."
"I apologized," I said defensively. "He also got hit with a pan."
Her voice shot up instantly.
"Wait—WHAT?"
"Accidentally!"
There was a stunned beat. Then she laughed—short and disbelieving.
I sighed.
"Look, I know you two don't exactly… vibe."
"That's one way to put it," she said dryly.
"But Mom already knows you're coming," I continued quickly. "And you wanted a break, and I thought—road trip, fresh start, chaos, bonding—"
"With him?" she cut in.
I hesitated.
"…Yes."
Silence again.
Then—
"Well," Drishti said finally, her voice lighter but tighter around the edges, "at least now I understand why you sounded nervous."
I smiled faintly.
"You're not mad?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you're still coming?"
A beat.
"Of course I'm coming," she said. "I'm not missing a road trip. Or free food. Or the opportunity to watch you suffer."
I laughed softly.
"Knew it."
Then, quieter, she added,
"Just tell him to behave."
I swallowed.
"I don't think either of you knows how to do that."
She scoffed.
"Please. I'm perfectly behaved."
"That's the most alarming thing you've said all morning."
She laughed again, brighter this time.
she said. "I'll be ready." Tomorrow
"And Drishti?"
"Yes?"
"…He's driving."
There was a pause.
Then—
"Oh," she said lightly. "This trip just got interesting."
The call ended.
I stared at my phone for a second longer than necessary.
Somewhere down the hallway, I heard my brother move.
And suddenly, tomorrow felt a lot less simple.