⭐ Trapped in the Same Cycle ⭐

I woke up with a loud thud.

For a second, I thought something had fallen in my room—but no. It was just my parents. Again.

Things crashing. Voices raised. Words thrown sharper than whatever they were breaking this time.

Honestly, I didn’t even flinch.

It’s become so normal in this house that silence feels more unsettling than noise.

This time, it was my dad who crossed the line. He smashed my mom’s favourite vase—the one she bought just last week and guarded like it was something fragile enough to fall apart with a single touch. She barely let anyone go near it.

Not that I ever understood why.

It was ugly as hell.

And expensive.

She had spent a ridiculous amount of money on it—money we didn’t exactly have lying around. I remember her smiling when she brought it home, like it meant something more than just glass.

Now it was gone.

Just like that.

Still… none of this was new.

They’ll make up by evening. They always do.

Like nothing ever happened.

I rubbed my eyes, letting out a slow yawn before dragging myself out of bed.

The heat hit me the moment I stepped out of my room. Summer had officially arrived—no warning, no mercy. I took a cold shower, hoping it would wake me up, but it barely helped.

Those cozy mornings wrapped in blankets?

Yeah. Gone.

Not coming back anytime before November.

I slipped into my school uniform and started braiding my hair, tying the ends with red ribbons.

Why?

Because apparently, this is what discipline looks like.

Neat braids. Proper ribbons. No room for choice.

And it’s not just my school—it’s almost every school here. Rules, rules, and more rules. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if they focused even half as much on actually improving how we learn.

But I guess appearances matter more.

I checked the time.

11:00 a.m.

My van comes at 11:20.

Great.

I’m early.

Now I have to wait.

Board exams.

That’s all anyone has been talking about lately.

Teachers. Relatives. Neighbours. Even random aunties who suddenly remember I exist.

“How much did you score last time?”

“You’re in 10th now, right?”

“Focus on your future.”

It’s like my entire life has been reduced to a percentage.

A number.

Nothing more.

I walked up to the mirror and stared at myself.

Same face.

Same tired eyes.

Nothing special.

Just another student trying to survive.

I tried to smile.

It didn’t last long.

The house had gone quiet.

That meant they’d stopped fighting.

Which meant they’d made up.

Again.

I could already picture it—sitting together, talking normally… maybe even laughing. Like the shouting, the breaking, the anger—none of it ever existed.

It’s funny how things reset so easily here.

Or maybe it’s just easier to pretend.

I picked up my bag and checked it again.

Books? Check.

Notebook? Check.

Pens? Extra pens? Yeah.

I don’t even know why I’m this nervous.

It’s just school.

Same building. Same classrooms. Same routine.

So why does it feel… different?

Maybe it’s the pressure.

Maybe it’s the expectations.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Overthinking.

As usual.

A horn blared outside, pulling me out of my thoughts.

My van.

Right on time.

I took a deep breath, slung my bag over my shoulder, and walked toward the door.

The heat wrapped around me the moment I stepped outside, thick and suffocating.

“Here we go,” I muttered.

Another year.

Another routine.

Another chance to either mess everything up…

or somehow make it through.

I locked the door behind me and walked toward the van, ignoring the strange, heavy feeling in my chest.

I don’t know why—

but something tells me

this year isn’t going to be as ordinary as I’m pretending it is.

      ⭐ A Different Kind of Enough ⭐

The van door creaked open like it always did—loud enough to announce itself, but not loud enough for anyone to care.

“Late again,” the driver muttered.

I didn’t bother correcting him.

What’s the point?

I climbed in, squeezing past a couple of juniors already arguing over window seats like it was a life-or-death situation.

The van smelled the same as always—dust, sweat, and that strange mix of plastic and petrol that never really goes away.

I slipped into my usual seat in the back corner.

Same place.

Every day.

Some things don’t change.

“Didi, did you pass?”

I looked up to see Deep leaning over the seat, eyes filled with that familiar curiosity most juniors seem to have.

I almost smiled.

“Obviously,” I said. “What about you?”

“Yeah… same,” he replied, a little sheepish. “How much did you get?”

“91.4%,” I said, like it didn’t matter. “You?”

He let out a low whistle. “Damn. I got around 70%.”

I gave a small nod. “That’s decent.”

“Decent?” he repeated, half-laughing. “Getting above ninety in ninth isn’t ‘decent,’ it’s insane. I don’t think I could ever do that.”

I shrugged, turning my gaze toward the window.

“It’s just marks.”

“Still,” he said, quieter this time, “I hope I get there someday.”

For a moment, I didn’t respond.

Because the way he said it—like it actually meant something—

made me wonder why it didn’t feel the same to me.

Marks.

Percentages.

Numbers people celebrate like they’re milestones.

Maybe they’re supposed to feel like that.

“Hey,” he nudged again, pulling me back, “how did your parents react? They must be really proud.”

I exhaled softly, resting my head against the window.

“They were… okay with it,” I said. “Not really celebrating or anything.”

His brows furrowed. “Seriously?”

“My dad thought I could’ve done better,” I added with a faint shrug. “So… yeah. A little disappointed.”

He stared at me for a second, like he was trying to understand something that didn’t make sense.

“That’s crazy,” he said finally. “That’s actually really good.”

“Maybe,” I replied. “Depends on who you ask.”

He didn’t push further.

And I didn’t explain.

Because how do you explain something that’s never said out loud?

At home, it’s never just about what I do—it’s about how it compares.

There’s always something in the background.

Some standard I never quite reach.

Most of the time, it’s my cousin.

Two classes below me, yet somehow always the example. The one who’s more polite, more talented… more everything.

Even the things I thought were mine never really stayed mine.

A drawing.

A hobby.

A small achievement.

Somehow, it all turned into comparison.

No one says it directly.

But it shows—in passing remarks, in half-finished sentences, in the way praise never comes alone.

It always brings something else with it.

Something better.

I turned my attention back to the window, watching the road blur past.

“Anyway,” I said after a moment, my tone lighter now, “it’s different for everyone.”

He leaned in again, a grin spreading across his face.

“You know, my dad was actually really proud of me. He treated me, got me a bunch of gifts and everything.”

I paused—just for a second.

Long enough to feel it.

Short enough to hide it.

“That’s nice,” I said, my voice steady.

He kept talking, more animated now—about the gifts, the smiles, the way his parents wouldn’t stop praising him over something as simple as marks.

I nodded at the right moments, adding a quiet “hm” here and there, playing along like it didn’t matter.

Seventy percent.

And that was enough.

My fingers tightened slightly around the strap of my bag before I forced them to relax, smoothing the fabric absentmindedly.

I kept my eyes forward this time.

“Sounds like you had a good day,” I said, my voice light, almost effortless.

“Yeah, I did,” he replied, smiling.

Of course he did.

I returned a small smile—practiced, controlled.

But underneath it, something shifted.

Twisted.

Not sharp enough to show.

Just enough to stay.

Because I envied it.

Not him.

Just… that feeling.

The simplicity of it.

The way seventy was enough.

The way it brought smiles instead of silence.

If only it worked like that for me.

If only “good” was enough.

If only satisfaction didn’t come with conditions.

I let out a quiet breath, barely noticeable.

Because wanting that felt pointless.

And showing it?

Even more so.