The sun was unforgiving, hitting the street like a blowtorch. Heat waves rose from the road, twisting the air and making everything look distorted. Vehicles crawled, honked, squeezed for space—but none of that mattered to him. He wasn’t part of their rush. He was just walking… alone, on the side, where no one bothered to glance.
The sling bag on his shoulder kept slipping, dragging him down. He shrugged it up again, irritated. The strap bit into his skin, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get home. That was the only thought that kept him moving through the burning afternoon.
He wasn’t built for this chaos. The noise. The crowd. The unwanted eyes.
Being outside drained him faster than the sun ever could.
Why did I come out today? he muttered internally, frustrated with himself.
Every two-wheeler that whizzed past startled him a little. Every honk made him flinch on the inside. He tried to blend into the wall as he walked, keeping his head down, hoping no one would stop him, talk to him, ask him anything. The world out here demanded too much energy. Too much presence.
He just wanted silence.
He imagined his house—quiet, cool, dimly lit. No questions, no noise, no strangers brushing by. Just his room, his sofa, his cup of tea. That thought alone felt like a cold breeze in this furnace-like heat.
In his mind, he was already there.
Home.
His dream land.
A place where the world softened and he didn’t have to pretend to be strong or social or “fine.”
But reality dragged behind him like the heavy sling bag he couldn’t escape from. His thoughts raced as fast as the traffic around him—
Will I make it before the headache starts? Did I lock the balcony door this morning? Why can’t I just teleport home? Why does everything outside feel so exhausting?
He walked faster now, desperate, almost anxious. The sun burned his skin, sweat blurred his vision, but none of that mattered. Home was getting closer with every step. The only place where he didn’t feel judged. The only place where he could breathe without thinking.
And in his mind, he could already hear the quiet—
no horns, no engines, no people.
Just peace.
He finally reached his gate, sweat rolling down his forehead, shoulders aching, breath unsteady. But the moment he stepped inside the compound, he felt that familiar drop in tension. Home. Safe zone. The world outside could roar as much as it wanted—none of it could reach him here.
He pushed open the door.
Silence.
Not the comforting silence he was craving, but a strange, empty one. The kind that made the hairs on his arms rise. He looked around.
“Amma?” he called out, expecting her usual answer—sometimes a soft “ha…” from the kitchen, sometimes her footsteps, sometimes just her warm smile appearing from the hallway.
Nothing.
The stillness felt heavier than his sling bag ever did.
He stepped farther inside. The cushions were untouched. The steel tumbler on the dining table sat exactly where it had been in the morning. Her slippers were still by the door.
Where did she go?
She never left without telling him. Never.
He checked her room, pushing the curtain aside. Empty.
He checked the backyard. No one.
A flicker of worry ran through his chest. Not panic… but a kind of uneasiness only an introverted mind can create—a quiet fear that grows when things don’t match expectations.
He climbed the stairs slowly. Each step creaked softly under his tired feet. Maybe she had gone to the terrace to dry clothes. Maybe she was just enjoying the breeze.
He reached the top.
Nothing.
Just the hot afternoon wind and an empty terrace staring back at him.
He stood there for a few seconds, swallowing the dryness in his throat. The sun felt even harsher now. The world felt strangely quiet again, but not the peaceful kind he wanted.
He came back downstairs, feeling the weight of the empty house wrap around him. He walked to the set-out area—the small balcony near the front door where his mother often sat in the evenings.
He lowered himself onto the chair, leaning back, letting the sling bag slide to the floor with a soft thud. He stared at the gate through the grill, waiting… listening for footsteps… a key sound… anything.
This was the place he always felt closest to her—the spot where she would ask him if he’d eaten, why he was late, or simply smile at him without a single word.
He missed that look now. The warmth only a mother’s eyes could give. The comfort, the assurance, the silent love that made even the hardest day feel bearable.
So he waited.
Tired. Sweaty. A little anxious.
He sat there quietly, staring at the entrance as if willing her to appear.
Because for him, home wasn’t truly “home” until she walked in.
