Arya's P.O.V

The morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a dull glow on the breakfast table. I sit there, a silent participant in the mundane ritual of another day. The clinking of utensils and the murmur of Raj and his father's conversation echo in the background, distant and inconsequential.

A scrambled egg stares back at me, its yellow indifferent to my lack of appetite. Every morning, it's the same routine—the same food, the same table, the same conversation. A monotonous loop that mirrors the drone of my existence.

Raj's father, Mr. Mehra, engages in casual banter with his son. They discuss the upcoming class trip to the botanical garden. I'm expected to be excited, to participate in their enthusiasm, but my heart is as desolate as the untouched corners of my plate. Botanical garden, quiz results, it all fades into a haze of apathy.

"Yeah, Dad, we're going to the botanical garden..."

It could be the moon or the edge of the universe for all I care. Nothing seems to penetrate the numbness that has settled within me. As Raj and Mr. Mehra discuss the intricacies of the class project, I toy with the remains of my breakfast, indifferent to the details of their conversation. I care about this trip as much as I care about the quiz score I got yesterday. Eleven out of fifty—a pitiful score, yet I'm beyond surprised. The numbers blur into insignificance, much like the blur that has become my life. 

I glance at the clock, the ticking second hand mocking my silent rebellion against the unchanging days. I'm trapped in the monotonous rhythm of life, where every day blends into the next, a relentless cycle I can't escape. Another day to endure, a carbon copy of yesterday and the day before. The routine is a noose tightening around my neck, a constant reminder of the futility of it all.

I absentmindedly stab at my breakfast, the taste bland and unremarkable. The food is a mere formality, a necessity to keep up appearances that I'm doing a lot better now, and I don't need any extra empathy...or sympathy. 

If I were still with my parents, they'd be making a scene by now about my grades. But not Mr. Mehra. He's different, caring in a way that goes beyond the surface. He's noticed the cracks in my façade, the silent scream for help masked by indifference.

He suggested a therapist and offered a way out of the suffocating darkness that engulfs me. But I refuse. I can't burden them more than I already have. Living under their roof, eating their food—I can't keep being their charity case.

I don't need it. So many people navigate the storm of loss and live miles away from their parents. Not all of them need counseling. I can tough it out. The world is filled with people grappling with their own problems, and I'm just one among them. Therapy seems reserved for those who crumble under the weight of their emotions. I won't be that person. I can't be... 

As we say our goodbyes to Mr. Mehra, I follow Raj towards the car, the routine continues, and the day stretches ahead.

Raj has been talking about some sequel to the video game he loved since yesterday. His excitement spills over, his words carrying the infectious energy of someone deeply passionate. 

"It's insane, Arya! The graphics are next level. I mean, you can practically explore the entire world now. It's like living in a different world, and you get to control it!"

I nod along, trying to match his fervor, at least one of us is excited about something, the least I can do is pretend. "Really? That sounds amazing!" 

His eyes light up, grateful for the shared enthusiasm. "It's called 'Chronicles of Elysium.' Trust me, Arya, it's a game-changer. The reviews are off the charts. And the best part? The developers are promising regular updates and expansions."

I attempt to mirror his excitement, my voice rising to match his tempo. "No way! That sounds like exactly what I need right now. Are you going to let me play too, or do I have to tie you up in the basement?"

As we settle into the car, Raj chuckles and replies, "Whoa, whoa! Easy there, Arya. Tying me up might be a bit extreme. How about a fair duel for the controller instead? The winner gets the first play, deal?" 

As Raj proposes the gaming duel, I feign disappointment, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Alright, deal. But just so you know, your basement has excellent Wi-Fi if you ever change your mood."

The car starts its journey toward school, and Raj, undeterred by my threats, dives into tales about the prequel of this game, recounting stories with animated enthusiasm. In the past, this was our routine—the exchange of passions, the shared narratives about his video games and my dramas. Yet, as he talks, I find myself nodding along, pretending to be as involved as I used to be.

I want to be excited. I want to immerse myself in the familiar banter that once brought joy. But it's like trying to grasp onto fragments of a past that slip through my fingers. The effort is there, the desire to reconnect, but the spark of enthusiasm eludes me.

He describes characters and plots with the same fervor, but the magic feels distant. Why does it feel like I'm standing on the outside, peering into a world that used to be mine?

I try to push those thoughts away, to engage in the conversation with the same gusto. After all, this is how things have always been. We used to lose ourselves in these discussions for hours. The longing to recapture that connection is palpable, yet an invisible barrier keeps me at arm's length.

The car grinds to a halt, and we step out into the familiar chaos of the school atmosphere. Students chatter, laughter echoes, and the hustle and bustle envelops us. Raj, undeterred by the surroundings, launches into his usual rant about his prefect duty for the trip.

"So, Arya, get this—I have to make a list of every kid going on the trip and their botany grades. The teachers want one bright student, one average, and one with lower grades in each group. It's like I'm a matchmaker for academic diversity! Can't a guy just enjoy a field trip like others without being the responsible one all the time?"

I chuckle at his theatrical frustration. "Raj, the academic matchmaker! I like the sound of that. I bet the teachers are planning to give you a 'Matchmaker of the Year' award. Like, It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it."

He nudges me, and I laugh as we continue strolling towards the school gates. The morning sun casts a golden hue over everything.

But then, as we approach the gate, my eyes catch someone standing there, and my heart skips a beat. My footsteps falter as I spot her—my mother, standing near the school gate in a blue sari, a picture of tired grace. A messy bun secures her hair, and her eyes, carrying the weight of countless unspoken conversations, lock onto mine. 

My reaction is visceral. I clench my fists, a silent protest bubbling within me. I swore to myself that I wouldn't look, that I wouldn't acknowledge her presence. The anger, simmering just beneath the surface, flares up in my body language.

I turn away, avoiding her gaze, my jaw set in defiance. Raj follows the trajectory of my eyes and then looks at me with concern etched across his features. With every step, I pretend not to have seen her, not to have noticed her tired eyes searching for mine. What does she want?

As I walk past her, determined to keep moving forward, she calls my name—Arya. The familiar sound sends a shiver down my spine, but I resist the instinct to stop. Then, almost like a fragile whisper, she adds, "Please." The plea hangs in the air, tugging at something deep within me.

I halt, my fists loosening, but I don't turn.

"What do you want?" I whisper, my voice carrying the sharp edge of resentment. I look at Raj, who nods in understanding, and then I nod back. He walks ahead into the school, leaving us standing in the uneasy silence.

I take a deep breath, and as I turn to meet her eyes, the bitterness rises like a tide within me. "What's left there to talk about, Mrs. Purohit?" I spit out, my gaze fixed on her face. The mere sight of her threatens to boil my blood, and I feel an intense desire to burn down the entire world at that moment.

She takes a step closer, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm that stretches between us. "Arya, please. I'm your mother." 

I scoff, the bitterness escalating. "Are you? You have one more daughter. Oh wait—you murdered her, didn't you?"

Her mother takes a tentative step forward, her eyes betraying a deep sorrow. "Arya, please," she pleads, her voice quivering with an undercurrent of desperation. "I know I failed you, both of you, in ways I can never undo. Every day, the weight of that failure drags me down."

"I'm your mother, but I understand if you can't forgive me," her mother continues, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I just... I can't bear the thought of losing you too. Losing both my daughters." 

Her words penetrate, like a thorn digging into old wounds, but the pain is secondary. What hurts more is the image that haunts me every night when I close my eyes—the lifeless face of Meghna.

"You lost your daughter a long time ago, that night both your daughters died, Mrs. Purohit," I retort, the bitterness lacing every word. "And I'm not even sorry for your loss."

I take a step forward, closing the distance between us, and I look directly into her eyes. The irony isn't lost on me—her eyes are just like Meghna's. But there's no warmth, no sisterly connection, only the hollowness of loss.

"You and your husband were so enamored with your precious traditions, values, and societal norms. Now, revel in the cozy embrace of your society," I say, the words spill out like venom.

Her eyes, mirrors of a shared lineage, reflect a mix of sorrow and guilt. I hold her gaze, not allowing myself to waver.

"Your world crumbled that night, Mrs. Purohit, and you played a part in tearing it down. Now, it's time to live with the consequences," I add.

As my words hang in the air, I watch my mother's eyes fill with tears, the vulnerability in her gaze cutting through the armor of anger I've built. For a moment, the weight of her pain pierces through my resolve, and I see the echo of remorse in her eyes. She lowers her gaze, unable to meet mine, and then slowly turns away.

I stand there, frozen, as she starts walking outside, each step a painful echo of the fractures within our family. It hurts to see her retreat, to witness the crumbling of a connection that once felt unbreakable...to see my mother walking away...to see the family scattering. 

I finally allow myself to breathe. The shivery breath I didn't know I was holding escapes and the tears I've been holding back start to well up. The pain I tried to bury resurfaces, and a lump forms in my throat.

I storm away from the confrontation with my mother, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes boring into me. The judgment, the whispers—it's all too much. I quicken my pace, desperately trying to escape the scrutinizing gazes that follow me. The school corridor stretches endlessly, a suffocating tunnel of scrutiny and silent accusations.

The washroom door looms ahead like a refuge, and I practically throw myself inside. The click of the lock feels like a barrier between me and the world, a temporary shield against the suffocating reality outside.

Leaning against the cold metal door, I let out a shaky breath. Frustration, anger, pain—they swirl within me like a tempest, threatening to consume everything in their path.

I close my eyes, hoping to shut out the chaos around and within. The silence of the stall wraps around me, a stark contrast to the tumult of emotions raging in my chest. My fists clench as the tears I've held back start to fall. It's a desperate, silent cry, the kind that only solitude can witness.

I hate her. I hate my mother for what she represents, for the pain she's caused, for the shattered remnants of a family that can never be pieced back together. Yet, she's my mother.

The one who had always saved me from the world, shielded me from my dad's wrath, introduced me to the world of love and care... why couldn't she save her? Why didn't she even try? Moms are supposed to be superheroes, right? The protectors, the ones who mend broken hearts and chase away the monsters under the bed. So why did she keep standing behind the villain?

The frustration builds, an ache in my chest that threatens to burst open. I want to scream, to unleash the pent-up rage that simmers beneath the surface. I punch the wall, the metallic echo reverberating in the confined space. The tears stream down, and I can't tell if it's from the physical pain in my knuckles or the emotional turmoil within.

I slide down to the cold, tiled floor, my back against the stall door. Meghna's face flashes in my mind—the innocence, the laughter, the dreams we shared. And then, the haunting image of her lifeless body.