The silent struggles
The morning light fell through the classroom window in stripes , the kind of light that looked too soft for a world as loud as hers...
Shazia sat at the far end, by the wall, the steady hum of fans mixing with the scrape of chalk on the blackboard.
She had learned that silence could be a kind of armour. If she stayed still enough, if she blended into the edges, maybe the day would pass without anyone remembering she was there.
At sixteen, she had mastered the art of...just existing in plain sight.
“Shazia Rahman,” the teacher called out during attendance.
“Present,” she answered softly.
The usual whispers followed. A few giggles floated from the front row.
“Who even says ‘present’ like that anymore?” someone whispered.
“Why does she dress like my grandmother?” another comment .
Shazia’s fingers tightened around her pen. She kept her eyes on her notebook, pretending to take notes, pretending she didn’t hear. The words on the board blurred. She doodled instead - tiny stars, half-written words, fragments of thoughts she would later turn into poems.
By lunchtime, she had barely spoken five sentences. She liked it that way. It was safer to stay invisible than to risk being seen.
When the final bell rang, the class burst into motion. Bags zipped, chairs scraped, voices filled the air like flocks of birds. Shazia stood up slowly, clutching her books close.
Someone brushed past her. Her notebook slipped from her hand, pages fluttering open.
“Oops,” a voice said behind her, “Didn’t see you there” the same voice said, laughing - the kind that didn’t wait for forgiveness.
Shazia knelt, collecting her things. The floor was cool beneath her fingers. “It’s okay,” she murmured, though it wasn’t, though it never was.
As she got up and turned towards the door, she was cut off by one of her bully.
Laughter followed.
Shazia's eyes were focused at the floor not being able to make an eye contact. She tightened her hold on her bag. “I’m going home,” she said quietly.
“Of course,” another girl said. “Where else would you go?”
The words stung, though they were barely more than a joke. She wanted to disappear into the floor.
Outside, the sun was still bright. The street outside the school was alive with noise — rickshaws honking, vendors shouting, students laughing in groups. Shazia walked alone, her dupatta drawn close around her.
Her route home passed by a café where a group of girls from her class sat with milkshakes and fries. One of them waved, mockingly cheerful. Shazia pretended not to notice.
She thought of what it might be like to sit there — to laugh freely, to be someone people wanted around. But even in her imagination, it felt wrong. Her Ammi would never allow it.
The road grew quieter as she turned into her lane. The buildings stood close together, balconies heavy with drying clothes. Her home was on the second floor - small but neat.
The smell of fried onions and turmeric reached her before she even entered.
“You’re late again,” her mother said from the kitchen.
“There was extra class,” Shazia replied automatically, slipping off her shoes.
Her father was sitting in the living room, watching the news. He nodded once at her, then turned back to the TV.
“Go change and wash up,” her mother said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Shazia went to her room — the one place that felt like hers. It was small, with pale walls and a single window facing another building's concrete wall, so close that even a ball couldn't fit in the space...On her desk were stacks of notebooks, pens, and a few sticky notes with short lines of poetry.
She changed into her house clothes and looked at the mirror as she washed up her face, a sharp pain hit her as she whispered "will i ever feel loved?". Somewhere in the distance, the evening azaan echoed softly. It made her feel calm and caged at the same time. She never hated her traditions ,culture or religion, but...she hated the fact how her parents were so conservative and how they twisted the teachings into restrictions...
At dinner, her parents talked mostly to each other. Her brother scrolled through his phone.
Her father asked, “How are your grades this term?”
“They’re fine,” she said.
“You need to keep your focus,” he said without looking up. “There’s no time for distractions.”
Her mother nodded in agreement. “Good girls stay disciplined. No wandering around after school.”
“Yes, Ammi,” Shazia said.
The conversation ended there. It always did.
After dinner, she helped her mother wash the dishes. The sound of water running was soothing, almost meditative. When she finished, she went back to her room.
The house grew quieter as the night deepened — the TV turned off, footsteps faded, the only sound the ceiling fan spinning lazily.
Shazia switched off her light and lay down. After a while, she reached under her pillow and pulled out her phone. It was old, slightly cracked at the corner, but it was her world.
She unlocked it, her heartbeat quickening a little.
Instagram.
Not the public account her family knew about — that one was safe, boring and full of family pictures.
This one was her secret account: @silent_ink.
Here, she posted her thoughts, the kind she could never say out loud. Short, lonely pieces of writing.
Each post had a few likes from strangers, mostly poetry accounts and art pages. She liked it that way -distant, anonymous.
As she scrolled through her feed, she paused at a comment on one of her latest post- “I wish silence made noise, so someone would notice when I’m drowning in it.”
@Aafira_xo: You write beautifully. It feels… real.
Shazia hesitated, then replied..
@silent_ink: Thank you. Just thoughts that come late at night.
A minute later, Zara replied..
@Aafira_xo: That’s when the best ones come. Late-night thoughts are the truest ones.
They began chatting — first about writing, then about life. Aafira was her age but seemed nothing like her. She was open, confident, and funny. She sent pictures of her coffee, her messy desk, her cat. Shazia sent back small poems and shy emojis.
It was strange how easy it was to talk to someone she had never met. With Aafira, she didn’t have to filter every word.
For once, she didn’t feel like the quiet girl at the back of the room. She felt… seen.
Hours passed. She didn’t realize how late it had gotten until the screen brightness dimmed automatically.
“I should sleep,” she typed.
Aafira: Okay. Sweet dreams, poet girl.
Shazia smiled at the words. Poet girl. No one had ever called her that before.
She put her phone away, but the warmth of that nickname stayed with her. As she closed her eyes, her thoughts drifted between her two worlds - the one where she was expected to stay silent, and the one glowing quietly behind a phone screen.
For the first time in a long while, she didn’t dread tomorrow.
