Home was a word I learned to use carefully.
The house I lived in was never quiet, yet it never felt alive either. Sounds existed—doors opening, plates clinking, the television playing endlessly—but none of them were meant for me. I learned early how to move without being noticed, how to fold myself into corners so I wouldn't become a question.
My aunt believed discipline built character. My uncle believed silence was enough. Between them, I learned that feelings were unnecessary things—inconvenient, even.
They never asked how my day was.
They noticed only when something disrupted their routine—when I came home late, when I spoke too softly, when I forgot to disappear properly.
That evening, when I returned home, the house was empty.
They must have gone out with their children. They often did. No message. No warning. My presence never changed their plans. It never needed to.
I placed my bag down quietly and walked into the kitchen out of habit. The refrigerator was closed—locked, as it usually was when they weren't around. The shelves were empty. No food. No note.
I stood there for a moment, longer than necessary, staring at nothing.
This wasn't new. On days I came home late, or when they were away, the kitchen stayed the same—cold, untouched, indifferent. Hunger became something I learned to ignore. Complaining only made things worse.
So I didn't.
Instead, I stepped out onto the small veranda at the edge of the house. It wasn't much—just a narrow space with a railing and a view of the street below—but it felt like the only place that belonged to me. The sky was darker there, wider. Honest.
I sat down, leaned back against the wall, and slipped my earphones in. Music filled the quiet, low enough not to disturb anyone who wasn't there. The melodies wrapped around me gently, replacing conversations I never had.
Out there, under the open sky, I spoke to God.
Not the way people spoke in temples or during festivals—but the way children speak when they are tired of being brave. I asked questions without worrying about answers. I shared dreams I was afraid to say out loud.
I told Him about the life I wanted.
A life where I didn't feel like a burden.A life where someone waited for me.A life where choosing myself didn't feel like a mistake.
My dreams stayed alive in those moments. They danced quietly inside me, fragile but persistent, giving me courage I couldn't find anywhere else. It was strange how hope survived in the smallest spaces.
But loneliness never stayed away for long.
That night, it returned sharply—heavier than usual. I tried to avoid it, but it crept in anyway. The familiar ache settled in my chest, the one that came when I wished someone would notice, would understand, would take me away from this quiet existence without asking me to explain why.
I wanted my life to change.
Not someday.Not gradually.
Tomorrow.
I closed my eyes, breathing in the night air.
And then… I felt it again.
That subtle warmth. That quiet awareness.
The same feeling from the library. The same presence that never frightened me, never rushed me. It didn't touch me—not exactly—but it felt close enough to ease the tightness in my chest.
As if someone was there.
Not watching.Not judging.
Just… staying.
I leaned my head back against the wall, letting myself feel it. For a moment, I wasn't lonely. I wasn't hungry. I wasn't invisible.
I was seen.
Please, I whispered softly into the dark. Let something change tomorrow.
The night didn't answer.
But for the first time, it felt like someone had heard me.
The next morning, the house was loud again.
My aunt moved through the kitchen with sharp efficiency, her voice cutting through the air even when she wasn't speaking directly to me. My uncle sat with his newspaper, eyes scanning words that mattered more than I did.
"You've been distracted lately," my aunt said suddenly, not looking at me.
I kept my gaze on my plate.
"People notice these things," she continued. "You should be careful."
Careful. The word followed me everywhere.
Then she said it—quietly, like a warning.
"There's talk," she added. "About you. And that boy."
My stomach tightened.
She didn't say his name, but it echoed anyway.
The boy everyone admired.The one people trusted.The one who looked right.
I nodded once. It was easier than explaining something I didn't understand myself.
Later, as I walked toward class, I caught my reflection in a shop window. For a moment, I tried to see myself the way others might.
A girl who followed rules.A girl who made sensible choices.A girl who didn't ask for more than she was given.
Maybe that version of me would be easier to accept.
As I stepped into the crowded corridor, surrounded by voices and movement, one thought surfaced quietly—unwanted but persistent.
Maybe choosing something visible would finally silence everything else.
I didn't know yet how wrong I was.