The semester holidays began quietly.
No celebrations. No relief.
Just a notice on the hostel board and students rushing to pack their bags, talking about home-cooked food and sleep that didn't end with alarms.
She packed slower than everyone else.
Her suitcase felt heavier than it should have, though there wasn't much inside it. Clothes folded neatly. Books stacked with care. A small pouch of medicines she never remembered taking on time.
Her roommate watched her zip the bag.
"You're not flying?" she asked casually. "Didn't you always fly back?"
She paused, hands resting on the zipper.
"I'm taking the train this time."
Her roommate frowned. "That's… what, two days?"
"Almost," she said.
The conversation ended there. Most things did these days.
The train station smelled of iron, dust, and overboiled tea.
She stood on the platform clutching her ticket, watching people reunite — parents waving from a distance, siblings laughing too loudly, someone crying openly without shame.
She stood alone.
Once, she would have booked a flight without thinking twice. Her father had believed time was precious. Comfort mattered. Why suffer when you didn't have to?
Now, suffering felt unavoidable.
The train arrived with a metallic scream.
Fifty hours.
She didn't count them by time, but by discomfort by the stiff seat, the crying child, the sleepless nights, the strangers who asked questions she didn't want to answer.
The train stopped where it wasn't meant to be the end.
She stepped down with her bag because there was no other choice.
The platform was dim, lit by flickering lights that buzzed like tired insects. The digital board confirmed what she already knew — no more trains tonight. The next one would arrive after sunrise.
Midnight had passed without asking her permission.
She stood still for a moment, letting the noise fade. People hurried past her, meeting faces that belonged to them. No one waited for her. No familiar voice called her name.
Once, someone always had.
Her phone lay silent in her hand.
She didn't check it.
Not because she expected a message — but because she knew there wouldn't be one.
They had argued before she left. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just words that slipped out sharp and couldn't be taken back.
I don't need you to come pick me up.I need to learn how to do things myself.
He hadn't replied after that.
Standing in the middle of a city she didn't belong to, she felt the weight of that decision settle in her chest.
She booked an auto.
The streets were quieter than she expected. Shops shuttered. Stray dogs curled beside closed doors. The city felt like it was holding its breath too.
Her friend lived on the edge of the city, in a neighborhood that slept early. By the time the auto stopped, it was nearly three in the morning.
She hesitated before knocking.
Once.
Twice.
The door opened almost immediately.
Her friend stood there, hair tied messily, worry written all over her face.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "Why didn't you call earlier?"
"I didn't want to disturb," she said.
Her friend didn't argue. She simply pulled her inside.
The house smelled like warm milk and something sweet. A light turned on in the hallway, and her friend's mother appeared, shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
"You must be exhausted," she said gently. "Come in, beta."
Something tightened in her chest at the word.
Beta.
She nodded, suddenly unable to speak.
Her friend's mother took her bag without asking and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with a glass of water and a plate of biscuits, setting them down carefully.
"You'll eat," she said. "Later, I'll warm some rice."
"I'm fine," she tried to say.
Her friend's mother looked at her once.
She ate.
Later, a blanket was placed around her shoulders, though the room wasn't cold. No one asked questions. No one demanded explanations.
She slept without dreams.
Morning light woke her gently.
For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Then the unfamiliar ceiling reminded her.
From the kitchen came the sound of utensils and quiet conversation. Her friend's mother noticed her immediately.
"You're awake," she smiled. "Wash your face. Breakfast is ready."
At the table, she ate silently — warm and soft, something she hadn't had in months. Her friend's father nodded at her kindly before leaving for work, as if her presence there was completely normal.
As if she belonged.
"You look like you haven't rested in a long time," her friend's mother said softly.
"I'm okay," she replied.
The lie felt heavier here.
Before leaving, her friend's mother packed food for the journey, pressing the container into her hands like it was a duty.
For a second — just a second — she imagined her own mother standing there.
But her mother had never said stay one more day.
The bus ride to the village was long and slow.
She watched familiar landscapes return — fields, narrow roads, houses she remembered by instinct.
Her grandmother stood at the gate when she arrived.
"You came alone?" she asked immediately.
"Yes."
Her grandmother didn't ask why.
Inside, everything was unchanged. The same wooden chairs. The same old clock. The same quiet.
That evening, her grandfather called her to sit beside him.
"You didn't come home the way you used to," he said.
She lowered her eyes.
"I wanted to manage on my own."
He studied her face carefully.
"Sometimes," he said, "managing alone isn't strength. It's loneliness pretending to be brave."
Her chest tightened.
That was when she told them.
About the unpaid fees. About the cheque from the village society. About the condition attached to it.
"If I give her half," she said quietly, "she'll give me the cheque."
Silence filled the room.
Her grandmother covered her mouth. Her grandfather stood up slowly, anger sharpening his movements.
"That money is for your education," he said. "No one gets to bargain with your future."
Tears burned her eyes.
"I didn't want to trouble you," she whispered. "I was scared."
Her grandmother pulled her close.
"You were never a trouble," she said. "You were just alone."
Later, she told them about him.
Not the title. Not the promises.
Just the truth.
"He helped me," she said. "When I couldn't manage."
Her grandparents exchanged a look.
After a long moment, her grandfather nodded. "Let us speak to him."
She hesitated, then handed over the phone.
From the other room, she heard voices — questions, explanations, pauses heavy with meaning.
When her grandfather returned, his expression was calm but unreadable.
"He is respectful," he said. "And honest."
Her grandmother nodded slowly. "That matters."
She said nothing.
Because something inside her had shifted.
Help, she realized, always came with a cost.
And she was tired of paying it with herself.
That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The cheque still wasn't in her hands. The fees were still unpaid. Nothing was resolved.
But she wasn't hiding anymore.
And tomorrow, she would have to decide —
how much she was willing to lose to keep standing on her own.