They say home is supposed to feel safe.

But for me… it’s just another battlefield — a place where silence screams louder than any words.

Every morning, I wake up with a heavy chest, wondering how I’ll survive another day. Not live — just… survive.

I sit at the breakfast table, eyes down, pretending not to exist. My father’s voice echoes in the background, full of anger. My mother stays quiet, like always. Like me.

At school, it doesn’t get any better. Whispers. Laughter. Stares.

They don’t see me — they see what they think I am. A freak. A nobody. A girl with dead eyes and no voice.

The second time I saw him, it was raining.

I was sitting alone on the back stairs behind the school — my usual spot when I needed to disappear. My hoodie soaked through, but I didn’t care.

And then, suddenly… I wasn’t alone.

A shadow sat beside me.

I didn’t look. He didn’t speak.

We just sat there — in silence, in rain, in something strange I didn’t have words for.

After a while, he finally said,

"You come here to breathe too?"

I turned, surprised. His voice was low, soft… tired.

Like mine.

I nodded.

"Some days, it feels like the only place left," I whispered.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to fix me.

He just nodded and looked back at the rain.

For the next few days, he kept showing up.

Same place. Same time. Same silence.

No questions. No fake smiles. No pretending.

Just two people quietly falling apart, side by side.

I didn’t even know his full name.

But I knew the way he stared at the sky like he was searching for something that left him long ago.

I knew the way he breathed like it hurt.

And I knew — whatever he was carrying… it was heavy.

Just like mine.

One afternoon, I brought an extra packet of biscuits.

I placed it between us, not saying a word.

He didn’t thank me. Just opened it and shared without looking at me.

It was stupid.

But in that moment, it felt like trust.

The kind that didn’t need words.

He finally spoke again after four days.

"What’s your name?"

His voice was calm, almost hesitant.

"Zimal."

It came out softer than I expected.

"Aariz." He paused. "You look like someone who writes things they’ll never say."

That stopped me cold.

He wasn’t wrong.

I looked at him then — really looked. And for the first time, I saw it in his eyes:

He knew.

He understood.

Not because he read it in a book.

But because he lived it too.

> “We never said much.

But in the spaces between silence, something began to grow —

A quiet understanding.

A beginning.”

That was the first time I felt a little less alone.

Not because he saved me.

But because he didn’t try to.

> “Two broken souls.

One silence they both understood.”

I couldn’t sleep again last night.

The ceiling fan spun endlessly above me, but all I could hear were the voices in my head — shouting, whispering, reminding me of every time I failed to be “enough.”

Enough daughter.

Enough student.

Enough human.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m even visible to the people I live with.

So I did what I always do when my chest gets too heavy — I wrote.

Not for anyone to read.

Just for myself.

But this time, it felt different.

Because every word I wrote… I imagined him reading it.

Aariz.

I wrote:

> “I don’t want to be fixed.

I just want someone to sit beside me and say,

‘I know it hurts. And I’m not leaving.’”

> “I’m not asking for love.

I’m asking for a reason to stay.”

I folded the paper and stuffed it into my notebook, telling myself I’d never show it to him.

But the next day… I carried it with me anyway.

At our usual spot behind the school, Aariz was already there.

Hood up. Head down.

Same as always.

But something in me had shifted.

I sat beside him, pulled the folded paper from my notebook, and — without thinking — placed it next to him.

Then I stood up.

“You can read it. Or throw it away. I don’t care,” I said.

I walked off before he could speak.

My hands were shaking.

My heart?

Screaming.

I didn’t expect her to hand me anything.

Zimal had always been the kind of quiet that didn’t ask for attention — the kind of quiet that bleeds inside but never screams for help.

When she dropped the folded paper beside me and walked away, I didn’t move for a full minute.

I just stared at it.

Her handwriting was small, a little shaky — like the words were scared to exist.

Like she was scared to exist.

And as I read, something inside me cracked.

> “I’m not asking for love.

I’m asking for a reason to stay.”

I didn’t cry. I haven’t cried in years.

But I felt it.

Felt the same desperation I’ve hidden in my chest since my brother died.

Since my family stopped being a family.

Since the world stopped making sense.

I folded the paper carefully — not like trash, but like it mattered.

Because it did.

The next day, she came back.

Sat beside me again. But she didn’t say anything — just stared at the ground like she regretted everything.

I reached into my hoodie pocket and held the paper up.

“I kept it,” I said quietly.

“I read it… more than once.”

She didn’t respond, but I saw her fingers tighten around the edge of her sleeves.

So I continued.

“You’re not invisible, Zimal.”

My voice shook a little.

“And… I’m not leaving.”

Her head turned slightly — just enough for me to see her eyes.

And for the first time, I saw something there.

Not hope. Not yet.

But a crack in the wall.

Something beginning.

> “We didn’t fall in love.

We fell into something safer.

Something slower.

Something like… trust.”

We never talked about the letter again.

But after that day, something changed.

Zimal started bringing two cups of tea from the canteen. One for her. One for me.

She still didn’t say much. Neither did I.

But the silence was no longer empty.

It was comforting.

Some days, she wrote things in her journal and let me read them.

Dark thoughts. Honest thoughts. Scary thoughts.

I didn’t flinch.

I shared mine too — slowly. Pieces of my past I never told anyone.

About my brother. About the night everything fell apart.

About how I stopped believing people stayed.

Zimal didn’t say "I’m sorry."

She just listened — like it mattered.

And sometimes, that was enough.

> “We were both broken.

But in each other, we found a place to rest.

Not to heal completely.

Just to breathe again.”

Zimal didn’t come to school today.

At first, I thought maybe she was sick.

But when the second day passed… and then the third…

That same familiar feeling crept back in.

Fear.

The kind that told me maybe people really do disappear — even the quiet ones you start to care about.

On the fourth day, she returned.

Same clothes. Same face.

But something in her eyes was darker. Hollow.

I didn’t ask anything. I just waited — sat in our spot like always.

She finally sat beside me, hugging her knees.

I noticed the long sleeves pulled tighter than usual… and the way her hands trembled slightly.

"Are you okay?" I asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

She laughed softly. Not the happy kind. The broken kind.

"No. But I’m used to it."

> “Some people bleed through their silence.

And you only hear it… if you’ve bled the same way.”

It was the first time she invited me over.

Her parents weren’t home.

The house felt cold — not physically… but emotionally empty.

Her room was small, neat, but had no signs of joy.

No photos. No colors. Just blank walls and a small bookshelf.

But one thing stood out:

A little locked closet in the corner.

She noticed me staring.

"That’s where I hide things I can’t talk about," she said.

Her voice was distant, like she was telling me about someone else.

I didn’t ask what was inside.

Some wounds don’t need to be opened to be respected.

Instead, I sat down beside her.

We didn’t speak much that evening.

We just sat — side by side, surrounded by unsaid things.

But her shoulder brushed mine for the first time.

And in that moment, it felt like trust was choosing to stay a little longer.

> “Not every door is meant to be opened.

Sometimes, it’s enough to just sit outside and wait.”

She gave me a folded paper again.

This time, her hands were shaking more than before.

"Don’t read it now," she said. "Just… keep it."

Later that night, I sat under my blanket and opened the letter.

It wasn’t long.

Just a few words.

> “If I ever disappear…

I just want you to know —

you made the silence less scary.”

I stared at the paper for a long time.

Because I knew what that kind of message meant.

And I wasn’t going to let her disappear.

Not if I could help it.

> “She never asked me to save her.

But I’d never forgive myself… if I stayed silent when she was slipping away.”

I knew something was wrong the moment I saw her.

Zimal didn’t look like herself.

Her hoodie was bigger, her eyes emptier, and there was a wildness in the way she walked — like she was trying to hold herself together with tape that had already peeled off.

She didn’t sit beside me like usual.

She stood, hands clenched, shaking.

"I’m tired, Aariz," she whispered.

I stood up too.

"Then rest. Don’t quit."

But she shook her head violently. "No, I mean I’m tired of everything."

And then it happened.

She broke.

Tears poured out of her eyes like a dam had finally cracked open. Her breathing turned shallow. She collapsed to the ground, sobbing into her hands.

I froze for a second.

Then I dropped beside her and did the only thing I could —

I held her.

Not tightly. Just enough so she’d know she wasn’t alone.

"You don’t have to be strong right now," I said.

"Just… be here. With me."

> “Sometimes the bravest thing someone can do is cry in front of someone who sees them.”

She didn’t go home that night.

I told her my mom wouldn’t mind.

She didn’t ask questions. She just nodded and followed me.

She slept on my couch — knees tucked in, arms hugging herself.

Before she fell asleep, she asked,

"Do you think broken people ever get fixed?"

I looked at her for a moment, then replied:

"I think… we don’t need fixing.

We just need someone who sees us when we can’t see ourselves."

She didn’t respond.

But for the first time… she smiled.

Barely. Softly.

Like maybe — just maybe — she believed it a little.

> “Healing doesn’t always look like loud laughter or bright skies.

Sometimes, it’s just falling asleep in a place that doesn’t hurt..

The next day, we walked in silence.

But something felt different.

Zimal wasn’t holding her sleeves today.

She looked at me, steady, and said:

"I thought about ending it."

My breath stopped. But I didn’t panic.

"And what stopped you?"

She looked down, then whispered,

"You. Your silence. The way you didn’t try to fix me. You just… stayed."

I blinked hard, fighting the burn behind my eyes.

She took out another folded paper.

But this time, she didn’t hand it to me.

She read it out loud.

Her voice trembled.

But she read every word.

> “For the first time in forever,

I feel seen.

I feel heard.

I feel like I don’t have to disappear.”

And I knew then — I wasn’t saving her.

She was saving herself.

I was just… walking beside her while she did it.

> “Sometimes the loudest scream is finally being able to say —

‘I want to stay.’”

It was a Tuesday when I noticed it.

Zimal laughed.

Not a full, carefree laugh. Just a tiny one — like her soul had forgotten it was allowed to breathe.

We were sitting under the old tree behind the school, eating cold fries and watching the clouds shift above us.

“That one looks like a broken heart,” I said, pointing at the sky.

She looked up, tilted her head.

“More like a healing one,” she whispered.

And I couldn’t stop staring at her.

Not because she looked different…

But because for the first time, she looked like she might actually stay.

> “Healing doesn’t always come in noise.

Sometimes, it tiptoes in — soft, unnoticed, like the morning sun.”

She invited me over again.

This time, she opened the little closet in her room.

It was filled with paper.

Notes. Drawings. Journal pages. Torn letters she never sent.

She handed me one without speaking.

I unfolded it carefully.

> “To the girl in the mirror:

I know you don’t feel real.

I know it hurts to be here.

But I’m proud of you for staying.”

I looked up.

Zimal was watching me — vulnerable, wide-eyed, like she was handing me her heart and hoping I wouldn’t drop it.

“I write to survive,” she said.

I nodded.

“Then I’ll read to remind you why you should.”

She smiled again.

And this time… it reached her eyes.

> “Maybe we don’t find peace all at once.

Maybe we build it, word by word, beside someone who listens.”

That evening, we sat in her room. No music. No noise.

Just quiet breathing and slow heartbeats.

I watched her sketch something in her journal — soft lines, curves, eyes.

It was a drawing of me.

I stared, stunned.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was full of feeling. Gentle. Careful.

“You drew me?” I whispered.

She didn’t look up.

“It’s how I see you. The one who stayed when I was fading.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I reached out, slowly, carefully — and held her hand.

She didn’t pull away.

“Zimal…” I began.

She looked up. Our eyes met.

“You’re not alone. Not anymore. And you never have to be again.”

Her eyes filled again — not with pain this time, but with something soft.

Hope.

> “We weren’t in love.

But in that moment,

we loved the parts of each other we thought no one could ever hold.”

It was just an ordinary afternoon.

Until Zimal’s phone rang.

She looked at the screen and went pale. Her hands trembled.

“It’s my father,” she whispered.

I’d never seen her this shaken.

“You okay?” I asked gently.

She didn’t reply.

She just pressed decline and threw the phone onto the bed like it was burning her skin.

Then she backed away… all the way to the wall. Hugging herself. Breathing heavy.

I stood still, watching her slip into panic like it was muscle memory.

“Did he hurt you?” I asked, voice soft but serious.

She nodded. One small, broken nod.

I didn’t press. I didn’t ask for the whole story.

I just stepped closer, slow and careful.

“You’re safe now. He can’t touch you here.”

She didn’t answer.

But she let me hold her.

> “Sometimes, trauma doesn’t knock.

It bursts in, uninvited, and leaves you gasping for breath.

But healing... is when someone stays through the storm.”

That night, we didn’t speak much.

She curled up on the couch in my room again — blanket wrapped tight, her face turned to the wall.

The silence felt heavier than usual.

So I broke it — slowly, carefully.

“I wanted to die once,” I said.

Zimal turned slightly.

“I didn’t have a reason to stay back then. I didn’t even leave a note. Just… waited to disappear.”

“Why didn’t you?” she asked.

“Someone knocked on my door by accident. A delivery guy with the wrong address.”

She blinked.

“One small mistake… saved me.”

I smiled softly. “Maybe that’s how the world works. Little accidents. Little people. Big saves.”

She didn’t speak for a while.

Then softly, almost like a breath:

“Maybe… we’re each other’s accidents.”

And for the first time, we both smiled — without sadness.

> “Two souls that tried to leave,

but stayed long enough to find each other.”

I walked her home the next evening.

The sun was setting — not too bright, not too dark.

Like everything in her life: stuck between pain and peace.

We stopped in front of her gate.

She turned to me, unsure.

“Thank you… for seeing me.”

I hesitated.

“Zimal… there’s something I’ve wanted to say.”

Her eyes locked with mine.

“You don’t have to say it,” she whispered.

“Not until you’re sure.”

I took her hand.

“I may not have the right words yet… but I know what I feel when I’m with you.”

She smiled — sad, soft, beautiful.

“Then say it when you’re ready.

I’ll wait.

Just like you did for me.”

> “This isn’t a love story.

It’s a story about survival…

and the people who make surviving feel a little less lonely.”

Three days passed.

I didn’t say it.

Not because I didn’t want to… but because I felt it too deeply.

How do you put a fragile truth into words without breaking it?

But Zimal never pushed me.

She still sat beside me, still shared her fries, still handed me pages from her journal like they were pieces of her soul.

And then… it just happened.

We were walking in silence when she tripped slightly.

I caught her arm, steadying her, and for a second she was in my arms — close enough for me to hear her heartbeat.

She looked up.

So did I.

And I said it — gently, honestly, quietly:

“I think I love you.”

She didn’t speak.

She just pressed her forehead to my chest and whispered:

“I’ve been waiting for those words…

But I already knew.”

> “Some love doesn’t need grand gestures.

It just needs someone who saw your darkness — and stayed.”

After that day, nothing changed.

Not really.

We still sat under the same tree.

Still shared tea.

Still didn’t talk too much.

But something in the silence had softened.

Something in our breathing had synced.

We weren’t afraid of each other’s sadness anymore.

We weren’t scared to exist.

We were just… here. Together. Alive.

That night, she asked me:

“What do you think forever feels like?”

I looked at her for a long time.

“Safe,” I said.

She smiled, and whispered back:

“Then maybe I believe in it again.”

> “Forever doesn’t have to be loud.

Sometimes, it’s just showing up — every day — even when the sky doesn’t fall.”

It was late when she texted me:

**> “He’s back.

> My father.

He’s outside the house.”**

I left my room without thinking.

Ran through the dark, heart pounding harder than ever before.

When I got to her street, I saw him — standing by the gate, shouting something I couldn’t fully hear.

Zimal was in the corner of the porch, her arms wrapped around herself like armor.

I stood in front of her.

“Leave. Now,” I said to him.

He laughed.

“Who the hell are you?”

“The reason she’s not afraid anymore.”

Something in my voice must’ve reached him — or maybe it was the way Zimal didn’t flinch anymore.

He walked away.

Not far. Not forever. But away — for now.

And when he did, she whispered:

“You didn’t just stay.

You stood.”

I looked at her.

“I always will.”

> “Love isn’t just holding someone through their storms…

It’s standing between them and the lightning.”

The closet was open.

When I entered her room that day, I saw it — wide open. No fear. No hiding.

She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by torn journal pages, old letters, photos she used to keep hidden.

She looked up at me.

“I’m ready.”

She didn’t need to explain.

I just sat beside her and waited.

She handed me a photo — a small one. Blurry.

A younger Zimal with a bruise on her cheek, and eyes that had already seen too much.

Then a letter.

Handwritten. Torn at the edge.

> “To the father who never saw me…

You broke me.

But you didn’t win.

I’m still here.”

Tears slipped down her cheek.

She didn’t wipe them away.

She let them fall.

She let herself feel everything.

And then… she burned the letter.

We watched it turn to ash — her past, her pain, her silence — finally set free.

> “Healing isn’t forgetting.

It’s remembering without breaking.”

That night, we didn’t talk about trauma.

We talked about tomorrow.

She told me she wanted to study literature.

Maybe write a book someday.

Maybe tell stories like hers — for the girls who were still too scared to speak.

“Do you think anyone would read it?” she asked.

I looked her dead in the eye.

“I’d read every word.

Even the ones that hurt.”

She smiled — the kind that came from somewhere real.

Not forced.

Not practiced.

Just… honest.

“Then maybe it’s time to write something new.”

> “Some people survive.

Others rise.

And a rare few —

they help others do the same.

We sat at the same old spot behind the school.

Same sky. Same cracked bench. Same silence.

But this time, she pulled out a notebook. A fresh one.

She wrote on the first page.

Then passed it to me.

It read:

> “All I wanted was to survive.

And somehow… I found something more.

Someone more.”

I looked at her.

She looked back.

And I knew — this wasn’t the end of her story.

It was just the beginning of the part where she gets to live.

> “We survived.

Now… we live.”

Two Years Later....

The bench behind the school was still there.

Faded. Rusted. But standing.

Just like us.

Zimal sat beside me, her notebook open, the same nervous energy in her hands that she once had when giving me her first letter.

But this time, it was different.

Because this time, she wasn’t hiding anymore.

"It’s done," she whispered. "My book."

I looked at her. Her hair was a little longer now. Her eyes… clearer. Still quiet, still deep — but full of light.

"Want me to read it?"

She nodded.

I flipped through the first page.

And there it was.

> “To the version of me who thought she wouldn’t survive —

I’m glad you stayed.”

My chest tightened.

I reached for her hand and said:

"You didn’t just survive, Zimal.

You rewrote your ending."

> “The past may leave scars…

But it doesn’t get to write the final page.”

The bookstore was small — local, cozy.

But her name was there. On the shelf.

Zimal Shah.

All I Want is to Survive — in paperback.

She stood in front of it, staring like she couldn’t believe it was real.

"I don’t think I deserve this," she whispered.

I stepped beside her.

"You don’t just deserve this.

You earned this. With every breath you fought for.

With every page you didn’t tear out."

A small girl passed by and pointed at the book.

"That’s the one about the girl who didn’t give up, right?"

Zimal’s lips trembled.

But she smiled.

A real smile.

> “Sometimes, your survival becomes someone else’s reason to stay.”

The Last Page....

Later that night, we sat by the window in her new apartment — lights dim, tea in our hands, hearts a little fuller.

Zimal handed me a page.

One final letter.

> *“I once wrote: All I want is to survive.

But now I want more.

I want to love. To create. To speak. To live.

And you… you gave me the space to want again.”*

She looked at me, teary-eyed.

"So… what now?" she asked.

I smiled.

"Now? We write new pages. Together."

She nodded slowly.

And for once, there was no fear in her eyes.

No doubt. No darkness.

Just the soft, steady glow…

of someone who made it through the storm.

The end....🦋

Ayesha sat silently near her bedroom window, watching the rain fall like the tears she had cried for days. Her heart felt heavy, not just with sadness, but with the sharp sting of betrayal. Just two weeks ago, she had been planning a future with Hamza — the boy she thought would stay. But he didn’t.

He left with only a few words: “I don’t think we’re right for each other.” That one sentence shattered everything she believed in. Trust. Love. Forever.

The first few days felt like drowning. Every song, every place, even her favorite coffee reminded her of him. She had stopped eating. Talking. Smiling. Her world had lost its color.

But time has its own strange power. Slowly, cracks of light began to enter the darkness. It began with her best friend, Zara, who refused to let Ayesha suffer in silence.

One day, Zara dragged her out of bed and said, “I won’t let you break like this. You’re stronger than you think.”

They went for a walk in the park. The air was fresh, children were laughing, and old couples were sitting hand in hand. It was the first time Ayesha noticed the beauty still present in the world.

“You loved him,” Zara said gently, “But he was just a chapter, not the whole story.”

That sentence stayed with Ayesha. Over the following weeks, she began writing again — something she had stopped when she was in love. Her journal became her safe space, where she poured out every emotion: anger, confusion, sadness, even moments of peace.

She joined a local book club, met new people, and for the first time in months, felt like herself again — not someone’s girlfriend, but her.

One day, she sat across from a stranger at a café. He was reading the same book she had loved as a teenager. They started talking. His name was Imran, a quiet soul with gentle eyes. He didn’t ask about her past. He talked about dreams, photography, and why the sky always looks bluer after rain.

They met again. Then again. But this time, Ayesha didn’t rush. She wasn’t looking for love. She was healing. And healing, she realized, doesn’t mean forgetting. It means learning to live with the memories without letting them control you.

Months passed. Ayesha stood in front of her mirror one morning and smiled. The girl staring back at her had scars, yes — but also strength. She had learned to enjoy her own company, to dance alone, to cry without shame, and to hope without fear.

Hamza was part of her story, but he was not her ending.

Healing wasn’t loud. It wasn’t magical. It was quiet. It was choosing peace over pain, forgiveness over hatred, and growth over grief.

One day, Ayesha received a message from Hamza. “I’m sorry,” it read. “I made a mistake.”

She looked at the message, her heart steady. She smiled and deleted it.

Because she no longer needed him to fix her.

She had healed.

She had healed herself.