[Opening with a diary entry]
Dear Diary,
They say home is the safest place.
Then why does it feel like I'm trapped in a place where even the walls scream louder than I ever could?
Today I drew a dress — it was silver, soft, flowing. A dream.
Papa didn't even look at it. He just said, "Stop wasting time."
Maybe one day, I'll wear something I designed myself. Until then, I'll wear silence.
Aarohi.
⸻
The clock ticked loudly in the stillness of the evening. The kind of silence that didn't feel peaceful — it felt like a punishment.
Aarohi sat cross-legged on the cold floor of her bedroom, sketchbook open, a pencil dancing nervously between her fingers. Her eyes traced the outline of the gown she had drawn — sleek, elegant, with patterns inspired by old Punjab phulkaris. She imagined it gliding down a runway, the lights hitting every sequin like stars.
"Aarohi!"
Her father's voice thundered from the living room. Her hand jerked. A small line slashed through the design.
She quickly shut the sketchbook and slipped it beneath her mattress.
"What are you doing in there all day? Don't you have your textbooks?"
Sanjay stood in the doorway, eyes sharp, tone sharper.
Aarohi swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, Papa."
He glanced around. "Don't waste time on this fashion nonsense. It's a useless dream. Be like other girls—study, get a job, get married."
She wanted to scream, "But I don't want to be like other girls."
But she just said, "Okay."
He left. She exhaled.
⸻
Later that night, after the lights went out and the house dipped into a dangerous calm, she pulled her diary from beneath her pillow.
Her handwriting was neat, even when her hands shook.
"Papa said my dream is nonsense. But it's not nonsense to me."
"The girls in my drawings… they look strong. Like they can survive anything."
"I want to survive too."
Aarohi closed the diary, pressed it to her chest, and closed her eyes.
Somewhere inside, the girl who always stayed quiet started whispering.