The next morning was gentle and grey.
Mark was already awake before his alarm went off. Not because something was wrong—just a habit he'd built over the years. He liked the early hours. The way the world hadn't quite decided what mood it was in.
He made his way to the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
The smell of tea drifted softly through the house. His mom stood by the stove, already dressed, humming some old tune that he'd heard a thousand times but still couldn't name.
"Tea's ready," she said without turning around.
Mark nodded, yawning. He sat at the table, watching the steam curl above the cup she set in front of him.
He was a coffee person—bitter, strong, two spoons of sugar when no one was looking.
But he never said no to her tea.
It wasn't about taste. It was about something deeper. Quiet affection. Unspoken understanding. He drank it the way some people kept old letters—soft, out of habit, out of love.
"Want toast?" she asked.
"I'm good," he murmured. "I'll eat at campus."
She eyed him briefly but didn't argue. He finished his tea, rinsed the cup, and left the house with his usual routine—headphones slung around his neck, bag resting against his shoulder, and a familiar stillness in his steps.
Campus was its usual mess of too much noise and not enough space.
Mark drifted through his lectures like a ghost who took excellent notes. He was present, but not loud. Kind, but never the center of anything.
At lunch, he sat alone near the back bench under the neem tree. He sipped cheap canteen tea, missing his coffee but not complaining. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
It was her.
Aria 🧃 (3:11 PM):
"I'm sending you the dumbest meme ever made. Prepare your brain cells."
Mark:
"They're trembling in fear."
A moment later, the meme popped up—some wild image of a frog in a tuxedo with the caption:
"Rizz Toad doesn't ask for affection. He IS affection."
Mark:
"This is both awful and iconic."
"You have a gift."
Aria 🧃:
"You're welcome. I only share art with people who deserve it."
Mark:
"Honored. Deeply."
Aria 🧃:
"You better be. Rizz Toad is rare energy."
He chuckled, shaking his head, tucking the phone back into his pocket.
Evening came like a soft whisper. The sky slowly turned to ash and gold, and Mark returned home just before the street lights flickered to life.
The kitchen smelled like cardamom and warmth. His mom was watching an old drama with his father, while his younger brother sprawled on the floor, pretending to study with his headphones in.
"Dinner's at 8," his mom said as he passed.
"Cool," he replied.
Later, after everyone had eaten, Mark stepped into the kitchen again—quietly, after the house had settled. His mom had gone to bed. The lights were low.
He moved on instinct.
He boiled water, chopped a few vegetables, and stirred something simple. Cooking wasn't a daily habit for him. But sometimes—especially when the world got too loud—being in the kitchen gave him a kind of peace he didn't find anywhere else.
He poured the hot mixture into a bowl, sat at the table alone, and ate in silence. Not sad. Just... steady.
By 10 PM, he was in his room, stretched out on the floor with his back against the wall, phone in hand, the ceiling fan humming low above him.
He opened Instagram.
Their chat still floated at the top.
Aria 🧃 (earlier):
"I think I ruined your taste in memes."
Mark:
"You improved it. Somehow."
Aria 🧃:
"Don't lie. You're weak for frog kings now."
Mark:
"You've exposed me."
He smiled to himself, thumb hovering.
Then he typed:
Mark (10:12 PM):
"You still awake?"
He wasn't expecting anything special.
Just her usual reply. Something chaotic or sarcastic. Maybe a gif.
Three minutes passed.
Then the typing bubble appeared.
But what came through next made him blink.
Aria 🧃 (10:16 PM):
"Who is this?"
His brow furrowed. He read the text again, then looked at the top of the screen.
Same profile. Same name. Same chat thread.
Mark:
"Mark. This is Aria, right?"
There was a long pause.
Long enough for him to sit up.
Then—
Aria 🧃:
"I'm her boyfriend. Why are you texting her this late?"
His phone felt heavier in his hand.
He didn't react immediately. Just stared at the message.
He wasn't confused by what it meant. He just hadn't expected the tone.
It wasn't angry. It wasn't friendly.
It was just… unfamiliar.
Mark leaned back against the wall, locking his phone without replying.
He wasn't mad. Not yet.
But something had changed.
And for the first time in a long while—
He didn't know what to say.