Sandhya's POV:
I was sitting on my bed after finishing some work for one of my clients. I had been studying for a while when I decided to take a short break. I opened Instagram and saw a few messages from my followers.
Today, everyone had gone to attend a wedding function, but I had to stay back because I started my period.
Another thing I absolutely hate—girls aren't allowed to step outside the house during their periods. No entering the kitchen. No going near the pooja ghar. As if we're impure for simply existing.
It's frustrating. But what can I really do?
I replied to a few DMs, heart fluttering slightly at the sweet words from strangers who called my stories "raw" and "honest." At least someone out there saw me for something more than just a daughter who disobeys.
Just as I was about to lock the phone and get back to studying, a familiar name popped up at the top of my chat list.
@auryan_07:
"You okay today? Didn't see any story updates from you."
I smiled, surprised at how he noticed.
@inkedsoul:
"I'm fine. Just... not in the mood to be social today."
His reply came fast, like he was waiting.
@auryan_07:
"Tough day?"
I hesitated, then typed.
@inkedsoul:
"Let's just say being a girl in a traditional household sucks sometimes. Everyone went to a wedding. I couldn't go."
@auryan_07:
"Let me guess... periods + patriarchy combo?"
I laughed out loud. How did he know?
@inkedsoul:
"Exactly. Can't go out, can't enter the kitchen, can't even light a diya. Like I'm cursed or something."
@auryan_07:
"You're not cursed. You're just... stuck in a system that was never built for girls like you."
My fingers paused over the keyboard. No one ever said it like that before. Not Maa, not Papa, not even the girls in school.
@auryan_07:
"If it helps... I think the world needs more girls like you. Quiet rebels with sharp minds."
I blinked at the message. My lips curved before I even realised it.
@inkedsoul:
"You say that like you know me."
@auryan_07:
"I read your words. That's enough. You write like someone who's been through storms and still chose to bloom."
@inkedsoul: So Mr. Coder, do you also hack hearts or just software? 😏
I waited, already smirking at my own cringe. But his reply made it worth it.
@auryan_07: Depends. Some hearts have too many firewalls.
But yours... might just be my favorite bug to decode. 😇
I laughed—soft, surprised. This boy was smooth.
@inkedsoul: Smooth. Very smooth.
I should warn you—I'm not that easy to read.
@auryan_07: Challenge accepted. 😉
Then, after a pause, his next message came.
@auryan_07: What about you? You write so honestly online... but what do you really do?
Like... what's a day in the life of @inkedsoul?
I stared at his message for a while. Something about the way he asked made me want to answer truthfully.
@inkedsoul: Honestly? Most days I wake up early, help around the house, study, work on a few freelance writing or design gigs.
And then I escape into my stories. Because it's the only place where I get to breathe the way I want to.
@auryan_07: That... sounds heavy.
You okay?
I blinked.
No one ever asked that.
Not like that.
@inkedsoul: Some days yes. Some days... I pretend better.
He didn't type for a full minute. And then:
@auryan_07: If pretending ever gets too loud, you can talk to me.
Even if it's just about the weather. Or chai. Or your characters.
I'll be here.
And that? That felt like more comfort than anyone had given me in a long time.
@auryan_07: Okay okay, let's switch gears. Tell me—what's your all-time favorite song? 🎵
@inkedsoul: Ugh, tough one!
But I love Aashiq Tera, Saudebazi, Nazar Na Lag Jaye... I'm all about lyrics that hit a little too close 😌
You?
@auryan_07: Bas wahi. Jo aapke fav hain, wohi mere bhi fav hain.
Taste toh match hona chahiye na 😉
@inkedsoul: Wah. Convenient answer 😏
Aap mujhe flirt kar rahe ho kya, Mr. Coder?
@auryan_07: Aapse flirt karne ki himmat kaise ho sakti hai, madam?
Main toh bas... appreciation mein expert hoon 😇
@inkedsoul: Smooth operator 😒
@auryan_07: Nah. Just honest.
You make even sad songs feel warm.
@inkedsoul: That's a weird compliment 😅
@auryan_07: Maybe. But think about it.
Some people carry storms.
You? You carry stories. Even your silences feel like they're building something.
@inkedsoul: ...you really say things like that casually?
@auryan_07: Not usually.
Just with people who feel... worth saying them to.
@inkedsoul: Don't do this. I'll start liking you.
@auryan_07: Would that be so bad?
A few seconds passed. Her fingers hovered, unsure. Then finally, she replied:
@inkedsoul: Stop.
You're the kind of person who ruins fictional men for real ones. 😶
@auryan_07: And you're the kind of girl who writes fictional worlds... but forgets she deserves a soft one too.
@inkedsoul: ...
Sometimes I write the kind of endings I never got.
Sometimes I write to survive the day.
@auryan_07: That's the most honest thing I've read today.
@auryan_07: What do you write when you're hurting?
She stared at the screen. Then slowly typed:
@inkedsoul:
Usually?
I write a girl who says all the things I never could.
Who walks out of rooms I stayed in too long.
Who doesn't apologise for feeling everything.
@auryan_07:
Then she sounds like someone I'd fall for.
Actually, she sounds like someone I already am.
@auryan_07:
Then she sounds like someone I'd fall for.
Actually, she sounds like someone I already am.
I stared at the message, heart suddenly a little too loud. There was a kind of warmth in his words — the kind that didn't ask to be noticed, just sat quietly beside your sadness like it belonged there.
@inkedsoul:
You make it sound so easy.
But in real life, I always feel like I'm pretending.
Pretending to be okay.
Pretending not to care.
Pretending like I don't wish I was somewhere else entirely.
@auryan_07:
Maybe that's why you write.
To stop pretending.
Even if it's just for a few paragraphs.
His message sat there for a moment like a hand on mine, wordless and warm.
@auryan_07:
And for what it's worth...
Even your pretending is stronger than most people's truth.
@inkedsoul:
You really shouldn't say things like that.
They stay with me longer than they should.
@auryan_07:
Maybe I want to stay.
Even if it's just as a sentence you reread on hard days.
I smiled. A soft, sad kind of smile.
@inkedsoul:
You already are.
A good line in the middle of my bad chapter.
Just then, I heard the sound of car doors slamming. Voices. Footsteps. Laughter.
The family had returned from the wedding.
Which meant the silence was over. The pretending would begin again.
@inkedsoul:
They're back. I have to go.
@auryan_07:
Okay.
But hey—
Come back when you want to stop pretending again.
I'll be here.
I didn't reply right away. But I reread that line three times.
Then one more.
I logged out before I could say something stupid.
And just like that, the room filled with voices, but I missed the quiet.
"Beta, tumne khana khaya?" Maa asked softly as she stepped into my room. Her hair, which had been open earlier, was now twisted into a messy bun, a few loose strands framing her tired but content face.
I nodded, shifting my book aside. "Ji Maa. Shaadi kaisi rahi?"
She sat down beside me with a sigh, her bangles clinking lightly. "Bahut achhi thi. Ladka bhi bada accha dikhta hai. Dono ki jodi jam rahi thi bilkul. Ab bas jaldi se teri shaadi dekhna chahti hoon."
I groaned, leaning my head back. "Maa..." I protested, dragging the word out.
She laughed softly, ruffling my hair like she used to when I was little. "Kya 'Maa'? Sabse sundar ladki meri beti hai. Ab kuch dinon mein rishton ki baat bhi shuru ho jaani chahiye."
I looked down at my hands. A little smile played on my lips, but it didn't quite reach my eyes.
She didn't notice. Or maybe she chose not to.
The conversation drifted to other things — who wore what, which uncle danced the most, how the bride had teared up during bidaai.
But that one sentence — "Ab bas jaldi se teri shaadi dekhna chahti hoon" — it stayed, quietly pressing against my chest like a weight I wasn't ready to lift.
I loved being a girl.
I loved working around the house—arranging cushions just right, helping Maa in the kitchen, lighting incense sticks during the evening aarti. My dreams were simple too: a warm little home, a husband who didn't just love me but stood by me, encouraged me, believed in my dreams as much as I did.
But I hated how those dreams were handed to me.
As if wanting love and support was asking for too much.
As if expecting respect from a man was a crime.
As if the home would always belong to him, and I'd just be another name on the doorbell.
I loved cooking—there was peace in stirring spices into oil, in kneading dough, in feeding the people I cared about. But I hated being obliged to cook. Like it was my destiny, not my choice. Like it was a favour to let me do anything besides that.
What burned the most was how often I was told to be grateful.
Grateful that I wasn't married off yet—because I had "already turned 20".
Grateful that I was still being allowed to study.
As if education was a luxury. As if my books were borrowed time.
Studying shouldn't feel like a gift.
It should be my right.
But in this house, in this village, and sometimes in this country—being a girl often means learning how to smile while swallowing your fire.
Even now, time and again, I'm reminded that I should get married early. That if I wait too long, I might not find a groom—because of my color.
Because I'm a dusky brown girl in a world that still worships fairness like a trophy.
But I love myself.
I love the way my eyes shimmer—a deep, warm brown that holds the fire no one sees.
I love my chubby cheeks that turn rosy when I smile, my cute little nose, and my pink-tinted lips.
My hair, shoulder-length and thick, falls in rich dark waves that feel like home.
I looked out the window, my chin resting on my knees, lost in thoughts about a future I hadn't even been allowed to fully imagine.
Riya moved around the room, getting ready for bed—carefree, humming under her breath. It irritated me sometimes, not because of her, but because I hated sharing my space. I wanted solitude, like my brothers had. They each had their own rooms. Their own walls. Their own freedom.
Once, I asked my father why I couldn't have my own room.
He just said, "Ladkiyaan akeli nahi rehti."
Girls shouldn't be alone.
Why?
Why must there always be a list of what girls shouldn't do?
Don't sit like that.
Don't laugh too loud.
Don't raise your voice.
Sit properly.
Smile politely.
Look 'decent.'
I'm tired.
Tired of bending myself to fit into boxes I never chose.
And just like that another day of crying myself to sleep and blaming my destiny.
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