Sleep had been impossible. The night felt like a restless stage, my heart rehearsing lines I hadn't written. By morning, I was wide awake, pulling on the outfit I had chosen long before: all black. Not a mix, not a compromise—just black. It clung to me like a decision, sharp and unapologetic.
The night before, my phone had lit up with a message from Kavya. My pulse jumped; she'd never messaged me before.
She: Are you wearing traditional?
Me: No, western.
She: White shirt and black pants?
Me: No, whole black.
She: Me and Ada are not able to decide what we are wearing.
Me: Nice 😂
It was an ordinary exchange, but the glow stayed with me. The first time is never ordinary.
At school, the air was thick with perfume, chatter, the swish of dupattas and crisp collars. Everyone seemed to have fallen into the same rhythm—white shirts, black pants, safe blends. And then there was me, the lone blot of black in a sea of balance. My palms itched with sweat, and for a heartbeat, I wanted to melt into the crowd, to trade my defiance for invisibility.
As I was walking, a girl from eighth grade passed—round face, glasses slipping down her nose, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Akaay is looking so hot in this fit."
Her words snagged me like a thorn. Hot? Him? I turned, eyes narrowing on his white-and-black frame, trying to see what she saw. Instead, all I felt was doubt—about her taste, about mine.
Then Di appeared, light cutting through the shadow. She smiled with mischief curling at her lips.
"Whom are you making fall for you today?"
The question struck like a spotlight. Heat rushed to my cheeks, but I said nothing. My body betrayed me, frozen in place, lips curved in a helpless smile.
On stage, my voice trembled at first. The mic felt heavier than it should; the audience's eyes were sharper. But each line I delivered settled into me, steadied me. By the end, the fear had thinned into focus. Shubh handled his part, the games flowing without pause. Together, we pulled it off. For once, I wasn't hiding—I was holding.
Later, in class, I caught it: Akaay's voice, pitched just low enough, speaking to Ada. "She looks like a circus trainer."
The words burned at the edges of my ears.
"What did you say?" My voice was sharp, like a whip cracking.
He looked startled, then shrugged. "Uh… nothing to you."
But the damage was already done—or maybe not. Strangely, it didn't pierce me the way I thought it would. Circus trainer. The phrase rolled in my head until it softened, until I almost laughed. Circus trainers are bold. Dazzling. The center of the ring. Perhaps he'd meant to insult me, but what he revealed instead was that he'd noticed me—really seen me. And that was its own kind of compliment.
The photo session with teachers was chaos, laughter spilling everywhere. Shree shoved me right into the middle, beside the Principal. Later, when Instagram flooded with pictures, she rang me, voice breathless.
"See the photos I sent you—now!"
"Okay, okay, what's the big deal? Why are you so hyped?"
"Just look, and you'll know."
In the group shot, my black outfit cut through the crowd, sharp as ink against paper. I looked like the main character, though I hadn't asked to be.
"See? I was right to push you in the middle," Shree crowed. "Now it looks like you are the main character."
"Yeah, nice… but people are going to judge me for this."
"Let them judge. They had choices too. If they stuck to safe, that's on them. Why should you shrink just because they weren't bold enough?" Her voice rose, fierce.
"…Okay. I get it."
But the second photo made my chest tighten. There I was, shoulder to shoulder with Akaay—though I hadn't even realized he was behind me. Our closeness looked deliberate, staged. But it wasn't. That almost-touch haunted me, a secret the photo knew before I did.
"Wait—I didn't know he was behind me. Did you?"
"I swear I didn't. And why does it look like you two are posing that way?"
"I… don't know."
And then came the video. Di dancing, radiant, her joy spilling over. Behind her, Akaay glared into the camera, that "so done" look carved into his face. I watched it once. Then again. Ten times before I noticed. Each replay felt like tugging at a loose thread, though I didn't know what fabric it belonged to.
By the time I put my phone down, the day had written itself inside me: anxiety blooming into courage, invisibility turning into presence. For once, standing out hadn't broken me. Maybe black wasn't just the color of difference. Maybe it was the color of becoming.
The project waits, loud and insistent. Life doesn't pause, even for transformations you didn't see coming.