Author's POV:
Sandhya typed the final sentence, her fingers trembling slightly against the worn-out keyboard.
"He never loved her out loud. But he remembered her in silence."
She stared at the blinking cursor for a moment before hitting Save Draft. The power could go off any minute — it usually did by 8:15 PM in her part of the village. Sometimes earlier, if the sky so much as coughed.
A soft creak came from the corridor. Sandhya stiffened. She shut the browser tab, minimized her writing app, and closed her tiny secondhand laptop with a practiced rhythm. Her heart beat a little too loudly for comfort — not because she was doing anything wrong, but because in her home, even dreaming felt like rebellion.
"Tu abhi tak jagi hai?"
(Are you still awake?)
Her mother's voice floated in, stern and sharp like the smell of kerosene that clung to their walls.
"Hmm. Bas thoda kaam," Sandhya replied, keeping her voice low.
Her mother grunted, the kind of sound that said I don't approve, but I'm too tired to argue. Footsteps faded. Silence again.
Sandhya waited a minute before reopening her laptop.
Her story had already gathered 4,921 reads and 323 comments. Each notification was a tiny scream of freedom. Her pen name — @inkedsoul — was the version of herself she wished she could be out loud: fearless, honest, wanted.
Later that night, she finally drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, Sandhya woke up at dawn. 5:00 a.m. sharp.
She moved like muscle memory: sweeping the courtyard before the birds even began their chatter, then quietly gathered her clothes and towel for a shower.
When she entered her small room again, she paused by the charpai where her cousin Riya — her elder uncle's daughter — still slept soundly. Lucky her. No early chores, no sharp words.
Sandhya chose a white and pink anarkali suit and headed to the bathroom. After the shower, she stepped out refreshed, her long hair wrapped neatly in a towel. She pinned a small bindi on her forehead, cheeks softly pink from the steam. Her face glowed — not from makeup, which she rarely used unless her mother forced her to — but from the quiet satisfaction of early morning calm.
She made her way to the pooja room, barefoot, humming the aarti tune under her breath. She dusted the small altar, lit the incense, and folded her hands in prayer. It wasn't about rituals — it was the one place where no one interrupted her peace.
Later, she went to the kitchen to make breakfast. The clang of vessels, the hiss of boiling water, the familiar rhythm of her mornings.
Her family was big — and loud.
Her elder uncle, his wife, their son and daughter, her own parents, her younger brother, and her grandfather. Eight of them under one roof. Nine, counting her dreams.
She was the eldest among them all. Her grandfather adored her, but her grandmother... not so much. It was her grandfather's soft insistence that helped convince the rest of the family to let her study. Just a diploma in Computer Science and Engineering — but it meant everything to her.
Now, she was hoping to find a part-time job. Something to inch her closer to independence.
She loved cooking, but hated how it was forced upon her like a gendered inheritance. No one ever asked her brother to learn to knead dough or boil rice. Equality was a myth in this house — whispered about but never lived.
And yet, despite it all, Sandhya held onto her little rebellion — her stories, her dreams, her identity hidden behind a screen and a pen name.
She quickly prepared hot chai and poha for everyone, working with practiced speed. The smell of mustard seeds crackling in oil, green chilies, and tturmeric filledthe kitchen — familiar, comforting, and routine. She added peanuts last, just the way her grandfather liked it.
One by one, her family gathered around the dining table.
As always, the men of the house ate first — her father, uncle, grandfather, and her younger brother. Plates clinked. Loud voices rose with casual complaints and demands: more chutney, less sugar in the tea, too much salt in the poha.
Sandhya moved between the stove and the table silently, refilling cups, refrying papads, wiping spills.
When they finished and left — some burping, some praising the food out of habit — the women finally sat down. Her mother, aunt, cousin Riya, and finally, Sandhya.
By then, the poha had cooled slightly, and the chai wasn't as hot. But this wasn't new.
At around 12 PM, she slipped back into her room. It was a small space — one single bed pushed to the corner, two shelves stacked with old notebooks and borrowed books, and a wooden desk where her secondhand laptop rested like a lifeline.
She powered it on and opened the file a client had sent her. Lines of buggy code stared back.
Brows furrowed, Sandhya got to work. Her fingers danced over the keys as she tried to identify the logic flaw. A misplaced bracket? A missing import? Debugging could be frustrating, but she liked the satisfaction of solving things others couldn't.
Freelancing had become her secret second life — helping people with software errors, debugging systems, sometimes building websites or simple mobile apps for students and small businesses. It wasn't much, but it brought her a trickle of income — money she hid carefully inside an old shoe box beneath her bed.
Her eyes landed on the sticker just above her laptop screen. Faded and curling at the edges, it read: "To my brightest star, keep writing your story."
Her grandfather had gifted her the laptop when she turned sixteen. No one else had supported her dreams — not her parents, not her uncle, certainly not her grandmother. But Dadu... he believed in her when no one else did.
The thought made her chest tighten a little.
Every line of code she wrote, every sentence she typed as @inkedsoul, was stitched with his faith in her.
Sandhya closed her eyes briefly, letting that thought sit with her — before opening her browser and logging into Instagram.
She had something to post. Something that would unknowingly start the next chapter of her life.
She stared at her Instagram account for a moment.
Her last post had been three days ago — a quote from her ongoing story:
"He whispered her name like it was both a prayer and a promise."
4,502 likes. 127 comments. A mix of loyal readers and silent admirers, each message a reminder that even if her world didn't see her, someone out there did.
She opened her story editor.
The cracked screen reflected her hesitant smile as she typed:
"Need help with reel editing. DM if interested! Paid work. ❤️✨"
She attached a screenshot of her Wattpad cover and hit Post to Story.
It felt like releasing a piece of herself into the world and waiting for someone to catch it.
Just then, a soft knock interrupted her.
"Dadu?" she asked.
Her grandfather pushed open the door slowly. A thin shawl draped over his shoulder, his eyes kind as always.
"Coding kar rahi hai, ya duniya badal rahi hai?" he asked with a teasing smile.
Sandhya chuckled. "Dono," she replied. "Thoda duniya, thoda client ka bug."
He walked in, placed a wrapped sweet on her desk. "Soan papdi. Tera favorite. Chup-chap kha le. Baaki sabko toh diabetes ya diet ya dushmani hai meetha se."
She smiled, touched by the gesture. "Thanks, Dadu."
He sat beside her, watching the code on her screen with clueless fascination. "Yeh sab tu kaise seekh gayi, Sandhya?"
She paused. "Shaam mein library jaati thi. Phir YouTube, free courses, trial-and-error. Seekhna tha... isiliye seekh gayi."
He nodded, pride softening his expression. "Jo kaam puri duniya nahi kar paayi, woh tune kiya. Apne liye khud ka raasta banaya."
Her eyes burned a little. But she blinked it away, offering him a smile.
After he left, Sandhya opened Wattpad and reread a few of her reader comments. Among them was one user who always stood out — always writing detailed feedback, noticing the smallest metaphors.
@A_4_Aurora
She'd always assumed it was a girl. Maybe a young college student.
She was about to close the tab when a ding popped up on her Instagram.
New Message Request — @auryan_07
Hey, saw your story. I know reel editing. Learnt it during lockdown. Would love to help if you're still looking!
Her heart paused.
She opened the profile: clean aesthetic, some cityscapes, books, and one pinned reel that used her quote — her quote — from Chapter 12 of her story.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She typed:
Hey! That sounds great. Can I see some of your edits?
She hit send.
And just like that, something began.
Something neither of them could have predicted.
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