Caira felt something dark inside her, an urge to embrace it, to sink into it, never to return to the light again. The faintest glimmer of light was terrifying, while the darkness felt like the only place where she belonged.

Is it the night that's dark, or is it the darkness within her that's truly consuming? There's no clear answer.

Caira's feet wobble as she walks down the desolate road, alone, no longer afraid of the world or its monsters. She's seen enough to have lost all fear.

Her parents consider her a burden, wishing she would disappear. She's moved into an apartment where she barely sleeps—sleep, after all, is not her ally. Her demon is her only companion.

She looks up at the moon, still shining in the thick darkness, cursing it for existing at all. Why can't the world just remain completely dark?

Her inner voice whispers softly, urging her to end the pain once and for all. What's the point of living, anyway?

Since the moment she was born, as the first daughter in a conservative family, she was a source of shame. Her mother, her relatives, and even passing strangers reminded her that she was a mistake, that a girl should never come first, that her very existence had inconvenienced everyone around her.

It should have been a son.

The search for her dowry started before she could even walk, before she could even comprehend the weight of it all. Her father never held her in his arms. Her mother took care of only the bare necessities—feeding her, cleaning her, and leaving her alone in her room to cry without a soul to comfort her.

She learned early on that she would have to fend for herself. Asking for help was a mistake. When she did, her mother slapped her, and her father, indifferent as ever, ignored her.

Her clothes were hand-me-downs from her cousins, or cheap pieces from discount stores. Her brother, on the other hand, was spoiled with the best.

They pretended to support her education, as if that was their act of kindness, their one redeeming feature. But it was all a façade.

After her first menstruation, they began searching for a husband to get rid of her, calling her a "bad girl" who needed to be controlled. She was taught to be silent and submissive, her body and mind never belonging to her but to everyone around her.

No one spoke to her, and she grew to be selectively mute—not by choice, but because the weight of her soul had broken her.

She battled anxiety, depression, and extreme panic attacks. Her body reacted unpredictably, and she could never control it.

Her parents, however, had one solution for everything: marriage.

Now, she clutched an alcohol bottle in her hand, its contents barely dulling the fog in her brain. She heard the distant sounds of voices approaching. Her senses were too clouded to process much, but one voice stood out.

"Hey, you want more of this one?" A man grinned, approaching her.

She blinked, struggling to focus on his face, but the blackness clouding her vision made everything impossible to discern. She looked around, realizing she was alone in a secluded area.

Fear crept in, but she had no strength to fight it anymore. When she tried to walk, the man grabbed her wrist, his grip strong as she weakly resisted, her body too heavy with alcohol to put up much of a fight.

His hands roamed her body roughly. She struggled, but it only made him angrier. He slapped her hard, sending her stumbling, then punched her in the stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs.

She stopped fighting. The world had long taught her that her body, her mind, her soul—none of it was truly hers.

She gazed at the sky, watching lightning crash through the sky, its thunder rattling her to her core. The man climbed over her, pinning her to the ground. She didn't fight back. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint sound of prayer, and for a moment, the man froze. He ran off, and Caira, too exhausted to move, remained there on the wet ground, alone in the darkness.

The next morning, an elderly woman shook her awake, pity etched on her face as she looked down at Caira's beaten body.

"Please, open your eyes, daughter," the woman urged gently, "Call my son."

Caira didn't care who the woman was or who she was calling. She took another sip from the bottle that had survived the night. The woman, distressed, tried to shield Caira's modesty from the men nearby.

Modesty? It seemed laughable to Caira now.

When the woman asked questions, Caira shrugged, indifferent. She struggled to stand, but after a few steps, she collapsed, chuckling bitterly at her own failure. Fighting had never worked, so now she just stayed down.

Why should she do anything to please others? Why couldn't she live for herself?

She pushed away any hands trying to help, standing up unsteadily, brushing her disheveled hair behind her ears. Her curly brown hair was a source of ridicule, a constant reminder that she never fit in.

Her vision blurred again, and she stumbled. She couldn't find anything to steady herself, but what was the point? Nothing ever helped her. She wished the truck she saw racing toward her would hit her. Maybe then, her suffering would end.

But before it could happen, she felt a strong pull on her arm. A warm hand enveloped hers, and the world went black.

When she opened her eyes again, she was in a small house. She was dressed in plain white traditional clothes that clung to her body, exposing the curves she hated. Her stomach churned.

"Who asked you to drink until you couldn't handle it?" a thick voice scolded, making her body tense.

She turned her head to meet the gaze of a man in a white doctor's coat. His eyes were cold and piercing. The memory of the previous night—of what almost happened—flooded her mind, and instinctively, she tried to move away.

"Behave," he commanded.

She met his gaze without flinching.

She had always been called a snake, not by choice, but by the people around her.

"Who are you talking to like that?" a voice shouted from the doorway. Caira turned to see an elderly woman, the one who had found her, looking at the doctor with disapproval.

The woman's face softened as she turned to Caira, her smile warm and full of light. It hurt, that light—it was the same light that had always terrified her. She backed away from the woman, shaking her head, not wanting to be touched.

The woman frowned, her expression full of pity. "I won't hurt you."

Caira's eyes narrowed. She wasn't scared of being hurt. It was the light in the woman's eyes that terrified her.

The man, Rayyan, stepped in then. "Behave yourself. My mother saved your life. Show some respect."

Anger flared in Caira's chest. She wanted to lash out, but instead, she grabbed an old box nearby and threw it at him. It hit him squarely on the forehead.

Rayyan's eyes darkened with fury, but he didn't retaliate. His mother gasped, calling for him to stop, but he ignored her, grabbing Caira's arm and dragging her out of the room. She stumbled, falling to the ground. The room fell silent.

She clenched her fists. There was no guilt, only anger, and a deep sense of resignation. She could already hear the whispers, the judgments that never stopped.

"Get up," Rayyan demanded, pulling her roughly to her feet, his grip unrelenting.

She stared back at him with cold eyes, refusing to show weakness.

She heard people whispering as they looked her over. They pitied her, but to her, their pity was worse than their disdain. She could feel the burning heat of their gaze, the weight of their judgments pressing down on her.

"Why doesn't she speak?" one of them asked, confused.

"She must be a rich brat who doesn't talk to poor people," another sneered.

Rayyan's mother scolded them, her voice sharp. "Is this how you talk about another woman? What have I taught you?"

Tears welled in her eyes as she turned to Caira, who stood quietly, taking it all in. Rayyan's mother shook her head, her disappointment palpable.

"What's your name?" the elderly woman asked softly, as though her tenderness could heal Caira's wounds.

Caira didn't answer. There was no point in speaking. What did it matter?

Rayyan's mother, sensing her resistance, didn't press further. She turned to her son and instructed him to prepare. "We're leaving."

Caira didn't resist, not when they finally left the house. But as she stepped into the taxi, she was aware of the stares, the whispers following her every move. It felt like another form of imprisonment, but she didn't care.

The rest of her life, it seemed, would be nothing but drama.