Chapter Text
Maya Banerjee woke to the insistent buzz of her phone alarm and the soft throb of last night’s bass line still in her head. She fumbled for the snooze button, succeeded only in knocking the phone to the floor, and groaned into her pillow. Her flat smelled faintly of candle wax and cold chips, fairy lights glowing on their weakest setting, one bulb flickering in protest.
It had been some arty club in Shoreditch. Her friends had danced like their rent depended on it; Maya had spent half the night sketching the DJ on a beer mat, and the other half arguing with strangers about whether the installation in the corner was “genius” or “just a pile of scaffolding.” Worth it. Less worth it now, with her tongue like sandpaper and her head like fog.
By half eleven she had made it vertical, pulling on jeans and a jumper that had definitely been clean at some point this week. Her radiator was draped in damp laundry, her sink held three unwashed mugs, and her desk was an explosion of sketchbooks, leaflets, and uncapped pens. The flat was hers. Slightly shabby, slightly chaotic – very much like herself. The kettle clicked grumpily as she put it on, producing water that was never quite hot enough. Outside, a neighbour clattered bins down the alley; inside, Maya tripped over her own laundry rack, swore, and felt the day settle onto her shoulders like an oversized coat she hadn’t meant to put on.
Sunday meant lunch at her dad’s. She grabbed tulips from the corner shop on the way, camera slung diagonally across her chest like a second heartbeat. Croydon was grey and bustling, buses huffing down the high street, teenagers clustered outside Chicken Cottage, the familiar sound of a busker attempting Ed Sheeran under the flyover. She paused to snap a photo of his open guitar case, coins glittering like tiny planets in the dark velvet.
Her dad’s semi-detached smelled of garlic and rosemary when she arrived. Her brothers were already there: Vik at the table scrolling his phone, Arun yelling at the football on TV. Their dad beamed at her, took the tulips like they were priceless, and ushered her into the kitchen.
It wasn’t curry this time - though the rice cooker sat waiting on the counter, just in case. He’d gone full British roast: chicken, golden potatoes, carrots glazed with honey. “Assimilation,” he declared proudly, brandishing the gravy boat. “Your mother laughed at me the first time. Now? Perfect.”
They all crammed into the small dining room, football still audible from the living room.
“You’re late,” Vik said, without looking up.
“She was out clubbing,” Arun answered for her, smirking.
“It was art,” Maya retorted. “Research.”
“Uh-huh.” Arun forked a potato. “Research into tequila.”
Their dad sighed the sigh of a man dramatically wronged by fate. “Still no boyfriend. No grandchildren. Do you know how patient I am? Very patient. But also: not eternal.”
Maya lobbed a carrot at him. “You’ve got two sons. Let them do the breeding.”
“Vik doesn’t even water his plants,” Arun said.
“Excuse me,” Vik finally looked up, “they are succulents. They are fine.”
The banter bounced around like a well-worn ball. Familiar, teasing, affectionate. Underneath it was something quieter: the empty space where her mum should have been, the chair still pulled out instinctively, the way her dad kept refilling everyone’s plates as if sheer abundance might make up for absence. It never became melodrama, never named - just a gentle gravity in the room.
Afterwards, too full of potatoes, Maya walked the long way back through South London, sketchbook under her arm. She wandered down side streets and across the wide plaza near the Whitgift Centre, where pigeons strutted like bored security guards. Eventually she ended up in an underpass, cross-legged on the cold concrete step, sketching the reflection of fluorescent light on damp tiles.
A man leaned into his phone, unaware she caught the curve of his posture. A child in a puffy coat darted past, laughter echoing. An old woman pushed a trolley heavy with shopping bags, each wheel squeaking in protest. Maya’s pencil moved quickly, greedy for the small details: the way light fractured against wet tiles, the faint halo around the child’s hair, the hunched silhouette of the woman and her cart. These were the moments she loved best - unnoticed, ordinary, fleeting.
The light shifted as afternoon folded into evening. She tucked her sketchbook away, stretched stiff legs, and caught her reflection in the smeared glass of a bus shelter. Twenty-seven, paint under her nails, hair escaping its bun. Not exactly the picture of success. She thought of her friends - marriages, babies, mortgages - and felt the familiar pinch of being left behind. Then she shook it off, snapped a photo of the sunset bleeding across the tramlines, and caught the next bus home.
Back in her flat, the radiator clanked like it resented the effort of heating the place. She brewed tea, microwaved leftover curry, and curled up on the sofa with a blanket over her feet. The fairy lights blinked tiredly.
Netflix scrolled on and on. Documentaries, thrillers, endless things she didn’t want to commit to. She wanted something familiar, something that would hold her without asking much. Her cursor hovered.
The Fellowship of the Ring.
Maya hesitated, then clicked.
The first notes of strings rose, clear and wistful, filling the flat with a kind of brightness that didn’t belong to Croydon. The Shire glowed, impossibly gentle. Maya sank deeper into the cushions, warmth and tiredness pulling at her.
She thought vaguely of her dad and brothers, of the sketches waiting to be inked, of her laundry still damp on the radiator.
The Shire’s green hills rolled across the screen, and Maya’s last ordinary day in Croydon slipped quietly into legend.