Sandhya's POV:
It's been five days since that rishta talk happened.
No one brought it up again, but the silence around it was thicker than a monsoon cloud. The kind that doesn't burst, just hangs in the sky—heavy and threatening.
I sat in my room, hunched over my laptop. The fan above whirred unevenly, and the scent of freshly fried pakoras from the kitchen floated in. But I wasn't hungry.
My fingers hovered over the keys.
I was writing the next part of my novel.
My heroine, Devika, was standing in front of the village panchayat—her spine straighter than the village temple's bell rod. She had just slammed a file of medical records on the table.
"Yeh log bhi insaan hain. Gareebi unka gunah nahi hai. Hospital ki suvidha sabke liye honi chahiye, sirf ameeron ke liye nahi," Devika's voice rang through the panchayat hall like temple bells in a thunderstorm.
The men looked at her with disbelief.
A woman raising her voice? A young woman?
I smiled faintly as I typed the line.
I always admired strong female leads.
Women who didn't ask for permission to exist.
Women who knew how to burn quietly until it was time to blaze.
Maybe that's why Devika was the way she was. Maybe that's why I wrote her the way I needed her to be.
She came from a village too. She had to fight for the smallest things. And now, she was fighting for a health center in her area—because her neighbour's wife had died last month after a three-hour wait and a broken ambulance.
Fictional, yes. But heartbreakingly real.
Somewhere between keystrokes and imagined rebellions, I was rewriting myself.
I paused for a second and opened Instagram. I wasn't supposed to. I had promised myself I'd stay off for the whole day.
But I needed a break from saving the world one fictional riot at a time.
A notification blinked.
@auryan_07 sent you a reel
This boy. Always knew when to message.
I clicked it.
A little girl was dragging her dog in a pink doll pram and yelling, "Doctor banega toh aise kaam bhi karna padega!"
I laughed. Loudly.
I typed back:
"This is me dragging Devika through all the emotional trauma of Chapter 22."
He replied almost instantly.
"Poor Devika. At least give her a love interest as soft as me."
I smirked.
"Oh? She already has someone like that. A guy who helps her edit protest posters and reminds her she's not alone."
I didn't expect a reply this time.
But it came.
"How can we underestimate your writing?"
His reply came just as I was about to close the chat.
And damn him—he really knew how to make words feel like a soft breeze across bruised skin.
I stared at the message longer than I should've.
I felt my cheeks warm, and I hated how easily I blushed these days.
Because of him.
Because of his perfectly timed compliments and dumb reels and that way he always said we, like he was on my team even when the whole world wasn't.
I typed, erased.
Typed again.
Finally, I sent:
"Because you're biased. You like InkedSoul too much."
He replied instantly.
"Biased? No. Obsessed, maybe."
"But only with her words. For now 😉"
I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly popped out, but I couldn't stop smiling.
There was something about him.
Not just his editing skills or his ability to make even the darkest day feel a little lighter.
It was the way he never asked for more than I could give.
He never pushed.
Never demanded a photo or a call.
He just... showed up.
And in a world that often silenced me or shamed me, his quiet presence felt like rebellion.
Like someone saying: "You don't have to be loud to matter."
I clicked back to my draft.
Devika was standing under the broken tin shed of the village school, holding her soggy protest signs.
I gave her a line I wasn't brave enough to say out loud:
"If nobody's clapping for you, clap for your damn self."
_______________________________________________________________________________
It was afternoon when I woke up from a nap. I looked around and noticed Riya wasn't in the room. Curious, I stepped outside and found her and my aunt sitting on the living room sofa, all dressed up in heavy sarees and glittering jewelry.
And then I saw it.
The silver bangles Papa had gifted me... now on her wrists.
And the suit—my favourite new one, which I had been saving for a special occasion—she was wearing that too.
My eyes widened in disbelief. I walked straight to her, my voice tight.
"Why are you wearing my things?"
She rolled her eyes, carelessly playing with the bangles. "So what? You hardly ever wear them."
Before I could respond, her mother—my aunt—snapped, "And so what if she wore them? You wear her clothes too, don't you?"
I clenched my jaw, but kept my voice steady. "Yes, I do. But only the ones she's already used. I've never touched her new clothes. And she didn't even ask me."
Riya's eyes narrowed. Her mother glared at me, but I didn't back down. Not this time.
"Ask her to change. Tell her to wear her own clothes."
Just then, Papa walked into the hall. "What's going on here?"
My aunt immediately switched tones, her voice soft and dripping with false innocence.
"Look at this, bhaiya. Just because my daughter wore your daughter's clothes, she's lashing out at us. I've always treated her like my own, but this? This is too much. Your Sandhya wears Riya's clothes all the time too!"
Papa turned to me, his face serious. "Sandhya, say sorry. Don't make a scene."
I stared at him for a long second. The same man who had once surprised me with those bangles... now telling me to apologize for wanting to keep them.
"I won't," I said simply.
His eyes hardened. "Sandhya."
"I said I won't. I have the right to protect what's mine. She didn't ask. And I'm not going to pretend that's okay."
The room went silent.
I turned and walked back to my room. My hands were shaking, but not from fear this time.
This time... they were shaking with quiet rage.
And pride.
Just as I shut the door behind me, Maa stormed into the room, her eyes blazing.
"Yeh kya tareeka tha usse aise baat karne ka? Tumhare papa kitne gusse mein hai, maloom hai?" she yelled, hands on her hips, her voice echoing off the walls.
I turned to face her, trying to steady the whirlwind inside me.
"Kuch bhi ho, uske paas koi haq nahi hai mere kapde lene ka bina puchhe," I said, my tone low but firm.
She glared at me for a moment, her disappointment louder than her words, then turned around and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
I sat on the edge of my bed, exhaling a shaky breath. My heart was still pounding from the confrontation, but there was no time to crumble.
I reached for my phone — a chipped, old model with a screen scratched like my spirit. Carefully, I opened Chrome and logged into Instagram. The app wouldn't even install on this phone anymore.
If Papa ever found out about this secret account, I wouldn't be grounded — I'd be done.
My eyes scanned the notification tab, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of my lips.
Messages from fellow authors flooded in, congratulating me on reaching 20,000 followers. For a moment, my world didn't feel like the one I was trapped in. It felt like the one I had built, sentence by sentence.
Then I saw a familiar name in my DMs. My breath caught.
@auryan_07
He had sent a message almost an hour ago.
"Hey author girl, I hope you're happy today. Congratulations on 20k followers. You deserve every bit of it, bachaa. May you keep shining and growing always."
I read the message twice.
Then a third time.
And slowly, a grin spread across my face. A real one.
In a world where everyone tried to dim me, this boy I had never even met — he saw me shine.
I stared at his message a few more seconds, heart blooming a little in a place I thought had long gone cold.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I bit back a smile. Then I typed.
@inkedsoul:
"Thank you, Auryan. I really needed this today."
I hit send before I could overthink. Within moments, his typing bubble appeared.
@auryan_07:
"Kya baat hai author girl. Aaj tone thoda emotional hai. Sab thik?"
I paused, debating. Should I tell him the truth?
Not all of it. But maybe a piece of it.
@inkedsoul:
"Bas... ghar mein thoda drama tha. Nothing new."
@auryan_07:
"Tumhare ghar mein drama aur meri life mein coding errors — dono kabhi khatam nahi hote 😂"
That made me laugh — an actual laugh that reached my eyes.
@inkedsoul:
"Haha true. Par tumne mujhe hasa diya, toh thank you for that."
@auryan_07:
"Tumhe hasta dekhna mujhe pasand hai. Even if it's just through a screen."
I froze for a second. Something about the way he said it... it wasn't flirty. It was gentle. Honest.
I typed slower this time.
@inkedsoul:
"Strange how you feel closer than most people in my life."
A few moments passed before he replied.
@auryan_07:
"Because I don't see just the girl they want you to be. I see the girl you're becoming."
And just like that, something inside me softened. Walls I didn't know I'd built began to shift.
I didn't reply immediately.
Instead, I looked out the window where the afternoon sun had begun to spill across the sky, golden and hopeful. Maybe the world still had small corners of kindness. Maybe this... was one of them.
I then exited the account, logging off from the only space that felt like mine, and stood up. My head felt heavy, my chest tighter than usual. I needed to breathe.
"I'm going for a walk!" I shouted towards the kitchen as I closed the gate behind me and stepped out.
The evening sun dipped low, casting golden hues over the fields. The rice crops swayed gently, whispering secrets only the wind could understand. My chappals crunched against the dusty road as I walked towards the garden area. A few kids ran past me, laughing, barefoot and carefree. I envied them.
I kept walking, letting the silence soothe me — until I turned into a narrow lane I had walked through a hundred times before. Today, though, it wasn't empty.
Three boys — probably from the next basti — were leaning on their bikes, chewing paan and staring too hard. My stomach tightened.
I immediately turned back, hoping they hadn't noticed.
They had.
Their laughter rang out — sharp, mocking. Engines roared to life behind me.
I didn't look back, just picked up my pace.
But they circled me. One to the left. One to the right. One in front. I stopped walking and stood still, wrapping my dupatta tighter across my chest like armor. My heartbeat thundered.
"Arre suno na didi!" one of them smirked. "Kya attitude hai... ?"
Another whistled. "Bohot tez lagti ho. Gaon ki ho kar bhi shehar waali style!"
I glared at them, my voice steady even as my hands trembled.
"Tum main se kisi ne bhi haath lagaya na, toh maar daalungi kutto," I hissed, louder than I'd ever dared before.
They burst out laughing.
But something about my tone must've made them pause — or maybe they weren't expecting me to speak at all.
"Chhod de bhai, ye toh sherni nikli," one said mockingly, revving his bike.
And just like that, they sped off, laughter trailing behind them.
My knees threatened to give way but I stood firm until they were out of sight.
Only then did I let the tears come — silent and burning.
Because bravery didn't always feel like fire.
Sometimes it felt like standing tall with shaking legs.
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