The alarm rings at 6:00 a.m.—loud, sharp, unavoidable.

Ashika is already awake.

She stares at the ceiling for a few seconds, as if gathering strength for a day she already knows by heart. Nothing changes much. Only expectations grow.

“Ashika!” her father’s voice cuts through the silence.

“I’m coming, Papa,” she replies immediately.

She always replies immediately.

Her room is neat—not because she likes it that way, but because she’s used to not leaving space for mistakes. Books arranged. Bag packed. Uniform ironed.

Everything… controlled.

Everything except her thoughts.

She stands in front of the mirror, tying her hair back tightly. For a brief second, she loosens it—just to see how it feels.

Different.

Like someone else.

But she quickly ties it again.

Because “different” is not what her father expects.

At the breakfast table, silence sits heavier than the food.

Her father flips through the newspaper.

Her mother moves around the kitchen, distant, mechanical.

No one asks how she is.

“Ashika, your test is next week. Don’t lose focus,” her father says without looking at her.

“I won’t, Papa.”

She never argues.

She never explains.

She never says what she actually wants.

Her mother places a plate in front of her but doesn’t meet her eyes.

No warmth.

No questions.

No connection.

Just routine.

Ashika has learned not to expect anything more.

At school, she blends in perfectly. She smiles when needed, answers correctly, and plays the role everyone likes.

But she doesn’t belong anywhere.

Not completely.

Her friends talk about crushes, dreams, plans for the future.

Ashika listens.

She nods.

But she doesn’t share.

Because her dreams don’t feel real enough to say out loud.

Because no one has ever really asked her what she wants.

And maybe… she’s afraid of the answer.

After school, she walks home slowly, stretching the time she doesn’t have to be “perfect.”

At home, her father is already there.

“How was your day?”

“Good.”

Always “good.”

There’s no space for “confusing,” or “tiring,” or “I don’t know who I am becoming.”

Her mother sits nearby, scrolling on her phone, uninterested.

Ashika looks at her once, hoping—just for a second—that maybe today will be different.

Maybe her mother will ask something real.

She doesn’t.

And Ashika looks away.

She goes to her room, closes the door, and finally exhales.

From under her mattress, she pulls out a small notebook.

Not school notes.

Not assignments.

Her thoughts.

Sketches. Words. Half-written dreams.

A life she isn’t living.

Her fingers pause over the page.

Then slowly, she writes—

"What if I said no… just once?"

She stares at the sentence for a long time.

Because even imagining it feels dangerous.

Ashika is not close to anyone.

Not her parents.

Not her friends.

She carries everything alone—her dreams, her fears, her quiet rebellion.

But for now…

She will wake up tomorrow, say “yes” again, and be exactly who she is expected to be.

Because that’s what she’s always done.

And no one has ever noticed the difference.