“Har ghar mein ek ladki hoti hai… jo beti nahi hoti, bas zimmedaari hoti hai.”

Some girls are born to be loved loudly.

Others grow up learning how to survive quietly.

And Aaradhana Sharma belonged to the second kind.

Morning sunlight struggled to slip through the rusted mesh window of the tiny storeroom-like space Aaradhana called her room. The old curtains hanging beside the window had lost their original colour years ago, their edges frayed from constant use. A small wooden shelf stood against one wall, holding a few neatly arranged books, a steel water bottle and an old photograph that Aaradhana rarely looked at anymore.

Dust floated in the air, glowing softly beneath the weak rays of sunlight.

The room was barely big enough for a single bed, a small table and an old wooden cupboard.

Yet somehow, this was the only corner of Sharma Niwas that belonged to her.

Not because anyone had given it to her.

But because nobody else wanted it.

The sharp sound of banging interrupted the silence.

“Aaradhana!”

Her eyes opened slowly.

“Aaradhana! Kitni der sone ka iraada hai? Jaldi uth!”

Tai ji’s voice echoed from outside the door.

“Verandah mein pocha laga! Sab kaam mujhe hi karna padega kya?”

Aaradhana stared at the ceiling for a few seconds.

No surprise.

No irritation.

Just acceptance.

It was always like this.

Every morning began with someone calling her name.

Never softly.

Never lovingly.

Always as an instruction.

She pushed the thin blanket aside and sat up on the edge of the bed.

Her back ached.

Her shoulders felt heavy.

Yesterday she had stayed awake almost until midnight finishing the household chores after returning from college.

But nobody had asked if she was tired.

Nobody ever did.

She tied her hair into a loose ponytail and slipped her feet into the worn slippers kept beside the bed.

The floor was freezing beneath her feet.

Aaradhana quietly opened the door.

Tai ji was already standing outside, arms folded across her chest.

“Ab uthne ka time mila?”

“Sorry, Tai ji.”

“Sorry se kaam nahi chalega. Verandah ganda pada hai. Mehmaan aane wale hain shaam ko.”

Aaradhana immediately nodded.

“Ji.”

“Ji, ji, ji… bas yahi aata hai tujhe kutiya jaa kar kaam kar yeh kaaam khatam nhi.hua tho tera woh haaal.karo.ghe ki tu khud ko pehchan nhi paaye ghe khud ko .”

Tai ji walked away, muttering something under her breath.

Aaradhana didn't respond.

She never did.

The bucket of water was already waiting near the verandah.

She picked up the cloth and began cleaning the marble floor.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

The same movement.

Again.

And again.

Like a machine trained not to stop.

Inside Sharma Niwas, everyone still slept peacefully.

Tanisha’s room remained shut, the air conditioner humming softly behind the door.

Tau ji would wake up later to fresh tea and the morning newspaper.

Tai ji would complain about the maid not coming on time.

And Aaradhana would silently handle everything.

By six in the morning, the house already smelled of chai and frying parathas.

Aaradhana wiped her forehead with the back of her hand before entering the kitchen.

She prepared tea exactly the way everyone liked it.

Less sugar for Tau ji.

More milk for Tanisha.

Strong tea for Tai ji.

She had memorised everyone's preferences years ago.

Funny how she knew everyone's favourite things.

Yet no one knew hers.

She placed the cups carefully on the tray and carried them into the living room.

Tai ji took her cup.

One sip.

Her expression immediately changed.

“chai mein chini kam hai!”

Aaradhana stopped.

“Main—”

“Kitni baar samjhaya hai tujhe? Tanisha ko meethi chai pasand hai.”

“Sorry, Tai ji. Main abhi—”

“Rehne de. Har kaam aadha karti hai.”

Aaradhana quietly took the cup back.

She added another spoon of sugar.

When she returned, Tai ji was already busy talking to Tanisha, who had finally walked downstairs wearing an expensive-looking night suit and slippers.

“Mummy, aaj mujhe college nahi jaana.”

“Ky—”

Tanisha suddenly noticed Aaradhana standing nearby.

“Didi, meri blue dress iron ho gayi?”

Aaradhana looked at her.

“Abhi nahi.”

“Abhi tak nahi?” Tanisha frowned. “Maine kal bola tha.”

“Kal raat ko—”

“Excuses mat do.”

Aaradhana lowered her gaze.

“Main abhi kar deti hoon.”

Tanisha nodded as if the matter had been settled.

“Good.”

Aaradhana turned around.

Sometimes she wondered when exactly her name had stopped being Aaradhana.

When had it become—

Kaam kar.

Yeh kar.

Woh kar.

Abhi kar.

Twelve years.

Twelve years since her parents died in a car accident.

Twelve years since she had come into this house carrying a tiny pink suitcase and swollen eyes.

She had been barely a child then.

She remembered that day even now.

The sound of people whispering.

The smell of incense.

The unfamiliar hands patting her head.

The endless stream of relatives.

And the sentence everyone repeated.

“Bechari bachchi ka ab kya hoga?”

Tau ji had stepped forward.

“Hamare ghar mein rahegi.”

Everyone had praised him.

“Bade dil wale hain.”

“Apni bhatiji ko apne ghar mein rakh liya.”

“Bachchi ko maa-baap dono ki kami mehsoos nahi hone denge.”

Aaradhana had believed them.

For the first few months, she had believed she had found a home.

She had slept beside Tanisha when thunderstorms frightened her.

She had once called Tai ji “Maa” by mistake.

She still remembered the silence that followed.

Tai ji had stared at her for several seconds before saying,

“Main tumhari maa nahi hoon.”

That one sentence had taught Aaradhana everything she needed to know.

People called Tau ji generous for taking her in.

“Bechari bachchi ko ghar de diya…”

But no one saw the truth behind closed doors.

How kindness slowly turned into control.

How shelter became servitude.

How gratitude became an invisible debt she could never repay.

By the time Aaradhana finally got ready for college, exhaustion already sat heavily in her bones.

She wore Tanisha’s old faded kurti with blue jeans slightly loose around her waist.

The kurti had been thrown into a pile of unwanted clothes months ago.

Aaradhana had picked it up because she needed something to wear.

She stood before the small cracked mirror and quietly braided her hair.

One section.

Then another.

Then another.

For a moment, she stared at her reflection.

Big brown eyes.

Soft features.

A face that could have been beautiful if sadness hadn’t settled permanently inside it.

She tilted her head slightly.

“Yeh main hoon…?”

The words left her lips so softly that even she could barely hear them.

For a second, she imagined what it would be like to wake up somewhere else.

Somewhere where nobody shouted her name.

Somewhere where she could sit at a dining table without asking permission.

Somewhere where she could choose what to wear.

Where she could laugh loudly.

Where someone would ask—

“Aaradhana, tum thak gayi ho?”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile.

But the thought disappeared almost immediately.

She looked away.

Because mirrors only reminded her how invisible she truly was.

She picked up her college bag and quietly walked downstairs.

“Main college ja rahi hoon.”

Tai ji didn't even look up from her phone.

“Seedha college se ghar aana.”

“Ji.”

“Kahin ghoomne mat nikal jaana.”

“Ji.”

“Shaam ko mehmaan aayenge. Kaam zyada hai.”

Aaradhana paused.

“Ji.”

That was all.

She stepped outside.

And for the first time that morning, she breathed freely.

Rajasthan Women’s College

The moment Aaradhana entered the college gates, the atmosphere changed completely.

Students filled the campus with laughter and noise.

Groups of girls clicked selfies near the entrance while others rushed toward classrooms with coffees in their hands.

Someone was arguing over an assignment.

Someone else was running because they were late.

A group of boys stood near the canteen discussing cricket.

The campus was messy, loud and chaotic.

Yet to Aaradhana, it felt peaceful.

Here, nobody knew about Sharma Niwas.

Nobody knew that she woke before sunrise to clean floors.

Nobody knew that she had learned to eat after everyone else.

Nobody knew that her room was technically a storeroom.

Here, she was simply—

Roll Number 58.

A second-year B.Com student.

And somehow…

that felt enough.

She walked toward her classroom, holding her books tightly against her chest.

Just as she reached the third row, someone dramatically dropped a bag beside her.

“Aaru!”

Aaradhana looked up.

Muskan.

Bright smile.

Messy ponytail.

A colourful hair clip.

Endless energy.

Everything Aaradhana wasn’t.

Muskan pulled out the chair and sat beside her.

“Agar tu aaj bhi mere bina class attend karti na, toh friendship khatam.”

Aaradhana raised an eyebrow.

“Tum late ho.”

“Fashionably late.”

“Twenty minutes late.”

“Fashionably twenty minutes late.”

Aaradhana shook her head.

Muskan grinned.

“Tu smile kar rahi hai. Good morning successful.”

“Main smile nahi kar rahi.”

“Kar rahi hai.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Before their argument could continue, the professor entered.

“Good morning, everyone.”

The class immediately became quiet.

Aaradhana opened her notebook.

For the next hour, she listened carefully, taking neat notes while Muskan occasionally leaned toward her and whispered completely unrelated things.

“Aaj canteen chale?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Muskan…”

“Ek samosa half-half.”

“No.”

“Cold coffee?”

“No.”

“Chocolate?”

Aaradhana finally looked at her.

“Tumhe padhai se koi matlab hai?”

Muskan placed a hand dramatically over her heart.

“Padhai meri priority hai.”

Aaradhana stared at her.

Muskan whispered,

“Lekin samosa usse thoda upar hai.”

Aaradhana tried not to smile.

But a small laugh escaped her lips.

Muskan's eyes widened.

“OH MY GOD.”

“What?”

“Tu hasi!”

“Muskan…”

“Class! History witness karo! Aaradhana Sharma smiled!”

A few students turned around.

Aaradhana's cheeks turned pink instantly.

“Shhh!”

Muskan covered her mouth, trying to control her laughter.

The professor glanced toward them.

“Is everything okay there?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Muskan answered immediately.

Aaradhana lowered her head, hiding her smile.

For a moment…

she forgot the heaviness waiting at home.

For a moment, she was just a normal girl sitting beside her best friend.

And maybe that was why she loved college so much.

Not because of the lectures.

Not because of the books.

But because here, she could forget who she was supposed to be

After class ended, Muskan grabbed Aaradhana’s wrist.

“Chal.”

“Where?”

“Lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Jhooth.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

Muskan dragged her toward the banyan tree behind the library.

They sat beneath its shade where the noise of the main campus became distant.

Muskan opened her own lunchbox.

Then looked at Aaradhana.

“Lunchbox.”

Aaradhana blinked.

“Kya?”

“Apna lunchbox.”

“I don't have much.”

“Jo hai woh dikha.”

Aaradhana reluctantly took it out.

Muskan opened it.

There was barely anything left.

Muskan looked at her.

“Aaru…”

“Hmm?”

“Tu khana kyun skip karti rehti hai?”

Aaradhana immediately looked away.

Because sometimes feeding everyone else at home meant there wasn’t enough left for her.

Because some days she was simply too tired to eat.

Because sometimes she saved the little food she had for the next morning.

But she didn't say any of that.

Instead, she smiled faintly.

“Subah jaldi mein thi.”

Muskan didn't believe her.

She pushed half of her sandwich toward Aaradhana.

“Eat.”

“Muskan, it's okay.”

“Eat.”

“Tum kha lo.”

“Main tumhe dekh ke khaungi.”

Aaradhana sighed.

“Tum impossible ho.”

“I know.”

She finally took the sandwich.

Muskan smiled triumphantly.

“See? Best friend.”

Aaradhana looked down at the food.

Something as simple as someone noticing whether she had eaten felt strangely precious.

She took a small bite.

Muskan immediately started talking.

“Do you know Priya broke up with her boyfriend?”

“Hm.”

“And Rhea failed economics.”

“Hm.”

“And apparently seniors are planning a fest.”

This time Aaradhana looked up.

“Fest?”

“Haan!”

Muskan's eyes lit up.

“Dance, music, games, competitions… sab hoga.”

Aaradhana immediately shook her head.

“Main participate nahi karungi.”

“Kisne pucha?”

Muskan smirked.

“Tu mere saath bas rukegi.”

“I can't stay late.”

“Why?”

Aaradhana's fingers tightened around the lunchbox.

“Ghar pe kaam hota hai.”

Muskan's expression softened.

“Every day?”

Aaradhana didn't answer.

Muskan studied her face.

“Kabhi kabhi lagta hai college ke baad tu kisi aur duniya mein chali jaati hai.”

Aaradhana froze.

Because if Muskan knew the truth—

she would realise Aaradhana's world wasn't a world at all.

It was a cage.

Still, Aaradhana smiled faintly.

“I’m okay.”

Muskan didn't look convinced.

But she nodded anyway.

“Fine.”

Then, without warning, she pushed her cold coffee bottle against Aaradhana's cheek.

“AHH!”

Aaradhana jumped.

Muskan burst into laughter.

“Muskan!”

“Sorry!”

“You're crazy!”

“I know!”

Aaradhana tried to glare at her.

But within seconds, she started laughing too.

A real laugh this time.

Soft.

Tiny.

But real.

Muskan watched her quietly for a second.

She didn't say anything.

Because somewhere inside, she knew—

Aaradhana didn't laugh often.

And perhaps that was why every time she did, Muskan wanted to protect that smile.

---

By 4 PM, Aaradhana stood outside Sharma Niwas again.

The happiness of the day disappeared the moment she saw the familiar gate.

She took one deep breath.

Then another.

And stepped inside.

The moment she entered—

“Aagayi maharani!”

Tai ji's voice echoed through the house.

Aaradhana quietly removed her sandals.

“Ji.”

“College mein maze karne ke baad ab ghar ka kaam bhi mujhe karna padega?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ja kitchen mein. Bhartan saaf kar aur sabzi kaat.”

“Ji.”

“Tanisha ke kapde press karna mat bhoolna.”

“Ji.”

“And haan, shaam ko mehmaan aa rahe hain. Drawing room bhi clean kar dena.”

Aaradhana nodded.

“Ji.”

No matter how exhausted she felt, work never ended.

She entered the kitchen and started washing utensils.

The warm water ran over her fingers.

Steam fogged the small kitchen window.

Her hands were already sore from the morning chores.

Still, she continued.

One plate.

One glass.

One bowl.

One spoon.

Behind her, Tanisha walked in.

“Mummy!”

“What happened?”

“Meri white heels clean nahi hui ab tak?”

Tai ji immediately shouted,

“AARADHANA!”

Aaradhana closed her eyes for half a second.

“Ji?”

“Tanisha ki heels clean kar!”

She turned around.

“Ji.”

Tanisha smiled.

“Achhe se karna. Last time jaise nahi.”

Aaradhana quietly nodded.

Sometimes she wondered—

Would anyone notice if she disappeared one day?

Would anyone miss her?

Or would they simply find another girl to replace her?

The thought frightened her.

Not because she wanted to leave.

But because she realised how easily this house could continue without her.

She was necessary for the work.

But perhaps…

she wasn't necessary as a person.

That difference hurt more than she wanted to admit.

---

Night arrived slowly.

The guests came.

Tea was served.

Snacks were arranged.

Aaradhana moved silently between the kitchen and living room while everyone laughed and talked.

Nobody introduced her.

Nobody asked about college.

Nobody asked how her day had been.

She was simply there.

Invisible.

Useful.

Quiet.

By the time the last guest left, it was almost eleven.

Everyone went to their rooms.

Aaradhana remained behind to clean the cups.

Only after the house became silent did she finally return to her room.

Her entire body hurt.

She closed the door and leaned against it.

For a few seconds, she simply stood there.

Doing nothing.

Because sometimes even resting felt like a luxury.

She finally sat on the bed and opened her old notebook.

The cover was worn out.

The corners were bent.

Inside were pages filled with tiny poems and unfinished thoughts.

Words she never said aloud.

Her private little world.

She picked up her pen slowly.

For several seconds, she stared at the blank page.

Then she wrote—

“Some people are loved loudly.

Some are loved silently.

And some…

are simply tolerated.”

Her hand stopped.

A tear slipped silently down her cheek.

She quickly wiped it away.

Crying solved nothing.

She had learned that too.

Outside, distant thunder echoed through the sky.

Rain began falling softly.

Aaradhana looked toward the tiny window.

The drops slid down the glass one after another.

She placed her palm against the cold window.

Sometimes she wondered how life would feel if someone truly saw her.

Not as responsibility.

Not as burden.

Not as someone's orphaned niece.

Not as someone who owed this family everything.

Just…

her.

Aaradhana.

A girl with dreams.

A girl with fears.

A girl who wanted to be loved without having to earn it first.

Her eyes slowly closed.

She imagined someone sitting beside her.

Someone who wouldn't ask her to do anything.

Someone who wouldn't expect anything from her.

Someone who would simply look at her and say—

“Tum thak gayi ho.”

And perhaps, for the first time, she would allow herself to answer honestly.

“Haan.”

Aaradhana opened her eyes again.

The room was still empty.

Of course it was.

She smiled sadly at herself.

“Pagal hoon main…”

She whispered.

“Dreams dekhna bhi seekh liya.”

She closed the notebook and placed it beneath her pillow.

Then she lay down.

The rain grew heavier outside.

Her breathing slowly became calmer.

But before sleep finally took over, one last thought crossed her mind.

Maybe tomorrow would be the same.

Maybe the day after that would be the same too.

Maybe nothing would ever change.

And yet…

somewhere deep inside her fragile heart—

a tiny part still hoped.

Hoped that maybe one day…

someone would see beyond the silence.

Beyond the responsibility.

Beyond the girl everyone had learned to overlook.

Someone would look at her and mean it when they said—

“You matter.”

And Aaradhana didn't know it yet…

but sometimes life changes quietly.

Not with a warning.

Not with permission.

Not with a choice.

Sometimes it enters your life unexpectedly—

and turns everything you thought you knew upside down.

The next morning arrived without asking whether Aaradhana was ready for it.

At exactly five-thirty, the alarm on her old phone vibrated against the wooden table.

Aaradhana's eyes opened immediately.

For a few seconds, she remained still.

The rain from last night had left the air cold and damp. Drops of water clung to the rusted window grill, and the faint smell of wet earth entered through the tiny opening.

She pulled the blanket closer.

Just five more minutes.

The thought had barely formed when—

Bang! Bang!

“Aaradhana!”

Her eyes opened completely.

She sat up.

“Ji, Tai ji!”

“Uth gayi ya nahi?”

“Ji… uth gayi.”

“Kitchen mein doodh rakh diya hai. Gas chala ke chai bana dena.”

“Ji.”

The footsteps moved away.

Aaradhana exhaled slowly.

She looked toward the window.

The sky was still grey.

The world outside was waking up slowly.

But inside Sharma Niwas, her day had already begun.

She got out of bed and folded her blanket neatly.

It was a habit.

Everything had to be neat.

Everything had to be done.

Because even a small mistake could become a reason for another lecture.

She washed her face with cold water and looked at herself in the mirror.

Her eyes looked tired.

She touched the faint dark circles beneath them.

“Bas thoda aur…”

she whispered.

“Phir college.”

College.

The word alone brought a tiny smile to her face.

It was the one place where she could breathe.

The one place where nobody cared whether the floor at home had been mopped.

Nobody cared whether Tanisha's clothes had been ironed.

Nobody expected her to know how much sugar everyone wanted in their tea.

At college, she was simply Aaradhana.

And perhaps that was enough.

---

By seven-thirty, breakfast was ready.

Aaradhana placed the plates on the dining table.

Tai ji inspected everything.

“Parathe thande kyun hain?”

“Abhi banaye hain.”

“Achha? Toh phir mujhe thande kyun lag rahe hain?”

Aaradhana stayed quiet.

Tau ji entered the dining room, adjusting his watch.

“Chai lao.”

Aaradhana immediately brought it.

He took a sip.

“Hmm.”

No praise.

No complaint.

Just silence.

For some reason, that silence felt better.

Tanisha came downstairs a few minutes later.

“Mummy, mera college bag?”

“Room mein hoga.”

“Mujhe nahi mil raha.”

Tai ji immediately looked toward Aaradhana.

“Aaradhana!”

“Ji?”

“Tanisha ka bag dekh.”

Aaradhana had barely sat down when she stood again.

She went upstairs.

The bag was lying beside Tanisha's dressing table.

She picked it up and brought it downstairs.

“Yeh.”

Tanisha snatched it from her.

“Thanks.”

Aaradhana nodded.

She returned to the kitchen.

Her own breakfast sat untouched on the counter.

Two small pieces of paratha.

She quickly ate them while standing.

There wasn't enough time to sit.

She checked the clock.

7:55.

Her class started at eight-thirty.

She grabbed her bag.

“Tai ji, main college—”

“Ruko.”

Aaradhana stopped.

“Shaam ko sabzi le aana.”

“Ji.”

“Paise kitchen ke drawer mein hain.”

“Ji.”

“And seedha ghar aana.”

Aaradhana nodded.

“Ji.”

She stepped outside.

The moment the gate closed behind her, she breathed deeply.

The morning breeze touched her face.

For a few seconds, she stood there.

Free.

Then she smiled.

“College.”

And began walking.

---

The campus was already crowded when she arrived.

Aaradhana hurried toward her classroom.

She was almost at the stairs when someone grabbed her hand.

“Aaru!”

She turned.

Muskan.

Of course.

“You're late!”

Aaradhana blinked.

“I'm not.”

“Five minutes late.”

“Class hasn't started.”

“That's exactly why I'm telling you. We have five minutes to gossip.”

Aaradhana laughed softly.

“Tum kabhi nahi sudhrogi.”

“Bilkul nahi.”

They entered the classroom together.

Muskan dropped her bag beside Aaradhana.

“Waise…”

“Hm?”

“Kal fest ki meeting hai.”

Aaradhana immediately shook her head.

“Main nahi aaungi.”

“Meeting college hours mein hai.”

Aaradhana paused.

“Achha?”

“Haan.”

“Then maybe.”

Muskan smiled.

“Progress!”

Aaradhana rolled her eyes.

The professor entered, and the conversation ended.

But for the rest of the lecture, Aaradhana couldn't stop thinking about the fest.

Not because she wanted to participate.

She didn't.

The idea of standing on a stage or being surrounded by crowds made her nervous.

But something about it felt exciting too.

Normal.

Like something an ordinary college girl would do.

And for once, she wanted to experience something ordinary.

---

At lunch, Muskan had already decided everything.

“You're coming with me.”

“Where?”

“Fest committee.”

“I told you—”

“You don't have to participate.”

“Then?”

“Just help me choose an event.”

Aaradhana sighed.

“Fine.”

Muskan grinned.

They walked toward the auditorium.

The corridor was decorated with colourful posters.

ANNUAL CULTURAL FEST — UDAAN

Aaradhana stopped for a moment.

She stared at the poster.

Udaan.

The word felt strangely personal.

Flight.

Freedom.

Something she had never truly experienced.

Muskan noticed her staring.

“Pretty, right?”

“Hm.”

“Tu bhi kuch karegi.”

Aaradhana smiled.

“Dekhenge.”

Inside the auditorium, students were discussing different events.

Dance.

Singing.

Debate.

Drama.

Photography.

Literary competitions.

Aaradhana looked around quietly.

She had always loved writing.

It was the one thing she could do without anyone telling her how.

Words never judged her.

They simply listened.

Muskan suddenly pulled a form from the table.

“Poetry.”

Aaradhana looked at her.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don't write well.”

“Jhooth.”

Aaradhana's expression changed.

“How do you know?”

Muskan shrugged.

“Because I've read your notebook.”

Aaradhana's eyes widened.

“When?”

“Last semester. You left it in class.”

Aaradhana quickly took the form.

“You shouldn't have read it.”

“I know.”

Muskan's smile disappeared.

“Sorry.”

Aaradhana looked down.

After a moment, she softened.

“It's okay.”

Muskan nudged her shoulder.

“Then?”

Aaradhana looked at the poetry form.

Her fingers hovered over the pen.

For a few seconds, she imagined standing in front of everyone.

Reading her words.

Words about loneliness.

About being unwanted.

About wanting to belong.

She couldn't.

Not yet.

She placed the form back.

“Maybe next time.”

Muskan nodded.

“Okay.”

She didn't push her.

That was what Aaradhana loved about her.

Muskan could be loud.

Annoying.

Dramatic.

But when Aaradhana needed silence, she knew how to give it.

---

The rest of the college day passed quickly.

For once, Aaradhana didn't notice the clock every few minutes.

She laughed with Muskan.

She helped with decorations.

She even ended up writing a few lines on a poster because the committee needed someone with neat handwriting.

“Beautiful handwriting,” one of the volunteers said.

Aaradhana smiled.

“Thank you.”

Nobody had said that to her in a long time.

Not about something she had done.

Not without expecting anything in return.

A simple compliment.

Yet it stayed with her.

When she left college, the sun was beginning to set.

She checked her phone.

Three missed calls.

Tai ji.

Her smile disappeared.

She immediately called back.

“Ji, Tai ji?”

“Where are you?”

“College se nikal gayi.”

“Kitne baje?”

“Abhi…”

She looked at the time.

“Five-ten.”

“Tumne kaha tha seedha ghar aaogi.”

“Ji. Bas college mein—”

“Bahane mat banao.”

Aaradhana closed her eyes.

“Sorry.”

“Sabzi lena mat bhoolna.”

“Ji.”

The call ended.

She stood silently on the roadside.

The excitement of the day disappeared.

She looked at the sky.

Then at the road.

Then at the college behind her.

For a moment, she wanted to turn around.

Go back.

Sit beneath the banyan tree.

Laugh with Muskan.

Forget everything.

But she couldn't.

So she started walking.

---

By the time Aaradhana reached the market, it was getting dark.

She bought the vegetables carefully, counting every rupee before paying.

The shopkeeper handed her the bag.

“Beta, aur kuch?”

Aaradhana shook her head.

“Nahi.”

She turned to leave.

Then she noticed a small flower stall nearby.

Rows of fresh flowers were arranged in buckets.

Jasmine.

Roses.

Marigolds.

Aaradhana stopped.

She had always liked flowers.

When she was little, her mother used to tuck tiny white flowers into her hair.

The memory came suddenly.

Warm hands.

A soft smile.

A voice saying—

“Hamari Aaru ko phool bahut pasand hain.”

Her throat tightened.

She looked away.

She couldn't afford to buy flowers for herself.

So she simply walked past.

But after a few steps, she stopped.

Then turned back.

“Bhaiya…”

The flower seller looked up.

“Ji?”

“Ek chhota sa gajra milega?”

He smiled.

“Haan beta.”

Aaradhana handed him a few coins.

She took the small gajra carefully.

For a moment, she held it close.

It smelled like childhood.

She tucked it into her bag.

Not for anyone else.

Just for herself.

A tiny gift.

One tiny thing she had chosen.

---

When she finally reached home, Tai ji was waiting.

“Kitni der laga di?”

“Market gayi thi.”

“Sabzi?”

Aaradhana handed over the bag.

Tai ji checked it.

“Tamatar itne kam kyun?”

“Paise—”

“Rehne de.”

She turned away.

“Kitchen mein rakh.”

Aaradhana did as told.

She was about to return to her room when Tanisha called from upstairs.

“Aaradhana!”

“Ji?”

“Come here!”

She went upstairs.

Tanisha was standing in front of her cupboard.

“Meri red dress nahi mil rahi.”

“Kaunsi?”

“Jo last month li thi.”

Aaradhana searched through the clothes.

Finally, she found it.

“Yeh.”

Tanisha grabbed it.

“Isse press kar dena.”

“Abhi?”

“Haan.”

Aaradhana stared at the dress.

Her shoulders were already aching.

She wanted to say no.

Just once.

But the word remained stuck in her throat.

“Ji.”

She took the dress.

---

It was almost midnight when everything finally ended.

Aaradhana returned to her room.

She closed the door.

Then opened her bag.

The small gajra was still there.

She took it out.

For a moment, she simply looked at it.

Then she carefully placed it beside her notebook.

Her lips curved into a small smile.

“Ma ko pasand aata…”

She whispered.

Her eyes filled with tears.

But this time, she didn't wipe them immediately.

She let herself remember.

Her mother's face.

Her father's laugh.

The warmth of being someone's child.

The feeling of being protected.

Loved.

Wanted.

The memories hurt.

But they also reminded her that she had once known love.

Maybe that was why its absence hurt so much.

She opened her notebook again.

The pen touched the paper.

This time, she didn't hesitate.

She wrote—

“Maybe I don't need the whole world to love me.

Maybe I only need one person to look at me and realise…

I was never a burden.”

Aaradhana stared at the words.

Then closed the notebook.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

The sky was unusually clear.

A few stars were visible through the rusted window.

She lay down.

The gajra remained beside her pillow.

For the first time in many days, Aaradhana fell asleep with a faint smile.

She didn't know that the next few days would change something.

She didn't know that the life she had carefully built around silence was about to collide with someone who had never learned how to remain silent.

Someone whose arrival would bring questions.

Arguments.

Chaos.

And perhaps…

the first person who would look at Aaradhana Sharma and refuse to see her as a responsibility.

But that story hadn't begun yet.

For tonight—

she was simply a girl sleeping beside a tiny bunch of flowers…

still unaware that fate had already started writing her next chapter.