Home.

My hair is messed up unfixable, clutched tightly but allowing a few strands to fall about. In the darkest and neon clothing, I’m sitting in a slightly lit room whose colour is occupied by the radiant colours of the television and the light of the sun. I barely hear the television noises in the background, cheesy dialogues and clichéd emotions make up majority of it and yet I feel no urge to switch it off. I hear the faint sounds denoting the climax of diwali: a few bombs and crackers. I smile as I try to play a song in my head. ‘Why is that something so good, just can't function anymore?’ I hear playing over and over again. It leaves me with a bitter half smile as it reminds of memories which I cannot label under good or bad. I smell the food my mother’s cooking, and suddenly realize that I've waited for months to be in this moment. I see the remote lying carelessely on the couch beside me. I realise I actually have the power of holding that machine and watching what I want to watch; it seems silly, but now it just leaves a wide smile on my face for a reason I don’t even want to recollect. I hear my phone vibrate; new message, an invitation. Company I can actually enjoy. I grin at myself. I’m home, finally.