Chapter 1 THE LAST DAY
Anaya Mirza woke up at 7:30. Same time. Same ceiling. Same heaviness in her chest.
But today, the air felt different. Heavier. Like the room knew something she didn't.
She got ready in silence. Blue uniform. Beige pants. Beige dupatta waiting on the chair like a quiet reminder: you're not done yet. Her mother braided her hair with gentle hands. Breakfast was quick. Too quick.
The dupatta refused to stay. Safety pins slipped. Fingers trembled. She stood in front of the mirror olive skin glowing under the morning light, almond-shaped eyes dark but carrying a secret honey glow. Her hands moved mechanically, but her eyes... her eyes were somewhere else. Somewhere far. Somewhere sad.
Auto uncle will be here any minute.
Her heart was running. Her body was still.
Then the horn screamed.
She flinched. Dupatta pinned somehow. Bag swung over shoulder. Shoes tied in a blur. And then she was outside running ,falling into the auto.
The auto uncle took her bag like he always did and placed in the back rack of th auto . Her little brother sat beside her, quiet, unaware. A few younger kids from school filled the rest of the seats. No one spoke. No one ever spoke.
School arrived too fast.
She walked to her classroom. Her feet knew the way. Her heart didn't.
A week ago, her father said the word transfer.
Not a question. Not a conversation. Just fact. New school. New everything.
She didn't cry then. She doesn't cry now.
But something inside her cracked. Like a glass that would never be whole again.
At least here, I have three people. Anita. Meena. Samaira. Three faces who say my name. Three desks I can turn to.
There... what will I have?
The classroom filled slowly. Faces she knew but never spoke to. Faces she hated without reason. Faces that hated her back for being bad at Maths. For breathing wrong. For existing too quietly.
The first period was Maths. She opened her textbook. The numbers blurred. Every problem looked like a wall she had never learned to climb.
The teacher's voice echoed sharp, slow, disappointed.
"Anaya, tumse na ho payega."
"Itna simple sum bhi nahi aata?"
"Focus karo. Kuch toh karo."
The words melted into each other. Each one heavier than the last.
She didn't notice when her hands found each other. They just did. Fingers laced together, knuckles pressing into knuckles a silent ritual she had perfected over years. It started in class five. A teacher had yelled at her for not solving a sum. Someone laughed. Someone else whispered. That day, her hands had clutched each other so tightly that her nails left marks. She had cried later not because of the teacher, but because her hands had betrayed her. They had shown everyone how scared she was. After that, she learned to hide it better. Her hands still found each other. But now, they stayed still. Quiet. Like the rest of her.
The teacher kept talking. The class kept watching. Anaya kept staring at the textbook not reading, not solving, just... surviving.
Her fingers twisted tighter.
But when the Maths period ended, something shifted.
The next class was Social Studies. The teacher smiled at her. "Anaya, beta, tumse achha answer kaun degi?"
She answered. Confidently. Correctly.
The teacher nodded. The class listened. No one laughed.
Hindi period same story. "Anaya, padhke sunao." She read. Her voice was soft, but her words were clear. The teacher praised her.
Science period diagrams, explanations, answers. She knew it all.
Her friends looked at her with something like pride. "Tujhe toh sab aata hai," Anita whispered. "Sirf Maths..."
Sirf Maths.
Two words that carried the weight of every taunt, every laugh, every moment she felt invisible.
She was good at everything except the one subject that mattered most to her class teacher. The one subject that decided who was "smart" and who was "hopeless."
And that teacher — the Maths teacher never missed a chance to remind her.
"Anaya, focus karo."
"Anaya, itna easy question."
"Anaya, tumse kya ho payega?"
It was a war Anaya never signed up for. A war she fought every single day — not with weapons, but with silence. With bowed heads. With hands clasped together so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
She didn't want to be a topper. She just wanted to be left alone.
But how do you make peace with someone who has already decided you're the enemy?
They all judged her. Every single glance was a verdict.
Anaya's jaw tightened. And for a moment — just a moment — she wasn't quiet anymore. Not inside.
Ek ek ko kaan neeche chaar chaar jor se lagaaun. Unke gaal itne laal kar doon ki zindagi bhar kisi ko judge karne ka mann na kare.
She smiled at the thought. A bitter, secret smile.
Then the bell rang.
The day ended like it always did — without mercy, without memory.
She came home empty. Not tired. Emptied. Like someone had pulled a string and all her feelings had leaked out on the road.
She lay on her bed. Stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, everything would be new.
And that new...
...scares me more than anything ever had.
---
