Introduction
The Quiet Girl
(Before it all fell apart)
Amaira was the kind of girl who never knocked loudly.
She didn’t need to. People rarely noticed her entering or leaving a room.
She wore her silence like her scarf — wrapped neatly, without drawing attention.
At seventeen, her world was small, soft, and sacred:
– The sound of her abba's old radio in the morning
– The smell of her ammi’s chai
– Her younger brother Arham’s messy notebooks
– And her dream — one that shimmered like snowlight — to become a doctor.
Every evening, she’d sit by the window, her anatomy book open, tracing veins and arteries like roads that led away from her village in Pulwama.
> “One day, I’ll wear that white coat,” she’d whisper, as though saying it too loudly might make the world snatch it from her.
She didn’t have many friends.
Some called her boring.
Some called her too quiet to be normal.
But Amaira found comfort in silence.
Because in Kashmir, silence was safer than truth.
The school bell rang like a broken whisper —
too tired to shout, too sharp to ignore.
Amaira gathered her books quietly, wrapping her dupatta a little tighter before stepping into the corridor of Zeenat Girls Higher Secondary, nestled beneath the dense chinar trees of Pulwama.
The girls rushed past her — laughing, chatting, hair flying under half-done hijabs. Amaira walked like always — a quiet shadow in a river of voices.
She loved Biology.
Not because it came easy, but because it made sense.
Cells never lied. Blood always flowed in patterns.
Unlike people.
Today, however, her steps paused at the gate.
There was a car parked outside. Black, glossy. Too expensive for these roads.
A man stood beside it — tall, clean-shaven, white kurta sleeves folded up, sunglasses pushed into his hair. A boy, really.
Maybe 20. Maybe less.
He wasn’t from around here. His skin wasn’t dusted with the village sun.
But he had the arrogance of someone who thought the road belonged to him.
Girls giggled as they passed. A few fixed their dupattas and smiled.
Amaira didn’t.
She simply lowered her gaze and walked.
But he saw her.
Not the way other boys saw girls.
He saw her like one sees a challenge — soft, untouched, uninterested.
He leaned to his driver and whispered, “Who’s she?”
The driver smiled. “Amaira. Topper. Teacher's favorite. Daughter of Rashid sahab — the pharmacist.”
The boy nodded slowly, his lips curving — not in love, but something far more dangerous:
Curiosity.
---
That evening, Amaira sat in her room, brushing her hair in silence.
She didn’t know that someone had asked her name today.
She didn’t know that a game had started — one she never agreed to play.
