Just like every other day, Meera Arora sat alone in her room, wrapped in dim twilight. The room smelled faintly of paper and pencil shavings—unfinished dreams scattered across her desk. Sketches, notes, half-written thoughts… none of them ever truly complete.
She was in Class 11, Commerce, Section A.
But labels didn't matter here.
This room was her refuge.
My dream… my imagination… my art.
And yet—above all—
the art of pretending.
Outside, crickets sang softly into the night. Somewhere deep inside the house, her father's voice echoed—off-key singing tangled with muttered curses, soaked in alcohol.
Here it goes again…
"The world is wonderful… but there's nothing I can do…" his voice slurred before fading into silence.
Darkness swallowed everything.
And suddenly—
color.
Flowers bloomed in impossible shades, rain shimmered like music, and sunlight warmed her skin. Her fingers were intertwined with someone else's—someone unseen, unnamed.
Then reality snapped back.
Her room felt colder.
"How many days has it been… like this?" she whispered.
"Will this… continue?"
A creak answered.
Footsteps. Slow. Uneven.
A knock.
"Meera…"
It was Neeraj.
"I heard Dad… again."
Meera met his eyes.
No words were needed.