Morning arrived without permission.
Anaya woke before the alarm, the same way she always did—eyes open, body tense, mind already racing. The ceiling above her was stained with old watermarks that looked like unfinished maps. She stared at them for a moment, imagining places far away from this room, this house, this life. Then reality pressed back in.
From the kitchen came the clatter of utensils. Her stepmother's movements were sharp, impatient, as if every sound carried annoyance. Anaya slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to let the floorboards creak. Silence had become her first survival skill.
She washed her face at the cracked mirror, studying her reflection. Thin. Pale. Eyes too old for her age. People often said children grew fast in difficult homes, but no one talked about the cost. She tied her hair into a neat ponytail—not because she liked it that way, but because disorder invited comments, and comments invited trouble.
At the breakfast table, no one looked at her.
Her father sat scrolling through his phone, already late for work, already tired of responsibilities he never asked for. Her stepmother placed a plate in front of her without a word—two dry rotis, no curry. Anaya didn't complain. Complaints were useless currency here.
She ate quickly, stood up, and picked up her bag.
"Don't come back late," her stepmother said, eyes still on the sink.
Anaya nodded. She always did.
Outside, the city breathed loudly. Honks, shouting vendors, buses coughing black smoke into the air. School was only a twenty-minute walk, but Anaya preferred taking the longer route. The extra time felt like borrowed freedom.
At school, she blended into the background.
Teachers knew her as the quiet girl who never caused trouble. Classmates knew her as the one who always helped but never asked for help herself. She sat near the window, watching sunlight dance on dusty desks, listening more than she spoke.
During lunch break, her friend Meera slid into the seat beside her.
"You didn't eat again, did you?" Meera asked, glancing at Anaya's untouched tiffin.
Anaya shrugged. "Not hungry."
It was a lie, but a gentle one.
Meera frowned but didn't push. Everyone had learned that Anaya carried invisible boundaries. Crossing them required permission she never gave.
That afternoon, the counselor visited their class to talk about "dreams and goals." Students laughed, whispered about becoming influencers, doctors, actors. The counselor's eyes paused on Anaya.
"And you?" she asked softly. "What do you want to be?"
The room went quiet.
Anaya hesitated. No one had ever asked her that seriously. Wanting things felt dangerous—wants turned into disappointments.
"I don't know," she said finally.
The counselor smiled kindly, but Anaya looked away. Kindness made her uncomfortable. It felt temporary, like a guest who wouldn't stay.
After school, instead of going home, Anaya walked toward the old library near the bus stand. It was nearly empty most days, forgotten by the city, just like her. Inside, the smell of old paper and dust wrapped around her like familiarity.
Books didn't judge. They didn't ask why she was unwanted, why she existed in the margins of her own family. In stories, she found lives worse than hers and some better. Both gave her strength.
She pulled out a notebook from her bag and began to write.
Not stories. Thoughts.
Words she could never speak out loud.
If I disappear, will anyone notice?
If I succeed, will it matter?
If I survive, will it be enough?
Writing was her rebellion. Quiet, invisible, powerful.
The sky had turned orange by the time she left the library. Her phone buzzed—three missed calls from home. Her chest tightened. Being late always had consequences.
When she reached the house, the door was unlocked. Inside, tension hung heavy in the air.
"Where were you?" her stepmother snapped.
"Library," Anaya replied calmly.
Her father looked up briefly. "Why?"
"To study."
A pause.
"Next time inform," he said, already losing interest.
That was it. No concern. No relief.
In her room, Anaya sat on the bed and stared at her hands. They trembled slightly. She clenched them into fists until the shaking stopped.
That night, as the house slept, Anaya lay awake.
For the first time, something shifted inside her—not hope, not yet, but awareness. A realization that the world would not save her. That waiting for love was like waiting for rain in a drought.
If she wanted to live, truly live, she would have to build herself from the broken pieces given to her.
The walls around her were cracked.
And for the first time, she noticed the light slipping through.