Meera stood in the middle of the living room, tiffin boxes stacked like Jenga towers in her left hand, a school water bottle in her right. Her hair was still wet, and she hadn’t had a sip of her now-cold chai.
“The purple spoon is in the dishwasher,” Meera sighed.
Tomorrow, the alarm would ring again at 6:00 AM. And she wouldn’t trade a single second of it.