đź“ŤGowda house, Pune
It always started the same way—quietly. A quiet that knew exactly how to hold its breath. Then came the first raised voice, then another, and then the night shed its silence like a snake shedding skin.
Downstairs, Rajesh and Uma volleyed words across the dining table. Not broken plates, not slammed doors—just sentences cut sharp with disappointment and resentment. Rajesh threw slurs while Uma measured words like a surgeon and delivered them with precision.
"I was 17 years old," Uma's voice could be heard in an ominous tone, "Ashtella maadi nu maana-maryade ilva nin hatra, ninnantha minDri nan-maganna yellu nodilla..." (After doing all of that, do you have no shame? I haven't seen a bi*ch like you ever....)
Rajesh scoffed,"Like you ever acted like it, suLe thara aadthidde! Pyate alli hut-beLdidiya antha sumne thorskothiya, aadre aadodu mathra eshtu galeechagi andre...." (,you acted like a slut! You show off saying that you grew up in the town, but you act like as dirty as.....)
Advika sat at her desk upstairs, textbook open, pen in hand, pretending to study as if equations could drown anything out. It was her ritual. If she wrote enough numbers, the voices might turn into static.
But it rarely ever did.
Then suddenly their tone changed. The one that said nothing in the world could please either of them. The raised voices, the tone, the vulgarity in their language – it was the trigger to her panic attacks.
Her chest tightened before she even realized she wasn't breathing properly. The panic pressed under her ribs, quick and sharp, hands shaking, throat dry, the world narrowing like someone was twisting a camera lens.
She slipped into the washroom noiselessly, turned on the tap so it would sound like normalcy, and bent over the sink.
Inhale for four.
Hold for four.
Exhale for six.
Her eyes didn't water, but they felt heavy, like sleep had been stolen. When the pounding in her chest eased, she washed her face, wiped her cheeks, straightened her tee, and headed outside the bathroom.
No one noticed she was gone. No one noticed she came back.
That was the rule of the house: If it wasn't spoken aloud, it didn't exist. And as if they had ever let her speak, and listen to her.
The door had barely clicked shut behind her when her older sister's voice ricocheted down the hallway.
"Seriously? Were you planning to start a family in there?"
Amrita stood by her bedroom door, arms folded, expression sharpened to superiority. Expensive pajamas, face hair uncared for, voice raising as if there wasn't enough noise in the house already.
Advika blinked once. She wasn't in the mood.
"I just went to wash my face," she said, tone even.
"Yeah well, don't act like you own the place," Amrita snapped. "Other people live here too, you know."
The irony was almost comedic—Amrita, during her boards, had locked Advika out of the room, passing clothes through the gap between the door and the floor. But logic rarely lived in this house.
Advika grabbed a towel from the hanger. "You could have knocked. Or waited. Or not made it a crisis," she replied, voice calm, cool to the touch.
Amrita scoffed, rolled her eyes dramatically, and stormed into the washroom, muttering something about – Advika's attitude, and no basic decency in Advika.
Conflict resolved—not by apology, not by conversation—just by giving Amrita no more reason to speak.
Eventually, the fight downstairs thinned into silence—no resolution, just fatigue. Silence always won here.
Advika curled beneath her blanket, earphones in, watching the ceiling again. She didn't cry. She never cried after fights. Crying implied someone would comfort you.
No one here ever did. At least not to her.
She fell asleep like a soldier—quietly, quickly, because there was no other option.
Next Morning
Mornings at the Gowda household smelled like wet iron, humidity, and idli batter. The house was awake but pretending not to remember the night.
Uma barking instructions from the kitchen, Rajesh flipping through the newspaper like it personally owed him money, Amrita scrolling through her phone, and Advika navigating the chaos like a ghost with purpose.
The saree hung from the wardrobe door— traditional red saree, gold borders glinting, blouse neatly placed. A string of mallige hoovu waited in a small box, the scent already threading through the room like memory. (mallige hoovu - jasmine flowers)
Blessing Ceremony, she reminded herself.
Her final day in DC Public School as a tenth grader. Her final day before board exams. Her final day before childhood quietly closed a door behind her.
She had already finished showering, as she opened her mom's box of make up with unfamiliar eyes.
Her phone buzzed.
ANU CALLING
"ARE YOU UP?" Ananya demanded without greeting.
"No, I'm sleepwalking and trying to figure out make-up," Advika deadpanned.
"I hate you," Ananya replied fondly. "Turn your camera on."
Ananya was her best friend since childhood, their fathers were close friends in college and now they too developed a close bond.
Advika, though being a year younger than Ananya, was much more mature and responsible than Ananya. Ananya was spoiled to bits by her only family, her mom and her cousins. Well, Advika never had the privilege of being her own age.
Advika switched to video. Ananya appeared, messy bun, kajal smudged from last night's studying, surrounded by the tragic remains of hot chocolate and flashcards.
"You look like a raccoon who is struggling with macro-economics." Advika observed.
"I'm emotionally preparing for finals week to end me." Ananya had taken commerce for her PUC, with no goal whatsoever. " Shut up and put some moisturizer on first. Your face looks like a desert."
"On it!!" Advika replied, she had no idea whatsoever in make-up mostly coz her mom was white and she was brown so they never shared cosmetics and she did not want to spend money for such expensive products just for herself. And Amrita would never even care to help Advika in any way so her only hope was Ananya for the day.
"Show me the lipsticks," her bestie asked, and she followed by holding up her mother's lipsticks one by one to the camera, "No. NOPE. Definitely not. Maybe but nevermind. Hmm.. Okay this one." She selected a shade.
"Take a lil of it in your hand, just a little – we don't wanna make you Chandramukhi," Advika gave her a dead-panned look, "What I'm being for real? Okay so apply it on your cheeks in circles, yeah just like that. Perfect."
They continued like this for a while until her make-up was done. It came out just like she wanted it to be, she finished setting her face with kajal and a black bindi on her forehead.
Done with make-up, they now moved towards doing her hair.
Ananya squinted. "Okay, the mallige hara on the braid, not bun. You'll look very aunty otherwise."
"Excuse me!" Advika exclaimed with dramatics, "They don't call me aunty, amma, ajji for no reason!" She held out three fingers counting the nicknames given to her by her friends, coz of her motherly and caring nature.
"YeahYeah Okay I know," Ananya said from the other end., "Though you are Ms. Advika auntyji – today you gotta look bomb so shh and do what I say."
Advika chuckled at that and adjusted her hair. "Better?"
"Perfect." Ananya replied with a fond smile."Alright, now go put the saree on before Uma aunty comes and does it aggressively."
Too late.
There was a knock and Uma pushed the door open with her elbow. "Hang up and get ready," Uma said, with masked grief and fake excitement.
Advika saw through it all. Always.
Ananya mouthed a quick good luck before the screen went black.
Uma draped the saree with efficient, practiced movements. No fuss, no commentary, no indulgence. Just pleats, pins, and instructions.
"Hold here. Turn. Don't breathe in. Now breathe."
When she stepped back, Uma studied her like a project completed. A practiced smile plastered on her face, she had genuine tears in her eyes which she didn't shed – but Advika didn't know if those were happy tears for her or tears of frustration and sadness from the events of the previous night.
"Chanda kanthiddiya," Uma said. "Usharagi nadi, jasthi kunibeda."
(You're looking nice. Walk carefully, don't jump too much.)
Advika stepped out of her room, stuffing her ID Card into her clutch. Rajesh looked up instinctively, his mind expecting her in her usual uniform, but there she was in her full glory wearing a saree.
Though he knew, this child wasn't his – he couldn't help but fondly look at the child he raised all this while. He went up to her and patted her head, "Careful." He said.
Advika nodded her head with a light smile on her face.
She had a quick breakfast at home, before Rajesh dropped her off at the school bus stop.
Advika glanced at the bus as it entered the society gates, it would be her last time. She waited for the little girl from her society to come first, a habit she had – making sure the younger ones were safe first.
But when the girl came, she ran to Advika first. "Advika akkaa," she fondly called out, "You look so pretty today, I'll miss you so much at school." She pouted. (akka is elder sister in Kannada like didi in Hindi)
Advika hugged her back as she said, "I'll miss you too kiddo."
She was known among all her seniors and juniors,for the kind and good-hearted person she was – and all she had done for the school, for its students and for people who had been wronged.
She sat in the last second seat of the bus as usual. She gazed at the route, taking it all in one last time.
(Her fit )
đź“ŤDC Public School
The courtyard of DC Public School buzzed with boys in blazers and girls in sarees trying not to trip over themselves
"ADVIKAAAAA!" someone screamed.
She barely turned before Adya and Megha collided into her—folding her into a perfumed, glittering group hug. These two were few of the only people Advika was close with, but not close enough
"OH MY GOD YOU LOOK LIKE A FILM!"
"GIRL YOU LOOK SO GOOD"
"SHUT UP LET'S TAKE PICTURES!"
Phones appeared. Poses happened. Compliments flew like confetti.
With them, she laughed loudly—head tilted back, eyes crinkling, no trace of last night's storm. Whoever she was in that house did not exist here.
A while later they left too, and headed towards their own friend groups.
Though she had been in this school for the past decade, she never had a single proper friend group she was in. She was always the floating friend, she floated between groups, she was known to all and she socialized easy.
She ran across the assembly area – hugging and consoling juniors who were in tears as they didn't want her to go, teasing the cricket-team boys for looking presentable for once, greeting a senior teacher who loved her.
Her phone filled with photos of people she would soon pretend to keep in touch with.
For a day, she wasn't surviving. She was living.
...........................................
As the crowd drifted towards the auditorium, to settle down for the ceremony. Advika slipped into a quieter corridor, towards a familiar door:
Student Wellness and Guidance – Disha Susan Joseph (M.A Counseling Psych)
She knocked twice.
"Come in," came the warm voice.
Disha Ma'am looked up from her laptop and broke into a grin.
"Well look at you," she said. "You look like you're going to get married to mathematics."
Advika laughed. "Please don't curse me like that."
"Sit," Disha said, closing the file. "How are we today?"
"Normal," Advika lied automatically. But with Disha, lies never landed properly.
"Normal for you or normal for the world?" Disha asked, eyebrow raised.
Advika paused. Her fingers twisted the edge of her pallu. "Normal for me," she admitted
"Hmm. That usually means not-so-normal for anyone else," Disha said gently. "Tell me."
Advika hesitated, then exhaled. "They were fighting again. Last night."
Disha didn't flinch. "What did you do?"
"I...studied," she said, then after a beat: "And then washroom. Breathing stuff."
"Panic?"
Advika nodded once.
"Did it pass?"
"Yeah."
"Did anyone know?"
"No."
Disha studied her for a moment—never pitying, never dramatic. Just present.
"You did well," she said finally. "The breathing works because you practiced. That's strength, not hiding."
Advika blinked fast, as if refusing tears by sheer stubbornness.
"It's the last day," she said, redirecting herself. "Everyone's crying and taking photos."
"You'll miss them," Disha said.
"I'll miss you." Advika admitted.
There was a long, soft silence.
"I will too. You're proof of strength Advika, and your strength has given me hope to help you."Then Disha smiled. She stood up and pulled Advika into a hug, she could feel her tears on her shoulder – which surprised her as she knew Advika wasn't someone who cried easily or ever.
She pulled away from the hug, and wiped away Advika's tears. Advika let out a shaky laugh as she felt her tears on her cheek.
"You have my number. You can always come to me when the world doesn't feel right, " Diya told her, "or when it's right either, I wouldn't mind," she chuckled.
Advika laughed at that, and said in a genuine tone, "Thank You. For everything."
Disha smiled back at her, "Thank yourself too, you wouldn't have made it without yourself," tears welled up in her eyes too, at the thought of being separated by her favourite student.
Advika nodded, she hugged her once more and they stepped outside.
"Also, I won't be here from next year onwards," Disha said. Advika looked up at her,confused.
"I'm moving to Bangalore, I've got an offer at a pretty big school there and my husband also has got a good job there." She said, "I'll be shifting there 10 days after your board exams end. Now, you don't get too sad about that, you still can contact me alright."
Advika nodded at her in a childlike way she only did with her as she said, "All the best for Bangalore !" Disha smiled at that.
"Now go. Take a thousand pictures. Be loud. You're allowed joy, okay?" she said as she quickly hid her tears.
"Will do ma'am!" Advika replied, doing a mock salute for her in enthusiasm.
They took some parting pictures, before they went their own ways.
The warmth of the conversation, and the affection in the hug lingered on Advika's heart. She took a deep breath and sighed with content as she headed towards the auditorium.
{Advika's POV}
The ceremony was as usual.
Just like last year - the prayers, the singing, the dance. Just this time we were in the audience and not on stage.
They all gave their speeches and remarks to us. We sat there going through Principal ma'am's torturous speech one last time, but now we were actually listening.
When it all ended and the flowers wilted a little and the photos ran out of poses, students began peeling away toward the gate in clusters, still buzzing, still reluctant to let the day end.
I lingered.
Of course I did.
While I sat with one of the big groups of the grade, unaware of my significance or need here, one of them insisted on "one last selfie," I found myself drifting.
My feet picked the route before my mind did—toward the staircase by the library where I first fought with someone who's now my best friend,towards the shack near the ground on ore the other weird incident happened everyday, towards the basketball court where everyone pretended to be good at sports during Sports Day.
It wasn't dramatic. No violins. No tearful montages.
Just... me walking.
Slow. Quiet. Letting the walls talk.
This was my second home, I thought, and the words hit harder than expected.
In these toilet stalls I had bawled my eyes out, because life outside these gates was too loud.
On these grounds,I had laughed until my stomach hurt because life inside these gates was allowed to be stupid.
On the restricted sixth floor of this Raman block, I had bunked four periods and got stuck there, unable to come back down until a group of seniors helped me.
On this main ground I had whispered secrets during assemblies. In these classrooms, I shouted answers during quizzes. In this cabin of the senior mistress, I had written apology letters for pranks and fights I definitely did not regret.
These walls held 8 years of my life I was ever grateful for.
Every corner had a version of me stored in it. Some I wanted back, some I was glad to have outgrown.
I passed by the cricket ground once, to stand under the Pongam tree near the scoreboard and take in the calm it gave me one last time.
When I reached the grounds, someone was already there. I saw a familiar figure and I recognized the person – Ganesh sir, the sports director of our school. The same man who gave me the strength to prove myself to the rest of the team, the same man who in his broken English used to give us pep talks which were actually inspiring, the same man who believed in me when no one else did.
Author POV
"Sir," Advika announced her presence as she greeted him with a light bow and a tight smile.
"Ah, Advika! You looking so different, I never seen you like this. I only seen you in jersey looking tall and strong!" Ganesh sir exclaimed as he looked at her in surprise. Being used to seeing her in sports clothes, she understood he must have been shocked seeing her in such a traditional get up.
"The occasion calls for it sir," she shrugged.
"Good good. Should wear traditonals also, keeps us in touch with culture." He nodded as he added, "So now, what plans ma? What are you taking next year? And very very importantly, will I see you on the court again? "
"I'm taking science sir, aiming for NEET," Advika replied blandly before she added, "About game, I'll see if my new college has sports and if I have time I will try sir."
"Oho, NEET! Doctor and all it is wonderful ma. But," he paused as he looked at her, "Why you not seeming excited?"
"My parents told me to take sir, that's why I took it, that's all. I am fine with doing science for now." I told him truthfully.
"Parents decision is good ma. But I never thought you will be doctor." He said matter-of-factly.
"What do you mean sir?" Advika asked him, drawing my eyebrows together in doubt.
"I know you, for past 6 years ma – you are talented girl in dance, media event, MUNs, kabaddi, cricket, photography. And I also know your marks, they are good enough, but it's not like someone's who is going to be doctor." He said knowingly as he added, "Considering all of this, I don't think this is what you want to do in life Advika."
"I d-don't understand sir," Advika stammered as she struggled to find words for the first time, "I have been doing whatever my teachers and parents have been telling me to do. My parents told me to aim for NEET, so I am doing that. Isn't what I am doing right?"
He smiled softly in the way he did before saying something inspiring, like he did during the speech he gave on the first day of PE in 10th grade, and said, "Listening to your elders is a good thing ma. But never listen to them in decisions regarding your career and education, because they never know who you are and what you really want. Now the question is, Do you want to take science? Do you want it?"
"I don't know yet," she finally admitted as she looked down. "I just don't want to disappoint anyone."
He nodded, then chose his words with care. "Disappointment is not the same as direction. Your parents know what worked in their time. They guide you from where they stand. But talents guide you from where you are going."
She stared into the grounds in front of her as the words soaked in.
"You have abilities most students don't have," he continued. "Leadership. Eye for capturing moments. Comfort with crowds. The ability to organise chaos. And drive—real drive. These are not small things. They are rare things."
He glanced at the court again. "You should not hide them just because the world respects only a few professions loudly."
A long silence settled between them—warm, not awkward.
"I'm not telling you not to take science," he clarified. "I'm telling you to think. To choose with understanding, not fear."
He tapped his whistle on his palm once. "Life is too long to walk a road that doesn't belong to you."
Advika exhaled slowly. Something inside her shifted—not enough to spark rebellion, not enough to change plans, but enough to make her question them for the first time.
"Thank you sir," she said in a voice filled with genuine gratitude.
Advika took a breath. "Sir, you remember when I got cut from the team in ninth?"
"Of course," he said immediately.
"That day I cried like an idiot at home," she laughed. "And I told myself I won't come back. But you called the next morning and said, 'Come for practice. If you quit once, you'll quit again.' So I came. And somehow everything changed after that."
Rao sir smiled faintly.
"When fest happened, you told me to handle volunteers and backstage. Everyone said it was chaos, but I liked it. It made me feel useful."
He nodded like he had always known that.
"And when you pushed me to volunteer as a photographer for the media event, and my photos went around," she continued, "that was the first time I saw everyone praising me. It felt nice. It felt like I was good at something. "
She paused there, trying to find the right words — not dramatic ones, just true ones.
"So I just wanted to say," she finished quietly, "thank you, sir. You pushed me in places where I didn't even know I had strength. When the rest of things in life felt confusing, this part made sense because of you. I really mean it. Thank you so much."
Before he could respond, she bent and touched his feet — not out of obligation, but out of unfiltered respect. This time he didn't manage to stop her fast enough.
"Advika—" he protested, flustered, "don't do all this. Just study well, that's enough."
She didn't stand immediately. "I need your blessing for more than marks, sir. I need it for courage. And for whatever I end up choosing."
He placed a hand gently on her head — the gesture light, but the weight behind it immense.
"Then I bless you for this," he said quietly. "May you build a life that uses your gifts. And may you never lose the fire that makes people watch."
She rose slowly. He looked at her differently now — not as a student to be trained, but as a young adult at the threshold of her own life. He was proud of what she had become.
Ganesh sir checked his watch and sighed. "Bell will ring soon. The last bell must be heard not missed. Head back to the gates."
He paused, then added with an expression she'd never seen from him—somewhere between admiration and farewell:
"It was very nice having student like you. Rare, ha. Not only talent, but discipline and heart also. I am proud of you, Advika."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
He chuckled, waving his hand dismissively to soften it. "And when you become big person—don't forget this sir who used to shout at you for warm-up and water breaks."
That made her laugh, even as something heavy and warm pooled in her chest.
"I won't forget, sir," I said quietly. "Thank you... for believing in me. It mattered more than you know."
He nodded once, satisfied. "Good. Now go. The world is waiting for you."
She stared at him moving farther away from her, as he disappeared in the sports complex while scolding a few seniors who were bunking. She chuckled at the sight.
Advika took a deep breath, turned and walked back toward the building, the sounds of classrooms and chatter pulling her forward. But his words followed her like a trailing whistle—simple, clumsy, stubbornly true.
She had only come to say goodbye to a court and an old routine. Instead, she was leaving with a thought I could not unhear and a feeling I could not unfeel—and it settled somewhere deep, where things eventually grow.
........................
Advika POV
By the time I reached the main gate, most of the crowd was gone. Only a few parents stood waiting, adjusting sarees and kurta collars, scolding kids about photos and forgotten tiffins.
I stepped out.
Just like that.
No fireworks. No confetti. Just the quiet, adult sort of goodbye that you feel more than you show.
I looked back once—not because I needed to, but because it felt like the respectful thing to do.
Thank you, I told the building silently.
For being soft when the world wasn't.
When I finally stepped outside the gate, the world felt bigger — Solapur traffic honking in every key, jasmine brushing the middle of my back, pleats swaying like a goodbye I hadn't decided to say.
I didn't look back.
But only because I knew if I did, I'd start crying — and I for all, could not afford tears outside these walls.
The bus ride back from school smelled like sweat, perfume, and jasmine. Lace borders poked at elbows, boys compared how uncomfortable their kurtas were, and the last scraps of sentimentality clung to the windows like fingerprints.
.................
Author POV
Advika sat by herself near the middle, chin resting on her palm, watching the city bleed past in blurred streaks — billboards, chai points, scooties weaving like they were allergic to lanes. Her phone kept buzzing as the class WhatsApp group drowned under photo dumps and exaggerated goodbyes.
She didn't mute it. She just didn't reply.
The mogra at the end of her braid was losing shape, but the scent stayed. The saree pleats were still crisp, but her spine was tired. Somewhere between school and the way to her house, the version of her from earlier — laughing, posing, belonging — quietly dimmed down.
By the time the driver turned into their lane, Advika had already wrapped herself back into silence. An old practiced silence.
The gate creaked open. The house loomed — three floors of beige excess, unnecessary columns, glass balcony railings Uma claimed made it "look respectable." It looked gaudy more than regal, but no one said that out loud.
Uma opened the door before Advika rang the bell. Not because she was waiting — but because she heard the bus honk.
"How many times do I have to tell them not to honk in front of the house?" Uma snapped at no one in particular.
"It's my last day, inmelinda madalla avru." Advika said. (They will not from now on.)
Uma looked at her: "Go keep the saree carefully before you ruin it. And keep the jewelry in my cupboard."
Advika was used to it by now. Being treated like that.
She entered the cold house. It was always cold there. Emotionally and figuratively.
She slipped past her mother, climbed the stairs, and entered her room. She unhooked the jewelry first — bangles clinking softly, earrings catching the last of the sunlight. Then the saree, folded with careful fingers, as if the school day might crumble if she wasn't gentle enough.
She placed the jewelry neatly in the box it was given to her. She then picked up her own small jewellery box, made of old cardboard and painted herself, filled with cotton to prevent damage – inside lay a thin but intricate chain and a ring looped into it.
Uma had told her that this chain was given to her by a priest in the hospital as her survival after birth was a miracle. She did not know how much of it was true, but one thing she knew was – whenever she had that with her, it made her feel calmer and more home than the place she lived in.
Downstairs, the volume rose before the first word registered.
Uma's voice — sharp, tired, cutting at the edges.
"You know what I saw today?" she started, pacing across the living room. "Girls my age. Women. Proper women. Studied. Achieved. Their daughters graduating today."
Rajesh didn't look up from the file he had no interest in reading.
"So?"
"So," Uma hissed, "my daughter is graduating. Nan magLu jeevandalli munde hogtha iddaLe, while I stayed behind washing your clothes and making your tea because you couldn't bear the idea of me studying." (My daughter is going ahead in life,)
Rajesh lowered the newspaper slowly, like the villain reveal in an old movie.
"Eega shuru maDbeDa," he warned. (Don't start now)
"MaaDthini," Uma retorted. "Because seeing her in that saree today reminded me of everything you stole from me." (I will)
Advika froze at the top of the stairs. She didn't move forward. Didn't announce her presence. Didn't escape to her room either. She just stood there — the hallway becoming the balcony seat to a play she'd watched too many times.
Rajesh's voice thundered next.
"You wanted to study? Who stopped you? You married, you had children, and suddenly it's my fault?"
"You married me at sixteen!" Uma snapped, voice cracking. "Promised education, promised college, then decided I needed to scrub floors instead!"
Rajesh slammed his palm against the table. "Don't talk like I ruined your life."
"You did," Uma whispered. "And then you made me watch my daughter get the life I begged you for."
Silence. Heavy. Dense enough to choke on.
Then the next wave.
"She talks to you sweetly, knows what you want. Of course she gets to study," Uma spat. "I should have. Not her."
And that was the part that always hurt the most.
Not the fights.
Not the insults.
Not even the sound of glassware shaking on countertops.
But the quiet resentment that sometimes pointed at her.
Amrita entered then, rolling her eyes, clutching her phone like a lifeline. "Again? Can you both stop? I have class."
She glanced at Advika on the stairs. "And you. Don't stand there like a statue. Go fold your stupid saree."
Then she disappeared into her room, door slamming.
Advika finally moved. She placed the saree and jewellery in her mothers cupboard in a daze and moved again.
Not downstairs — not to intervene — but toward the small balcony at the end of the hallway. She sat on the low parapet, saree placed on the window sill, earphones in without music, staring out at the city as the sky shifted to that familiar Bengaluru grey-blue.
She didn't cry. She never did.
She just... dissociated. Let the voices blur into vibrations. Let the jasmine scent anchor her to something softer. Let the wind do the talking since no one else in that house asked her anything worthwhile.
Eventually the shouting thinned out, spilling into smaller, bitter-edged murmurs from the kitchen. Water ran, steel thudded against steel. A cupboard shut too loudly. All the usual closing acts of a family argument.
Advika stood from the balcony parapet and walked back inside. She placed the wilted mogra on the table like an offering to no one, poured herself a glass of water, and drank it in slow measured gulps.
No one asked how her farewell went.
No one asked if she had fun.
No one asked if she was tired, or sad, or proud, or anything at all.
And Advika did not offer it either.
Not because she didn't want to be asked.
But because she had long accepted that this house was not built for wondering about her.
Affection here was practical. Care was transactional.
Interest was rare and always too late.
So she learned to stop expecting softness, and in doing so, she learned to stop requesting it.
If they did not ask, she did not tell.
If they did not care, she did not demand.
The silence worked for everyone — just not equally.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, set the steel glass down, and went upstairs without looking back.
In her room, she folded the clothes which had dried after washing, a thing she did when she felt overstimulated. There was no acknowledgement for doing it, but it was one less thing to be shouted about the next morning.
Acceptance for her wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a breakdown or a revelation.
It was just... routine.
It had become the way things were — and the only way to survive inside this house without shattering on a daily basis.
Then she switched off the light, lay in bed, and stared at the ceiling until sleep finally arrived, slow and exhausted.
Once I turn eighteen, once I'm finally legally an adult, she said to herself, I'll leave this place once and for all. I'll climb so high, that none of them, not even their voices can reach me.
A/N :
Hello my sweetus:) How's it going so far?
I'm starting to keep targets now, and will slowly increase as I continue writing and the number of readers increase. Also for the people here after the re-publish, its gonna take a lil while for me to come to ch16 as I upload. I can't upload all at once coz I won't find reach otherwise.Â
For people who want to continue reading faster, this is the scrollstack link -Â https://mirayawritez.stck.me/story/1884436/Advika-The-Lost-Daughter
This chapter was a lil emotionally too much, but that is how Advika's situation is here.
If this chapter hit close to home - I'm sorry for what you've been through, you never deserved any of that bullsh*t. Don't be too hard on yourself, if it ever gets too much please talk to someone. If you don't have anyone, do come here and talk or hit me up on conversations. I'll be here and I'll listen to you. The world has better things for you ahead, just fight a bit more and you've got this my love:)
Loads of love,
Mariqa<3
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