Morning doesn't arrive suddenly.
It seeps in.
Light pushes its way through the thin gap between the curtain and the wall, landing on my face like it's checking if I'm still here. My phone vibrates somewhere near my pillow. Not loudly. Just enough to remind me that the world has started moving again.
I don't pick it up immediately.
For a few seconds, I stay still, staring at the ceiling. Same cracks. Same faded paint. Same feeling that my body woke up before my mind did. My heartbeat feels slow today, like it's tired of running for no reason.
I sit up and rub my eyes. The room smells like last night's tea and dust. Outside, someone laughs. Someone else is arguing. Life sounds normal for people who slept peacefully.
I didn't.
In the bathroom mirror, I pause longer than necessary.
Not because I'm looking at my face—
but because I'm checking if it still looks like mine.
There are days when my reflection feels like a stranger who knows too much. I splash water, wipe my face, and breathe out slowly. My hands shake a little. They always do in the morning.
I make tea. Too much sugar. Again.
Some habits stick because they're easy. Some stick because they're comforting. I don't know which one this is.
As I take the first sip, something from the past taps my mind—softly at first, then harder.
I was seven the first time I thought about asking for help.
It was evening study hour in the hostel. Everyone sat in rows, pretending to read. The room smelled of old books and sweat. One of the seniors walked behind us, his footsteps slow, deliberate. He stopped near my desk.
"Stand up," he said.
I stood.
He didn't shout. That would've been easier.
He just looked at me, up and down, like he was deciding something.
"Hands up."
I did.
I remember thinking: If I do everything right, this will end quickly.
It didn't.
By the time it was over, my arms ached, my eyes burned, and my notebook lay open in front of me—blank. Not because I didn't know the answers, but because my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
I looked at the teacher.
He looked through me.
That was the day I learned something important.
Help doesn't always come just because you need it.
The memory leaves a weight in my chest.
I finish my tea without tasting it and grab my bag. Outside, the air is warm already. I walk faster than necessary, like I'm late for something, though I'm not sure what.
At the bus stop, I sit at the edge of the bench. Habit. Always leave space. A woman beside me is talking on the phone, complaining about her day. She sounds annoyed, but free. She says whatever comes to her mind.
I envy that.
The bus arrives, crowded as usual. I stand near the door, holding the pole, watching the city pass by in pieces—shops opening, people rushing, a boy crying because his balloon flew away.
The boy's cry hits me harder than it should.
I look away.
At work, people greet me. I greet them back. Short sentences. Small smiles. I sit at my desk and open my system, but my mind keeps slipping.
There's a guy two desks away who laughs loudly at everything. Every joke. Every comment. His laughter fills the room. No one seems bothered by it.
I am.
Not because it's loud.
But because it reminds me how visible sound can be.
During lunch, I sit alone as usual. I scroll through my phone, not reading anything properly. Then a message pops up—from an unknown number.
"Is this you? I might be wrong."
I stare at it.
For a moment, my chest tightens. Unknown messages always do this to me. I don't reply. I lock my phone and push it into my pocket, telling myself it's probably nothing.
But the thought stays.
On my way back in the evening, it starts raining. Not heavy. Just enough to soak the road and blur the lights. I walk slower, letting the rain hit my face. It feels real. Honest.
I remember standing in the hostel courtyard once, rain pouring down, seniors shouting from the balcony, telling us to stay inside. I remember wishing the rain would wash everything away.
It didn't.
At the corner near my room, I stop to buy bread. The shopkeeper looks at me and says, "Roz aate ho."
I nod.
"Kam bolte ho," he adds, not unkindly.
I almost smile.
Back in my room, I sit on the bed, shoes still on. My phone buzzes again. Same number.
"You used to sit near the window in school. You never talked much."
My heart skips.
Just once.
My fingers hover over the screen. I should ignore it. That's what I've always done—ignore, avoid, survive quietly.
But something feels different today.
Heavier. Louder.
I type slowly.
"Who is this?"
The reply comes after a pause.
"Someone who noticed you when no one else did."
I put the phone down, my heartbeat louder than the rain outside. I don't know why my eyes sting. I don't know why this small exchange feels like a crack in a wall I built years ago.
Silence has protected me for a long time.
But tonight, it feels less like safety
and more like a cage.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling again. Same cracks. Same paint.
But the space between my heartbeats feels… different.
Like it's waiting.
End of Chapter 2