The classroom was suffocatingly silent, the air thick with unspoken malice and amusement. The lights above buzzed faintly, casting cold shadows on the walls. It was the last period, and most students had cleared out. Only a handful remained—Isha and her gang, and the girl they’d cornered yet again: Avantika.

She sat slumped on the floor, her books scattered, her hair clinging to her damp face as sticky orange juice soaked through her kurti. Her breathing was shallow, her chest heaving with quiet sobs. Her hands trembled as she reached out to grab her bag, but a foot slammed down on it.

"Oops," Isha said with a wicked grin. "Clumsy little first-year, aren’t you?"

"I-I didn’t do anything," Avantika whimpered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Isha crouched in front of her, pulling something from her pocket. The sharp glint of a knife caught the dim light. Avantika’s eyes widened in horror.

"P-please... n-no... please don’t," she stammered, shaking her head rapidly. Her body curled into itself, as if trying to disappear. Her lips trembled. "I didn’t even talk to anyone... I swear... please..."

"You think you're better than us?" Isha sneered, twirling the knife with casual ease. "Coming in with that innocent face like you're some saint... Makes me sick."

Her friends laughed, their cruel cackles echoing off the walls like a bad dream.

Then, without warning, Isha grabbed the front of Avantika’s shirt and ripped it open. The sound of tearing fabric echoed like a gunshot.

"NO!" Avantika screamed, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Shut up," Isha snapped. "You're lucky we're not live-streaming this shit."

Avantika curled in on herself, tears spilling down her cheeks like a river. "Please… please stop… I didn’t… I didn’t do anything to you."

"Exactly," one of the girls sneered. "You’re too pathetic to even fight back."

After a few more minutes of mocking, they left. The sound of their retreating footsteps was the only thing that assured her the nightmare had ended—at least for now.

Avantika stayed frozen for a moment, hugging her knees to her chest. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The silence after the storm was almost worse than the chaos itself. Her mind was numb, but her body shook violently.

She forced herself to her feet, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. Her shirt hung in tatters, barely clinging to her shoulders. Her fingers fumbled as she picked up her old, oversized denim jacket from the floor and pulled it on, zipping it up to hide the damage—hide the humiliation.

She didn’t say a word as she walked the empty corridors, head down, tears still streaking silently down her face.

The girl’s washroom was empty, quiet—finally, a space where she could breathe. She locked herself into the last stall, tore off the ruined clothes, and pulled out a folded kurti from the bottom of her bag. She always carried extra clothes now.

Always.

Her fingers trembled as she slipped into a fresh outfit. In the small, cracked mirror above the sink, she saw her reflection—swollen red eyes, bruised lips, tear-streaked cheeks.

She stared at herself for a long moment. Then whispered, brokenly, "Why me... what did I ever do to them?"

Her voice was so soft, even the silence barely heard it.

......

Avantika’s POV

I opened the apartment door as quietly as I could. My fingers trembled against the handle. The hallway was dim, filled with the scent of freshly cooked food—and the silence that always told me exactly where I stood in his life.

I saw him. Arjun.

He was sitting at the dining table, casually eating his dinner, scrolling through his phone like I didn’t exist. Like I wasn’t standing there, drenched in my own pain, my eyes swollen from crying, my soul hanging on by a thread.

He didn’t even look up.

Just like always.

Yes, I’m married.

And I’m only 18 now. Married when I was thirteen.

Thirteen.

Back then, I didn’t even know how to properly plait my own hair, let alone understand what a marriage meant. But my father...my old-fashioned, cold-hearted father...he didn’t care. All he wanted was to get me off his hands. Said a girl was a burden. Said my mouth was too loud, my head too dreamy. So he decided to marry me off to some sixty-year-old landlord from the next village over.

And I was ready to die that day. I was. I still remember standing in that red bridal saree, my hands shaking, my tears ruining the kajal my mother had so lovingly drawn. But she didn’t stop it. She just cried silently. No one stopped it.

No one… except him.

Arjun’s father.

He stepped in like a storm. Like some godsent guardian from all those stories I never believed in. He threw money at my father’s feet and said, “She’s mine to protect. She saved my life once. I owe her that much.”

I don’t remember saving him. He said I had pulled him out of a well when I was five. I don’t even remember that version of myself anymore.

But my father, that bastard, he said, “What will people say? That I sold my daughter for money? No. If you want her, marry her into your house.”

And just like that, I was married off to Arjun Das. His son. He was only fifteen.

I remember his face that day. Full of hatred. Rage. Disgust. Like I was some dirt someone smeared on his name.

The next day, he packed his bags and left for Delhi.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

For five years, I stayed in his house..his parents’ house...cooked meals, cleaned floors, called his mother Ma, and tried to be the kind of daughter-in-law they wanted. His parents were kind. They cared. They never let me feel like I was alone.

But I was. So fucking alone.

And then I turned eighteen. His father handed me a ticket and said, “Go to him now. It's time you start your life together.”

I wanted to scream, What life?But I didn’t. I came here.

To this city.

To this apartment.

To him.

He opened the door and stared at me like I was a stain he couldn’t wash off his soul. “Why are you here?” he said. That was the first thing he said in years.

Now, I’ve been here for eight months. Sharing the same roof. Breathing the same air. Sleeping in separate rooms. He doesn’t talk unless necessary. He doesn’t look unless forced. He goes to college and lives like I don’t exist.

And the worst part?

He’s my senior. In the same college.

Same class as Isha.

Yes, that Isha.

The girl who rips my clothes and holds knives to my throat while her friends laugh. The girl who doesn’t even know I’m the wife of Arjun Das, the boy she secretly crushes on. The one she flirts with in class while I sit at the back in silence, clutching the extra pair of clothes I now carry every single fucking day.

Because I never know when humiliation will strike again.

I stared at Arjun again. My lips pressed tight, my arms hugging my jacket closed.

“Hi…” I whispered.

He didn’t respond.

Just kept chewing.

I turned away, swallowing the lump in my throat. Walked to the bedroom. Shut the door. Dropped my bag. Collapsed on the floor like a fucking puppet whose strings were finally cut.

And cried.

Because I wasn’t asking for love.

I just wanted to matter.

Even just a little.

---