Since childhood, she had learned to walk alone—not just to school, but through life itself. The narrow lanes of her neighborhood knew the rhythm of her silent footsteps. No one held her hand, no one waited at the end of the road. She moved like the morning fog: quiet, unnoticed, and always fading before anyone could truly see her.
Mornings began with silence.
Not the peaceful kind of silence that gently wraps around a sleeping home, but a heavy, cold silence that sat at the breakfast table like an uninvited guest. Her parents, always busy or strict, never asked how she was; instead, they asked only one question: "Did you study?"
The monotony of their routine was suffocating. Her father sipped tea behind a newspaper, occasionally lowering it only to point out a news article about someone else's successful child. Her mother clanged utensils in the kitchen, her voice sharp whenever it broke the silence—always a command, never a comfort.
She would nod or show them her books, and that was enough. They didn't notice the emptiness in her eyes or the quiet desperation in her heart.
She came from a middle-class family—not rich, not poor. They had enough to get by, but not enough to indulge in luxuries. She had books, food, and clean uniforms, but what she lacked was understanding, warmth, and friends. Her world was functional, but never emotional.
At school, she sat quietly on the last bench, not because she liked it, but because she had no one to sit with. The bench was her sanctuary, a place where she could escape the noise and chaos of the classroom. She'd trace invisible patterns on the desk, drawing shapes only she could see. Though she often knew the answers in class, she never raised her hand, fearing attention, judgment, and standing out. She was like a ghost, invisible and insignificant.
Her presence was barely acknowledged. Teachers marked her attendance, classmates stepped over her bag, and no one really remembered her name. During group projects, she was the one assigned the least interesting parts, or sometimes left out altogether.
Sometimes, she couldn't complete her homework, not out of laziness, but due to the pressure of meeting her parents' expectations. Her parents cared only about her marks and discipline, never about her feelings or well-being. If she scored well, it was expected. If she didn't, it was a failure. There was no in-between.
Going out with friends was not allowed, so when her classmates invited her somewhere—to the park, to a birthday, to the movies—she smiled and made excuses. A headache. A strict mother. Extra tuition. But deep inside, she wanted to go and experience the joys of friendship—laughing, sharing secrets, eating street food, and taking selfies. She imagined what it would be like to wear matching bracelets, to text someone late at night about silly things, to feel chosen.
She longed to be part of their world, to be included in their conversations and plans. But she knew that would never happen. She was the girl who spoke only when spoken to, who ate lunch alone, who was always the last to be picked for any group activity.
She was tired of being invisible, of being a mere spectator in the lives of others. While the other girls passed notes, shared lunch, and planned birthdays, no one passed her a note, saved her a seat, or remembered her birthday. Even on her special day, the morning started like any other. No hugs. No balloons. Just another breakfast in silence.
She waited every day for someone to notice her, to ask, "Are you okay?" But the days passed, all the same: wake up, school, homework, sleep, repeat. Each day folded into the next like a never-ending paper chain.
She had dreams—of finding a true friend, of being noticed, of being loved without conditions. But those dreams stayed locked inside her, like pages in a diary she didn't dare show anyone, filled with words that only the darkness understood. Sometimes, at night, she would lie awake and whisper into her pillow the things she wished someone would say to her.
Every day felt like a monotonous loop, until the day she first laid eyes on him.
He didn't burst into her life like a scene from a movie. But there was something about the way he carried himself—calm, assured, and somehow different. And for the first time in what felt like forever, her eyes met someone else's—and he didn't look away.