THE RESULT



The results came quietly, the way storms sometimes do-without warning, without noise, and yet capable of destroying everything inside. Ira stood in the corridor of her house with the marksheet in her hand. Fifth position. Not failure. Not victory either. Just a number that meant nothing to her parents and everything to her heart.

"Bas paanchvi?" her mother said, disbelief sharper than disappointment. “Itna padhne ke baad bhi?”

Her father didn't even look at her. "Humne toh pehle hi kaha tha," he muttered. "Doston ke saath awaara ghoomogi toh yehi hoga."

Ira stood there, silent. No arguments. No explanations. Her eyes stayed dry, as if even tears had given up on her. She nodded slowly, absorbing every word like punishment she somehow

deserved.

"Jab dekho tab sar dard," her mother continued. "Bas bahana hai padhai aur kaam se bachne ka."(Just excuses to run from studies and housechores)

Ira nodded again, turned around, and walked into her room. She closed the door. Then locked it.

Inside the silence, she leaned against the door and slid down to the floor. She waited for tears to come. They didn't. Her chest felt tight, breath uneven, head pounding like something inside was trying to escape.

And then it happened,The migraine came first—sharp, blinding. Then the panic. Her hands trembled. Her vision blurred. She pressed her palms against her temples, whispering nothing, because there was nothing left to say.

She had never told anyone about the migraines. Not her parents. Not her friends. Some pains, she had learned, were easier to carry alone.

She reached for her headphones with shaking fingers and put them on. Music filled her ears-loud enough to drown thoughts, soft enough to let

memories in. The walls felt closer. The room felt smaller.

Suffocation. She was suffocating in her own home, in her own room.

Without thinking, she unlocked the door, stepped out quietly, and climbed the stairs. No one noticed. No one asked.

The terrace welcomed her with open air and a quiet sky. She stood there, staring at the stars, breathing slowly. This place had always held her secrets better than people ever could.

Ira sat on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest, staring at the sky like it had answers she didn’t.

No matter how much I do, it’s never enough, she thought bitterly.

Every late night. Every sacrificed laugh. Every headache she studied through.

All of it—still not enough for them.

Her lips trembled as the thoughts grew louder.

I gave everything I had.

But to them, it was always laziness. Always excuses. Always not trying hard enough.

As if pain was a choice. As if effort was invisible unless it broke her completely.

Tears finally slipped out—hot, angry, helpless.

What more do you want from me?

She wanted to scream it. She wanted to throw it at the walls, at their words, at the expectations crushing her chest.

Instead, she stayed quiet. Like she always did.

Her parents’ voices echoed in her head.

You roam around with friends.

You don’t take studies seriously.

You keep complaining about headaches.

Each sentence landed like proof that her suffering had been reduced to an excuse.

She pressed her palms against her eyes, but the tears refused to stop now.

For them, my effort is never visible, she realized.

Only my failures are.

Her chest tightened again, breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

The migraine pulsed harder, like punishment for feeling too much.

Maybe I really am the problem, she thought, and that thought hurt more than anything they had said.

She hated herself for wanting validation.

She hated herself for still hoping one day they would say, You tried. We see you.

And she hated that no matter how strong she pretended to be, their disappointment still had the power to shatter her.

                                         𝑰𝑹𝑨'𝑺 𝑷𝑶𝑽

Their harsh, painful words kept echoing in my mind, colliding with each other until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.

Why me?

Why does it always feel like no matter how much I give, it’s never enough for them?

It was just a pre-board exam.

Not boards. Not the end of the world.

Yet they spoke to me like I had already failed at life, like one paper had erased every late night, every headache, every silent sacrifice I had made.

Tears spilled from my eyes before I could stop them.

I didn’t cry loudly. I never knew how to.

My shoulders shook as I tried to control my breathing, pressing my lips together so no sound would escape. Crying felt like another failure—something I wasn’t even allowed to do properly.

I looked up at the sky, hoping it would distract me, hoping the vastness above would make my problems feel smaller.

Instead, it made me feel lonelier.

My head began to throb, that familiar pain blooming behind my eyes.

A migraine—slow, cruel, unavoidable.

As if my own body was tired of carrying everything I never said out loud.

My chest tightened suddenly.

Breathing became difficult, shallow, uneven.

My heart raced for no reason at all, pounding like it was trying to run away from me.

Not now, I whispered inside my head.

Please… not another anxiety attack.

I hugged myself tightly, nails digging into my arms, grounding myself the only way I knew how.

The world felt too loud, too close, too heavy.

Every thought overlapped—results, expectations, disappointment—until my mind felt like it was screaming even though my mouth stayed shut.

I did my best, I told myself.

But the words felt weak, fragile, like they might shatter if I believed them too much.

Then that voice appeared again—the one that never left me alone.

Stop crying.

You’re strong, remember?

Strong girls don’t break over marks.

You don’t even know what real pain is.

I hated that voice.

Because it sounded exactly like the people who were supposed to understand me.

Just study more, it continued.

Get into a good college.

Prove them wrong.

Then maybe—just maybe—you’ll be enough.

I wiped my tears angrily, as if erasing them could erase everything else too.

As if strength meant silence.

As if being strong meant carrying pain without ever letting it show.

My head hurt more now. My chest still felt tight.

But what hurt the most was the realization that my effort had an expiry date.

That no matter how hard I tried, it would always be measured by results—not by how much it cost me.

I kept staring at the sky, blinking back tears that refused to stop anymore.

I didn’t want advice.

I didn’t want motivation.

I just wanted someone—anyone—to look at me and say,

I see you. I see how hard you’re trying.

But the sky remained silent.

And so did I.

                                     𝘼𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙑'𝙎 𝙋𝙊𝙑

I hadn’t meant to come to the terrace.

It was one of those restless nights—too much noise in my head, too little air in my chest. I stepped out without thinking, hands shoved into my pockets, eyes already searching the darkness like they always did.

That’s when I saw her.

She stood near the edge, headphones hanging loose around her neck, head tilted toward the sky as if it might answer questions she was too tired to ask out loud. Her shoulders were tense, her posture small—like she was trying to take up as little space as possible in a world that had already decided she was asking for too much.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand.Slowly. Angrily.

Not the kind of crying that asks to be noticed. The kind that happens when someone has learned there’s no point in calling for help.I stayed where I was.

I told myself I should look away.I didn’t.

Her breathing was uneven. I could see it from here—the way her chest rose too fast, the way she pressed her arms around herself like she was holding something together before it broke completely. I recognized it instantly.

Panic.

That tightness. That silent fight for control.

I knew it too well.

My fingers curled into fists.

Say something, a voice in my head urged.

Ask if she’s okay.Do something.I didn’t move.Because what would I say? reached into my pocket without thinking.

My fingers brushed against the folded handkerchief I always carried—habit more than need. Clean. Unused. Pointless, really. I pulled it out halfway, the white edge catching the terrace light.

Just give it to her, my mind said.No words. No explanations. Just… something.I took a step forward.Then I stopped.What would that mean?

An intrusion? A question she didn’t ask? A comfort she didn’t want?

Because people like us didn’t want comfort—we wanted space.

Because stepping in meant crossing a line neither of us had agreed to draw.

Her face turned slightly, eyes still fixed on the sky. Tears slipped down anyway, despite how hard she tried to stop them. She looked… tired. Not sleepy. Tired in the way that comes from carrying things you’re never allowed to put down.

For a moment, I wondered if she felt watched.

She didn’t look back.She didn’t know I was there.And somehow, that made it worse.I stood there longer than I should have, memorizing the way she looked when no one was asking her to be strong. When she didn’t have to perform. When she was just a girl breaking quietly under the weight of expectations.

I hated myself for watching.

I hated myself more for understanding.In the end, I did what I always did.Nothing.I turned away silently, careful not to make a sound. The door clicked shut behind me, soft enough to pretend I was never there at all.

She never saw me.And maybe that was better.

Some moments aren’t meant to be shared—

they’re meant to haunt you later, when it’s too late to change anything.

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