With the blinking cursor, it left me with a mixed feeling. I wasn't ready for that message—and yet I was. Excited, nervous, everything at once. I typed Yes, when? and sent it almost too fast, before I could second-guess myself.
Then nothing.
No typing bubble. No "seen." No reply.
I stared. Locked the screen. Unlocked it. Checked my data, my Wi‑Fi, my battery, my soul. Still nothing. The silence on the other side felt louder than the ceiling fan. A minute stretched. Then five. Then the feeling that I'd messed up, somehow, even though all I'd said was Yes, when?
Questions started landing like hailstones. Is she ignoring me? Did I sound too eager? Was I supposed to wait longer to reply, like there's a rulebook for this? Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she sent it by mistake. Maybe it wasn't for me.
I set the phone face down and immediately turned it over again. I opened our chat, closed it, reopened it. I pretended to read a line in my physics notebook and couldn't remember a single word after the first three. The cursor in my head kept blinking.
An hour passed. Then a whole afternoon. I told myself I wouldn't check for ten minutes and checked in three. By evening the message still wasn't seen. Night made the blue light feel harsher. I plugged the phone in and placed it gently, as if not to scare it. The screen stayed quiet. I slept facing the side where the phone lay, as if it could call out in the dark.
One day passed.
In the morning, I told myself to focus. I tried to. Tea, pages, benches, the whiteboard glare—everything was normal, but thinner. I walked slower on purpose. I watched the road like it might offer an answer. My phone stayed blank. Class ended. I checked again. Nothing. The worry hardened and then softened into something small and tired. Maybe it was just a moment that wasn't meant to go anywhere. Maybe it would be easier if it didn't.
On the second morning, I had made peace with pretending I didn't care—almost. I tucked the phone into my pocket and let it stay there, heavy and quiet. I was halfway to sitting when the screen lit up with a name.
A name popped up - "Aisha"
For a second I forgot how to pick it up. Then I did, and the sound of my own "Hello?" came out lighter than I felt.
Reply came from the opposite side-
"Hey it's Aisha and I am so so so sorry, my phone died—like, actually died. It got damaged, wouldn't switch on at all. Yesterday it took the whole day to repair."
With great relief, I let out a long breath, and a smile found its way onto my face. It wasn't nothing. She hadn't ignored me. She'd actually been thinking about me enough to call back. The knot I'd been carrying since last night loosened all at once.
I started, "It's no pro—"
"Shravan beta!" a voice boomed from the other room, cutting clean through my sentence. "Relatives have come—come and welcome them, haan!"
Why now. Of all the times—now?
I froze, phone warm against my ear, the moment slipping. On the other end, there was a small pause, the kind that can tilt either way.
"I guess you're busy," she said gently. "So I'll call you later…"
"Nonono," I rushed in, lowering my voice. "I'll use headphones. You can stay on call."
"Actually," she said, apologetic but firm, "I'm also kind of busy. I'll call you in half an hour?"
"Hm—" I answered, and the line clicked. I stared at the dark screen and heard my own brain take over.
Whattttttt. Just "hmm," you fool. You dumb—why would you say only "hmm"? She spoke a whole sentence and you gave her one letter? Brilliant. Amazing. Gold medal in stupidity.
The overthinking zone opened like a trapdoor, and I dropped straight in.
"Shravan betaaaaa, come!" The same voice again, heavier this time, a full-on summons.
As soon as I heard the tone, I knew it was the last warning—the kind that says, without saying, this is your final chance. Get to the relatives, now. I slipped the phone into my pocket and stepped out, a small shift settling onto my face—the kind that comes when a moment is slipping away and there's nothing to hold it with.
I entered the room, trying to keep my expression neutral, and saw not just relatives but two of my mother's friends who'd dropped in to spend time with her. Perfect. I asked myself the only question that fit: So what can I doooooo? You guys talk…
"Arre, Shravan beta, you've grown quite a length! Last time I saw you, you were really small," came the chorus—twice, thrice—like a ritual everyone had to complete. I smiled, nodded, kept one eye on the clock. Was half an hour over yet? Twenty-two minutes. Twenty-six. Twenty-nine. Every minute ticked like a tap dripping in an empty house.
Then, like a small miracle wrapped in an aunt's voice, came a godsend: "Shravan beta, I think you can go now. You must have studies, no? We're here to chat with your mother—we'll talk to you later."
The same voice that had irritated me five minutes ago suddenly felt like a messenger from above. "Okay," I said quickly, trying not to sound too eager. I slipped out, climbed back to my room, and shut the door with a big, quiet sigh.
Before I answered, my brain sprinted ahead of me. Okay, start with "Hey—glad you called back." Or is that too eager? Maybe "Hi—no worries about yesterday." No, that sounds like I've been worrying. Which I have. Stop. Ask about the doubts first. "Do you still have the questions?". Then follow with, "Which chapter—integrals or limits?" And if she says integrals, say "Let's start with the substitution one; we'll warm up there." If she says limits, say "Show me the expression; we'll test L'Hôpital or squeeze." Don't say "Hmm" again. Do not just "hmm." Full sentences. Calm voice. Don't sound like you memorized lines in front of a mirror.
What if she's already solved them? Then say, "Great—want to check your method?" Not "Oh." Never "Oh." If she apologizes again, say, "All good, it happens," not "No problem" four times in a row. Ask if she wants to use a notebook together on call—talk through steps, not just answers. And if there's silence, fill it with a question, not panic. Ask, "Do you want to start from the basics or straight from the problem?" Yes. That sounds like a real tutor. A real person. Not a statue with a phone.
I took a breath, thumb hovering over the green button, and made myself a tiny promise: full words, not noises; questions before conclusions; patience even if her network stutters. Then I answered.
Before I answered, my brain sprinted ahead of me. "Do you still have the questions?" I rehearsed—then winced. Too straight. Too teacher. Retake.
Yo, it's Shravan—no, no, dammit. That sounds weird.
Make it free now? What—rude. Delete.
Do you still have the questions?" I rehearsed—then winced. Too straight. Too teacher. Retake.
Yo, it's Shravan—no, no, dammit. That sounds weird.
Make it free now? What—rude. Delete.
Whole time I'm thinking all this, the name popped up—Aisha.
All the confidence dropped in one second. Now what do I do, what do I say, what skills do I even have—just pick up the call. I did.
"Hello, Shravan?" her voice came first. "Can you help me with math—differentiation?"
"Yes," I said, steady this time. "Are you free now?"
"Yup. Now's a good time."
Those two hours felt like an instant. I actually caught myself thinking, It's already been two hours? Why can't there be a few more?
Right at the two-hour mark she said, "Shravan, it's enough for today. I've reached my limit—my battery's done."
From the way her voice dipped, I could hear it—math was her sworn enemy tonight. Can't blame her, honestly.
"Okay," I said, keeping it light. "You've done great. You're a quick learner."
Those two hours felt like an instant. I actually caught myself thinking, It's already been two hours? Why can't there be a few more?
She laughed softly, a little breath through the mic. "I've learned a lot, so… imma go take a nap," she said, and then, out of nowhere, "Good night." In the middle of the afternoon.
It made me smile anyway. "Good night," I echoed, like we were sharing a small secret. We said bye, a quick, easy exchange, and hung up.
The room went quiet in that way it does after a long call—like the air still held the shape of her voice for a few seconds before settling back. The screen dimmed. My reflection blinked back at me, and the warm feeling lingered, light and steady.
I leaned back and let it run through me in reverse: the first hello, the way her voice softened when the minus sign finally behaved, the tiny laugh when we both said "oh" at the same mistake, the part where she admitted she hates studying and it didn't feel heavy anymore. All those small things stacking up, and I hadn't noticed the clock at all.
The Physics book was still open on the same page, like it had been waiting and gave up. Oh. It's been quite a while just thinking about all that. And tomorrow—I have a Physics exam. I don't have time to think about this now. What a drag it was.
Okay then—let's go to sleep. Enough thinking about the Class 11 stuff. Back to Class 12. Tomorrow I have an exam; have to keep that in mind. I slid a bookmark in, closed the book, set the alarm, and turned the phone face down. The room dimmed to the fan's slow tick, and the last clear thought before sleep was simple: "tomorrow....."