Rain fell in delicate whispers over Kolkata, turning the city into a poem no one had finished writing.
Rickshaws glided like ghosts through the puddled streets. Fairy lights flickered outside cafés where half-drunk cups of cha cooled slowly on chipp...
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I woke up in his room. Our room. But really... still his. Still laced with the ghosts of her. Still echoing with last night's silence.
As expected— Aryan never came back last night.
But yes, he came back home.
The walls whispered his name this morning. The scent of wind and bike fuel lingered in the corridor. A loud slam of the front door told me: he's back. But not for me.
Still, I had cleaned the bedroom yesterday. Scrubbed away the mess. The shattered glass. The petals. The heartbreak.
It looks beautiful now. Fresh sheets. Soft light. A little vase of roses. Not romantic. Just... surviving.
Today though— today I take a step for myself.
I'm going back. To Nilratan Sarkar Medical College. My old battlefield. My old battlefield of dreams.
Funny how I've even forgotten the full name. Can you believe it? Me, Ishita Roy, forgetting a name that once meant everything? That college watched me bleed in my books and dance in my dreams.
But I'm scared. Really scared. Not of books. Not of bones. But of people.
Because they didn't allow her to study. My sister. The girl with the pretty face and prettier lies.
So what will they say to me? The forgotten one. The replacement bride. The girl with the scandal tied to her chunri.
Will they even let me in?
But hey— if they say no, they clearly don't know me yet.
Because me?
I will throw the biggest damn fit of their academic life. With my heels, my brains, my dreams, and my audacity.
I was born to study. And no society's "no" can outshine my "yes."
~
I didn't just walk into the living room. Oh no, darling— I waltzed in. Like a bittersweet storm wrapped in soft-girl vengeance.
My plaid skirt? Pleated like precision. Each fold, a syllable of rebellion. My creamy knit cardigan? Snug and defiant, wrapped around my curves like a cozy little threat.
And that satin bow in my hair? With the tiny heart charm dangling just above my cheekbone? Not just decoration. That was a declaration. Of softness. Of survival. Of me.
