Chapter 1
The mirror wasn’t cruel, it was honest.
It showed Mira the face she used to be proud of: soft eyes, neat features, a quiet sort of beauty. But years of being told she wasn’t “enough” had turned that reflection into something unfamiliar. Her husband never called her ugly, he just stopped looking at her, he just said she wasn't improving, she wasn't perfect. Stopped reaching for her hand, stopped noticing when she changed her hair, stopped pretending she mattered. It was like when he looked at her, he only saw flaws, so she too started seeing just flaws in herself. Somehow, that hurt more than words ever could.
The divorce papers waited on the bedside table, still unsigned. Seven years together, reduced to clauses and stamps. She thought she’d feel relief, but mostly she just felt tired, tired of trying to prove her worth to people who had already decided it.
Her office had been the last place she believed she could shine. Once, she’d been the girl who solved everything first, who stayed late because she loved her work. But talent didn’t survive long in a place where credit was stolen and cruelty hid behind polite smiles. Every mistake became her fault. Every silence, her weakness.
It started with small cracks, trembling hands during meetings, forgetting passwords, staring at the same email for hours. Then one day, it all gave way.
Her manager snapped something cruel under his breath, and she broke. She didn’t shout at first; she sobbed; sharp, raw, unstoppable. When people gathered, whispering, she screamed louder. It was the sound of years collapsing in a single breath.
By the time she reached home, she’d already typed her resignation. “Effective immediately.” No explanation, no apology.
The city outside her window pulsed with indifferent lights. Somewhere out there, people were laughing, living, moving forward. She sat on the edge of her bed, feeling as if she’d slipped out of the world entirely.
Dr. Sethi’s words from last week came back like a warning bell:
“Mira, you’re dangerously close to a breakdown. Please take your medication regularly.”
The pill bottle still lay unopened in the kitchen. She hated how it waited for her like a silent accusation. Maybe she didn’t want to be fixed. Maybe she just wanted rest.
When she finally lay down, exhaustion swallowed her whole. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t cry. She didn’t think.
And when sleep came; it wasn’t the usual darkness.
It was sunlight. Warm, golden, familiar. She was back in her old school courtyard, her laughter echoing off the walls. Someone called her name, softly, lovingly, and her heart clenched with recognition.
