The letter stayed in her bag for three days.
She knew exactly where it was — between an old notebook and her ID card but every time her fingers brushed against it, she pulled away, as if paper could burn.
Her roommate noticed first.
"You've been zoning out a lot," she said one evening, flipping through notes. "Midterms are coming. Don't tell me you're going to start studying the night before again."
She hummed in response, eyes fixed on the window.
Outside, the hostel courtyard buzzed with noise — girls laughing, someone arguing with a food delivery guy. Life moved on, loud and careless.
Inside her bag, the letter waited.
That night, when the room finally quieted, she took it out.
The envelope was familiar. Her mother's handwriting hadn't changed — sharp strokes, hurried curves. Always writing as if she were late for something.
She didn't open it immediately. Memories came uninvited:
Her mother standing at the door, saying study well.
Promises she couldn't keep.
Introducing her to him, smiling like she had finally done something right.
Her fingers trembled. She exhaled and tore the envelope open.
We need to talk. Come home during the holidays.
No apology. No explanation. Just a request that felt more like an order.
Her chest tightened.
Home. Which home?
The village that judged in silence?
The house she was told not to return to?
Or the hostel room that never asked questions?
She folded the letter carefully and put it back.
The next morning, she logged into the student portal. The fee status hadn't changed. She closed it before panic could settle in.
Her phone buzzed. His name.
She stared. She didn't answer — not yet.
But she could feel his eyes, his quiet judgment, through the phone. The one who had once been her safety net was now a reminder that no one could fully hold her world.
Somewhere between unread letters and unanswered calls, she realized something she hadn't admitted before
This time, running away wouldn't solve anything. But neither would going back the same way she left.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. She typed a single message:I got your letter.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. No reply came.
She let out a slow breath, her chest tight but steady. One thing was certain: the silence she had mastered so carefully had begun to crack.
And somewhere in the distance, the world outside moved on, oblivious to the storm gathering quietly inside her.