The night had long since stretched into one of effortless laughter, sarcastic critiques, and moments where Arin found himself genuinely surprised by how much he was enjoying this ridiculous, chaotic tradition.
The movie was now deep into its climax—a scene so absurdly over-the-top that even the most forgiving audience would struggle to take it seriously. The hero, drenched in rain, looked up at the sky in anguish as the heroine ran toward him in slow motion, her hair miraculously staying perfect despite the storm.
Shanaya threw up her hands. “Why are they running toward each other like that? She’s five feet away! Just walk like a normal person!”
Astha sighed, shaking her head. “Because drama, dear child. If they had normal conversations and walked at a normal speed, we wouldn’t have this cinematic masterpiece.”
Arin, watching the exaggerated wailing on-screen, smiled. “Masterpiece? That’s generous.”
Astha gave him a solemn nod. “We’re in the presence of greatness. Look at this man’s pain. He’s been in love for exactly three business days, and now the world is ending because of it.”
Shanaya mimicked the actor’s dramatic pose, pressing a hand to her chest. “Ah yes, the greatest tragedy known to mankind—falling in love with someone you just met and immediately losing them. Shakespeare could never.”
“Truly a loss for literature,” Astha added. “Imagine if we all functioned like movie characters. ‘Oh no, I made eye contact with the barista for two seconds longer than usual. Guess I have to quit my job, move cities, and stare at the ocean while pondering my entire existence.’”
Arin let out a genuine laugh, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous.”
“Welcome to our world, Arin,” Shanaya said, patting his shoulder. “We take our terrible movies very seriously.”
“Clearly.”
As the credits finally rolled, they all sat back, the room now filled with a comfortable kind of silence. Shanaya stretched and yawned dramatically. “That was exhausting. I feel like I lost brain cells.”
“You had some to begin with?” Astha teased.
“Wow, the betrayal.” Shanaya gasped. “Arin, did you hear that? My own mother. Just throwing me under the bus.”
Arin, still smiling, glanced at Astha. “I’m starting to think there’s no one she doesn’t throw under the bus.”
Astha smiled. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You survived your first roast night, didn’t you? That’s an achievement.”
Arin exhaled, shaking his head in amusement. “I suppose it is.”
Astha stood, stretching. “Alright, children, time for bed. Some of us have jobs in the morning.”
“You say that like I don’t also have to wake up early,” Shanaya grumbled.
“I do say it like that, because you’ll be in bed hitting snooze while I contemplate throwing your alarm clock out the window,” Astha replied.
Arin, who had been a quiet observer in many parts of life, realized that he wasn’t just observing anymore. He was part of something here, part of an easy familiarity he hadn’t even realized he craved.
He looked at Astha, who was gathering the empty popcorn bowls, and at Shanaya, who was pretending to be mortally wounded by her mother’s words.
Somewhere between sarcastic critiques and overcooked pasta, he had been welcomed into their world.
And for the first time, he wasn’t just a visitor in someone else’s story.
He was becoming part of it.
Leave a Reply