Chapter Two: The World Beyond My Balcony
Zaria's pov:
The next morning, Dhaka woke before I did — as always. From my balcony, I could see the street below buzzing with life: vendors shouting about fresh fruits, aunties gossiping near the gate, the smell of parathas and cha drifting up through the air.
Sometimes I thought Dhaka itself was alive — breathing, talking, moving all at once.
Mom says we're lucky to live so close to everyone we love. And she's right. Until I was ten, I grew up in a joint family — the kind where every room had laughter, chaos, and someone yelling your name from a different floor. My cousin Lia and I shared everything back then — toys, secrets, even punishments.
When our families finally moved into separate homes, it felt strange at first. But Lia always said, "It's still us, just with fewer people stealing our food."
She was in her last year of highschool now, but she still dropped by every week. This morning, she appeared at our door in her casual kurta and loose bun, a grin on her face.
"Guess who's ready for America?" she teased, pulling me into a hug.
I rolled my eyes. "It's months away, Lia."
"Months or minutes, you'll be gone before you know it." She pinched my cheek, laughing.
Maya popped her head in from the balcony — literally. That's the thing about us. We met through a window when we were four. My balcony faces her bedroom window, and one afternoon, while I was trying to catch butterflies, she shouted, "Hey! Do you wanna be friends?"
And that was that.
Ever since, our friendship had been built on shouting secrets across the narrow gap, trading notes tied to strings, and sneaking snacks back and forth like professional spies.
I slipped my backpack on and waved at her. "Ready for school?"
She leaned out her window. "Always. Race you there?"
"Not today, birthday girl's still tired from all the crying," Lia teased.
I stuck my tongue out and left with Maya, weaving through the familiar streets toward school.
Our school — a typical Bangladeshi private school — stood proud and a little overcrowded, with faded walls, bulletin boards full of competitions, and that sharp smell of chalk and sanitizer. The classrooms buzzed with chatter and the scraping of metal chairs.
Teachers didn't tolerate nonsense here. We wore our uniforms neatly, stood straight during assembly, and said Assalamu Alaikum in chorus every morning.
I liked it, though. The discipline. The routine. Maybe that's what made me crave freedom so much — being raised under so many rules made the idea of America sound like oxygen.
During math class, I stared out the window, watching the sky. The ticket flashed in my mind — crisp, new, and real. I could almost hear the plane engines in the distance.
But I wasn't gone yet. Not yet.
I promised myself right there, in that noisy classroom full of equations and half-erased chalk marks, that I'd give my best to everything before I left.
No regrets. No what-ifs.
Just Ria — the girl who dared to dream beyond her balcony.