andhya's POV:
I was working in the kitchen, my hands dipped in besan, rolling out laddoos for the guests coming over later that evening. The faint clink of utensils and the aroma of cardamom were the only things keeping me calm. It was one of those rare afternoons where I found peace in the monotony.
But then the door slammed.
Heavy footsteps followed. Thunder in his stride.
Before I could even wipe my hands, Papa stormed in and gripped my wrist—tight.
"Papa, kya hua?" I asked, startled.
"Kya hua?" he echoed, eyes bloodshot. "Abhi batata hoon kya hua. Bhot gulchare udane ka mann hai na tera?"
My stomach dropped. The warmth of the kitchen vanished, replaced by a strange chill creeping up my spine.
"Papa—" I tried again, but he cut me off, shaking the phone in his other hand.
"Yeh kya hai? Instagram pe ye sab daalne ka kya matlab? Sabke saamne apni izzat utarwaani hai?"
It hit me.
He had seen my story. The one I had posted last night—a short poem about girls being told they're a burden until they're married off like property. I hadn't tagged anyone. I hadn't mentioned names. Just a piece of me, poured into words.
I swallowed hard. "Woh... bas likha tha. Kisi ke liye nahi tha—"
"Chup!" he barked. "Aaj kal ki ladkiyaan zyada hi bolne lagi hain. Apne baap ko sikhaayengi ab? Yeh sab likh ke kya milega tujhe? Likes? Comments? Yeh sab hawa mein udne ka nasha chadh gaya hai tujhe!"
My voice trembled. "Papa, main sirf—"
"Sirf kya? Apne ghar ki baat ghar ke andar hi rakhte hain. Bahar jaa kar duniya ke saamne drama karne ki zarurat nahi."
His grip on my wrist tightened. It hurt.
But more than my skin, it was my spirit that stung.
He wasn't angry about the story.
He was angry that I said something he spent his whole life ignoring.
That I dared to speak.
That I gave my silence a name.
"Maa ne kuch nahi kaha jab tune likhna shuru kiya. Maine bhi chhup raha. Par ab hadh ho gayi. Tum ladkiyaan samajhti kya ho apne aapko?"
I slowly pulled my hand from his grip.
And I don't know what took over me then—fear, rage, or maybe just the final thread snapping—but I looked up and said, quietly, "Sirf ladki hoon, Papa. Par kya yeh kaafi nahi hai?"
He stared at me. Shocked.
The kitchen fell silent. Even the simmering pot behind us seemed to pause.
"I didn't insult you. I didn't say anything untrue. I just... wrote what I feel every day and can't say out loud."
My mother had walked in by then, Riya peeking in from behind the door, wide-eyed.
"Tumhari maa ne kabhi aise ulte seedhe vichar nahi rakkhe," Papa muttered, turning away.
I smiled bitterly. "Maybe Maa didn't have the space. I'm just... claiming mine."
He didn't speak after that. Just stormed out, muttering under his breath about shame, and the dangers of too much "freedom."
I stood there, heart racing, palms still sticky with besan.
But this time, I didn't feel small.
I felt seen. By myself.
But then he came back—his footsteps heavy, anger still thick in the air.
He pointed a finger at me, eyes burning.
"Abhi ke abhi apne haath dho. Aur yeh sab delete karo. Warna tera phone le lunga. Apni maa se rasoi seekh—6 mahine ke andar teri shaadi karwa dunga, sab thik ho jaayega."
And just like that, he left again.
But this time, he didn't leave the anger behind—he left me in its ruins.
Tears slipped down before I could stop them. My chest felt hollow, my heart thudding with little to no expectation left in it. Not even anger remained—just this cold, aching helplessness.
My mother stepped closer, arms out to hug me, to offer some broken version of comfort.
But I stepped back.
I walked away. Quietly.
I washed my hands, the besan slipping off slowly, like the small joy I had felt earlier.
Then I looked up at the sky—grey, silent, indifferent.
"Kyu? Kyu mere saath hi kyu?" I whispered.
Just a little happiness—that's all I had gotten.
And even that... was too much to ask for.
People always say, "Ladkiyan sab kuch kar sakti hain."
But no one tells you what happens when the one person you needed standing behind you—your own father—turns his back.
A daughter can only fight the world for so long.
But once her father stops standing with her...
She's not fighting the world anymore.
She's fighting her own home.
I was in my room, the door slightly ajar as voices floated in from the living room.
Guests had arrived—a distant relative from Papa's side. Laughter echoed down the hallway, familiar and hollow all at once.
The aroma of freshly made dishes lingered in the air—the same ones I had helped Maa prepare. Still, someone had found the time to taunt me about how I should "finally learn kitchen work properly now." As if all that mattered was how well I cooked, not how I dreamed.
I didn't respond. Just smiled faintly like always and escaped to the one place I could breathe—my room.
I walked over to the window and leaned against the frame, eyes trailing up toward the sky.
Night had settled in quietly.
A cool breeze brushed my skin as I watched stars blink into existence one by one—silent, constant.
I've always loved the stars more than the moon.
The moon was admired by everyone—poets, lovers, elders who called it sacred. But the stars... they were the quiet game changers.
On cloudy nights, they disappeared—hidden, almost forgotten. Like they were going through something they didn't owe the world an explanation for.
But on clear nights?
They returned. Fierce. Soft. Scattered across the sky like tiny rebellions refusing to fade.
And I—
I wanted to be like them.
Not the admired moon, whose beauty came in phases.
But a star.
Unapologetically there, night after night.
Twinkling.
Even when no one was watching.
I watched the stars quietly, forehead resting against the cool windowpane.
Sometimes I wondered if they ever got tired of shining.
Did they ever wish to just stop?
To disappear completely, not just behind clouds but beyond reach—so no one could demand their light anymore?
Maybe that's selfish.
But tonight, I felt like that.
Empty.
Like a flame that flickers too long in the wind before giving up.
I don't want to be strong all the time.
I don't want to be graceful in the face of insults, or poised while being told I'm not enough, or grateful for crumbs just because someone else has less.
I don't want to carry this invisible burden of being "a good girl."
Because no matter how good I try to be—it's never enough.
Not in this house.
Not in this skin.
Not in these expectations.
My worth is measured in silence. In obedience. In how well I fold the clothes. In how few opinions I express. In how quickly I say yes.
But when do I get to be enough for myself?
When do I stop existing for the comfort of others?
I closed my eyes for a second, letting the quiet sink into me.
My chest felt heavy, like a balloon filled with unsaid words.
And yet, somewhere deep inside—beneath the tiredness, beneath the tears I refused to let fall again—there was something else.
A flicker.
Small.
Defiant.
Still burning.
I may not be allowed to scream, but I can write.
I may not be allowed to choose, but I can imagine.
And maybe—just maybe—that's how I'll save myself.
One word at a time.
Suddenly, I remembered a message from Auryan.
"Never let your light get dim because of others. You are strong—and you know that yourself. When you start respecting yourself more, you'll learn to take a stand for yourself. But it's okay to cry on dark nights. Because without failure, there's no success. Without pain, there is no happiness. Even a wise person cries—rich or poor. This world always tries to drag strong people down."
His words played in my mind like a soft melody—steady, comforting.
He never made me feel less than.
Never looked at me like I was broken.
While other boys were busy flirting or asking for my number, he always began with the same question:
"How are you doing today?"
Just that.
And with that one simple question, I'd pour my heart out—sometimes in paragraphs, sometimes in pieces.
I don't know what he saw in me, but he never made me feel small for feeling too much.
God really has a strange way with His children.
I remember once, when I went to the temple with my grandfather, he asked me to pray for something—anything I wanted.
But as I folded my hands, I saw others around me, doing the same. Whispering silent prayers. Some with tears. Some with tired eyes.
I turned to my grandfather and asked, "Do other people have more problems than me? If there are so many of us, how will God even help me?"
He smiled and said something that has stayed with me ever since.
"God has his angels. When He feels He can't be everywhere, He sends someone your way. And you'll know when it happens."
Maybe Auryan is that angel.
And if I ever get the chance to meet him, even just once... I'd want to.
Just to say thank you.
Just to tell him he made the weight a little lighter.
So tonight, as I closed my eyes, I whispered into the silence:
God, if you're listening... let that angel be Auryan.
And then, with that quiet prayer wrapped around me, I let the darkness take over and drifted into sleep.
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