Advika's pov
"Happy 18th birthday, Advika," my dad said, his lips curved into a smile as he looked at me. The words echoed in my ears, warm and unreal. Today was the day I had been counting down to for years-the day I finally turned eighteen. My heart fluttered with
excitement as I glanced at the small cake placed on the table. This was my moment, my biggest day.
"Now, let's cut the cake," he added gently.
He was the only one standing there with me. No friends, no laughter filling the room, no birthday wishes
flooding my phone-just him. I wasn't allowed to make friends. I never really knew why, and after a while, I stopped asking. I had learned to accept it, to convince myself that his presence was enough. And honestly, it usually was.
Don't be sad because of this, Advika, I told myself silently. Today is the biggest day of your life. Enjoy it.
"Thank you, Dad," I said softly, trying to pour all my gratitude into those two words.
But as I looked at him more closely, something felt... off. His eyes didn't reflect the happiness I felt bursting inside my chest. There was something distant, something heavy hidden behind his smile. A strange uneasiness brushed against my heart, but I quickly pushed it aside. I didn't want to ruin this day with unnecessary thoughts.
I picked up a slice of cake and held it out to him. "You first," I said, smiling brightly. He leaned forward and took a bite, nodding appreciatively. Only then did I take my own, the sweetness melting on my tongue, mixing with the joy I felt inside.
"Dad," I said, my voice bubbling with excitement, "this is my biggest day. I'm so happy-I can't even explain it to you." I jumped around like a little kid, unable to contain myself.
He laughed at that, a soft chuckle, and for a moment it felt normal. Safe.
Suddenly, his phone rang. The sound sliced through the air, sharp and unwelcome. He glanced at the screen and immediately stepped aside to answer it.
"Okay, I'm coming," he said in a low, serious voice. Then, after a pause, "Don't let him go."
The words brushed past me, barely registering. I had no interest in his work-he always kept it separate from my world. Whatever it was, it never concerned me. So I ignored the strange tone in his voice and focused on my cake instead.
Before leaving, he walked back to me and handed me a neatly wrapped gift box. "Happy birthday, princess," he said, his voice softening.

My face lit up. I hugged him tightly, holding on just a little longer than usual. "Thanks, Papa. You're amazing," I whispered.
He hugged me back, warm and familiar, then gently pulled away. "I'm late. I have to go."
My smile faded instantly. The apartment suddenly felt too big, too empty. "Papa, please stay one more day," I pleaded, my voice trembling despite my effort tosound strong. "I'm lonely here." Living in different countries already kept us apart-every visit felt like borrowed time.
He cupped my face gently. "I promise I'll visit soon, beta. I have urgent work," he said, brushing my hair back affectionately.
I nodded, forcing a smile, even though my heart felt heavy. I watched him walk away, unaware that this goodbye felt different-like something precious was slipping through my fingers, leaving behind a silence far louder than the empty room.
"
__________
A week letter
A week later, the silence of the apartment had become familiar again-heavy, unchanging, almost echoing. Living alone in this place had been my reality since I was twelve. Back then, my father had brought me here for my studies, arranging maids to take care of everything, as if organization could replace presence. He lived in India, far away, separated from me by borders, time zones, and an unspoken distance I never quite understood.
I had been happy living with him once. Truly happy. But one day, without warning, he told me I was being sent to London to study. I remember refusing, my voice shaking as I begged him to let me stay. He didn't raise his voice-he never did-but he was firm. He said it was my mother's dream.
My mother.
She passed away when I was very young-too young to remember her face, her voice, or the warmth of her presence. My dad always told me she died of cancer and that he raised me alone after that. Sometimes, late at night, he would tell me stories about her-the way she laughed, the way she believed in big dreams, the way she wanted the best for me. Every time he spoke about her, his eyes softened, filled with a love so deep it almost hurt to witness. Even without memories of her, I could feel how profoundly she had shaped his life-and mine.
I was lost in these thoughts when a sudden knock on my bedroom door jolted me back to reality.
"Advika, daughter, please come to the dining room. Your breakfast is ready, and you're getting late for school," the maid called gently. "Open the door. Did you forget it's your last paper today?"
Her words settled into me slowly. My last paper. My last day.
I dragged myself out of bed and opened the door, my hair a mess and my eyes still heavy with sleep. "I'll be there in a few minutes, aunty," I said quietly.
The door closed again, and I stood there for a moment, breathing in the stillness of my room. Then I began my routine-one I'd mastered over the years. I put on my school uniform, button by button, each movement automatic. I packed my bag carefully, double-checking everything like I always did.
When I reached the dining room, the table was already set. Steam rose gently from the plate placed in front of me. Pasta. I smiled faintly-it was unexpected, a small kindness that warmed me more than the food itself. I sat down and ate quickly, my thoughts drifting between excitement and a quiet ache.
Today was my last day of school. The end of something familiar. The beginning of something unknown.
I couldn't help but wish-just for a moment-that I had close friends sitting beside me, laughing, sharing this milestone. Someone to say, We did it. But wishing had never changed my reality. Instead, I held onto the hope of what was ahead, even if I had to face it alone.
I picked up my bag, took one last glance around the dining room, and stepped out of the apartment. The door clicked shut behind me.
I squared my shoulders and walked forward. It was my last day, and I couldn't afford to be late-not today.
______
I stood outside my school gate, clutching my bag tightly as I waited for my driver, my eyes drifting from the road to the familiar building behind me, unaware that my life was about to fracture in seconds.
The late afternoon air felt heavy, almost suffocating, when a large black car rolled to a stop beside me-too close, too sudden. Before I could step back or even scream, rough hands grabbed me, their grip cold and merciless, dragging me toward the open door.
Panic exploded in my chest, my heart pounding so violently it hurt, but my voice died in my throat as I was shoved inside the dark interior that smelled of leather and danger. The door slammed shut, sealing me away from the world I knew. A sharp sting at my neck, a burning sensation spreading through my veins, and the faces above me blurred as terror gave way to helplessness.
My thoughts scattered, fear twisting into a silent scream, and then everything dissolved into darkness as unconsciousness pulled me under, leaving me alone with the echo of what had just been stolen from me.