“This is the final boarding call for Indigo flight 6E 985 to Delhi. Passengers, please proceed to gate number 7,” said the air hostess dressed in blue. I was relieved to finally be going back home. It had been two long, hard months at college, and I was so ready to eat Dad’s mutton and become a starfish on my insanely comfortable bed. As I reached home and ate my first meal, I was fighting back tears. It made the two-month-long wait almost worth it. My sister barged into the room with an ice cream tub in her hand. “Want some?” she asked. Puzzled, I responded with a nod. Was my sister willingly giving me Mississippi Mudhunt from Baskin-Robbins? Stressing on the “willingly” here, might I add. The woman who would trade me for a chocolate without thought was now being compassionate?
The next morning, I woke up. Late, groggy, and making my way to the kitchen to get something to eat, and there it was on the kitchen counter. A McDonald’s bag. Beaming right at me as if it were a trophy placed on a podium. My eyes glistened. I made my way to the counter, grabbed the bag, and read the note on it-
“Welcome home, Nix, figured you may want to have burgers for lunch instead. We’ll go get that book you were talking about last night from the store nearby, once I’m back from work, by the way. See you.
Love,
Dad”
This was way too weird. Ice cream at night, burgers for lunch, and a sudden sponsored book retail therapy. What was happening in this household? I ran back from the kitchen to my room to text Tia, my best friend, and explain this to her. Explain to her the insanity that was happening. This was so unusual. My family wouldn’t miss a second to bully me, so why were they being nice?
I reached for my phone to text Tia. My eyes could barely process what I was seeing on the screen. Multiple notifications from Canvas, all labeled “Assignment missed.” What assignment was missed? My fingers, suddenly unsteady, swiped up and opened the app. Three assignments appeared, each marked LATE in bold red. I stared at them, trying to make sense of it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d missed something like this, let alone three. A wave of panic hit me. I opened my mail app and began drafting emails to my professors, my thoughts racing ahead of my words.
I’m so sorry for missing the deadline…
I don’t know how this happened… Before I could finish, a new email appeared.
Subject: Mark Deduction and Penalty for Late Submission.
No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be real. My chest tightened as I reread the subject line, hoping it would somehow change. It didn’t. I dropped my phone onto the bed and pressed my hands against my head, trying to piece together when and how I could have missed all of this.
And then I hear a loud, jarring noise completely out of place. My alarm went off. I sat up instantly, my room coming back into focus. The light, my desk, my phone, everything exactly where it should be. For a second, I just sat there, trying to separate what had just happened from what was real. I grabbed my phone again and opened Canvas. The dashboard loaded. No missed assignments. No late submissions. Just the usual courses, quiet and unchanged. I hate this app with a passion. I knew this was a dream. It had to be a dream. There was no way that evil sister of mine would ever share her ice cream with me.