Anya hates when relatives visit.
Not because they are bad.
But because they ask the same question every time.
"Kaunsi class mein ho ab?"
"10th."
"Accha… phir toh 2–3 saal mein sab settle ho jayega."
They laugh.
She smiles politely.
But she doesn't understand one thing.
What does "settle" mean?
She is 16.
In 10th class.
Boards are near.
Everyone talks about marks.
No one talks about dreams.
One evening, she was in her room doing homework.
The door was slightly open.
Her mother was talking outside.
"Sharma ji ki beti ka rishta dekh rahe hain. 18 ki hote hi kar denge shaadi."
Her pen stopped.
She didn't move.
Her mother continued,
"Ladkiyon ko zyada der ghar pe rakho toh baatein banne lagti hain."
There was no anger in that voice.
Just reality.
That scared her more.
She slowly looked at her calendar.
Two years.
Just two years.
If 18 means marriage for Sharma ji's daughter…
What will it mean for her?
That night she couldn't study.
She opened her phone.
Not to escape.
Just to breathe.
She randomly clicked on a dance performance.
A K-pop stage.
Lights. Crowd. Confidence.
The girls looked young.
Maybe her age.
But they didn't look scared of turning 18.
They looked… powerful.
She didn't understand the lyrics.
But she understood one thing.
No one was deciding their life for them.
They chose it.
And something inside her chest whispered:
"I want that."
Not fame.
Not popularity.
Choice.
Next day after school, she closed her room door.
Played music softly.
Very softly.
If anyone asks, she'll say it helps her study.
She stood in front of the mirror.
She felt stupid at first.
Then she remembered Sharma ji ki beti.
She started moving.
Step wrong.
Again.
Wrong.
Again.
Again.
Again.
She didn't smile while dancing.
She trained.
Because suddenly dance wasn't hobby.
It was time running out.
At dinner, her father said,
"10th ke baad dekhte hain kya karna hai."
Simple sentence.
But it sounded like:
"We'll decide."
She quietly ate her food.
No arguments.
No rebellion.
Just silence.
Because she knows something they don't.
If she waits for permission…
It will be too late.
That night, lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling.
"I don't have time," she whispered.
Not because she wants to run away.
Not because she hates her family.
But because she wants one chance
to become herself
before someone calls her someone's wife.
And from that night,
She didn't practice to impress.
She practiced to survive.