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.

Night comes quietly.🌌

The house finally slows down—the clatter of utensils fades, the television turns off, and footsteps disappear into separate rooms. But for Ashika, silence is never peaceful.

It’s loud.

Too loud.

She lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day like a loop she can’t switch off.

Every “yes.”

Every moment she swallowed her words.

Every time she almost said something… and didn’t.

Her chest feels heavy, like she’s carrying the entire day inside her.

School wasn’t different today—just more of the same. Expectations. Perfection. Smiles that didn’t reach her eyes.

And then home.

Her father’s voice.

Instructions. Reminders. Standards.

Her mother’s silence.

A presence that feels distant, even in the same room.

Ashika turns to her side, pulling the blanket closer.

Why does it feel so hard?

She isn’t doing anything wrong. She’s doing everything right.

Then why does it feel like something is missing?

Her mind drifts to a simple thought—

What if someone just understood?

Not judged.

Not corrected.

Not told what to do.

Just… understood.

She imagines sitting next to someone—anyone—without having to pretend.

Her grip tightens slightly.

"I just want someone to ask me if I’m okay… and actually wait for the answer."

Telling them how tired she feels.

How confusing it is to want something different.

How scary it is to even think about choosing herself.

But the image fades quickly.

Because there is no one.

Not her parents.

Not her friends.

And slowly, she’s stopped expecting it from anyone at all.

A tear slips from the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t wipe it away.

She’s used to this too.

Her gaze shifts to the notebook beside her pillow.

The only place where she doesn’t have to filter her thoughts.

She opens it, flipping through pages filled with unfinished sentences, messy handwriting, and quiet confessions.

She stops at a blank page.

For a long moment, she just looks at it.

Then she writes—

"I don’t want to be strong all the time."

Her hand trembles slightly.

Another line—

"I wish someone would notice."

The words sit there, raw and honest.

For the first time today, she feels like she’s telling the truth.

She closes the notebook gently, holding it close to her chest.

As if it’s the only thing that understands her.

The night grows deeper.

From the other room, she hears her parents’ faint voices—but none of it is meant for her.

Nothing ever is.

Ashika closes her eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily.

Her thoughts keep circling—

Maybe tomorrow will be different.

Maybe someone will ask.

Maybe I won’t feel this alone.

But even she doesn’t fully believe it.

Still… she hopes.

Because hope is the only thing she hasn’t learned to give up yet.

And somewhere inside her, buried under all the expectations and silence—

there’s a small voice waiting.

Waiting for the day she finally listens to it.