under one roof, above all logic, macha & me

imagine this.

a two-storey compact bungalow.
3BHK on each floor.
one’s hers. one’s mine.
we never really settled who moves in first—so we just keep switching stories for the sake of drama.

the terrace?
corners lit only.
asbestos roof overhead like it’s 2016 forever.
grapevines over our heads.
suspended swing chairs. bean bags dumped in the middle.
our kids and spouses sipping on evening beverages like it’s a Netflix original.
board games & crosswords turning into full-blown wars.
every. single. evening.

and the kitchen politics?
immaculate.
she cooks? I eat.
I cook? she eats.
no plates washed. no questions asked.
we fight every morning for who gets the newspaper first—
but God forbid it’s the Sunday Express.
no one wants that.

and music?
one floor’s on 2010 Arijit Singh & Taylor Swift.
another floor’s on Metro Boomin & AR Rahman.
but once Santhosh Narayan comes on?
peace treaty. truce signed. vibe matched.

we hate the same neighbours.
we gossip about soap operas like they owe us rent.
we throw shade at kwood controversies like we stand tall on our money.
and yeah, our kids probably think we’re insane.
but also, they see it—
the kind of friendship that aged like filter coffee left on low flame.
warm, strong, never too bitter.

me and you,
in the same house,
living two different lives,
with one giant inside joke running the whole thing.

manifestation?
nah.
this one’s a prophecy.

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