The first time I disappeared no one noticed.

It wasn't dramatic. No slamming doors.no runaway notes. I simply faded — inch by inch —into the quiet.

Everyone say I was born “with potential” teachers love my handwriting my aunts boasted about my grades ,my mother whispered my achievement into phone calls as if they were confessions. And I— Anshi—smiled the way a good girl should felt proud at the feeling of making my parents happy even in small things .

But somewhere between standardized tests and relatives asking “what I had become” I stop becoming anything at all.

No one noticed when I stopped speaking that day . Maybe that's a curse of being an introvert —your silence rarely surprises anyone. People just assume you are fine because you've been quiet all along.

I wasn't sad .Not in the way people expect sadness to look. I got out of bed and brushed my teeth. I said ‘thank you” and “yes mama” like a good daughter.

But inside I was….. muffled. Like someone had wrapped my soul in a cotton and whispered, “stay quiet until you become Who We want”.

That night, a clock ticked in the corner of my room . Rain wept quietly against the windowpane .My old ceiling fan spun above like it was too tired to protest the weight of the air .I sat cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom , surrounded by text books I hadn't opened. The wall —once filled with posters ,painting and drawing —were bare now . My desk ,cluttered with unfinished assignment.My reflection,in the dark walls , a shadow ,looked like a stranger mocking me .

And Then i saw a familiar thing.

The only thing that moved in the stillness.

A Diary.

An old diary that sat on my cupboard for years now ,aging like an unspoken letter.

Worn ,with a faded cover and a red ribbon bookmark I never used.

My grandfather gave me this diary when I was twelve . “ One day” he said ,” this will hold your voice when the world forgets to hear you . It will become your best friend in this cruel world .”

I didn't get it then .

But I do now .

I pulled it down gently , dusting dust from the cover. It wasn't fancy —but a vintage one , the kind that peeled off if you scratch too hard. It felt heavier than I remembered , like it had waited patiently all these years just for that night .

I pulled it onto my lap . My hand hovered . The first page stared at me like a challenge .

I thought of everything I couldn't say aloud the weight of someone else's idea of perfection. The exhaustion of expectations that never asked what I wanted .The dear that maybe there was nothing inside me worth becoming.

Then I wrote .

My hands trembled as I picked up the pen.The ink flowed like a breath I didn't know I'd been holding .

“This is not a story .This is a rebellion in ink.”

The words didn't come in full sentences, they came like so bs,fragments, truths I didn't know I remembered .

I wrote about the time I cried in the bathroom after topping the class— because I hated the way everyone clapped like I've won some medal for something I never asked to compete in .

I was 18, studying literature at a small college in Delhi. A library girl. The kind people overloaded parties and forgot in group chat. I didn't mind, not really. I like my solitude. It was peaceful, like a room where everything made sense .

But lately ,that peace turned brittle. My world felt like it was shrinking.

Classes blurred .Friends moved in and out like passing weather.

That night, writing in my room, I imagined a girl named Lira .

She lived ina world like mine —rules, pressure,quiet wars —but lira could slip into dreams .Not sleep . Dreams.Real , breathing, electric spaces .Each time she closed her eyes ,she entered a universe stitched together by the part of herself no one knew about.

A place where expectations turned into shadows she could chase down and whisper secrets too.

Lira wasn't brave; she didn't fight dragons or leap the cliffs. she just …listened and slowly the world began to speak back.

For the first time ,so did mine .

She didn’t have friends, not at first. But slowly, her world grew. Not with grand entrances or sudden miracles. But with small kindnesses. A shopkeeper who remembered her name. A librarian who saved the last copy of her favorite book. A girl at the bus stop who shared an umbrella during the monsoon.

One night, while writing I suddenly paused.

I looked at what I had written .

And I cried .

Not because it was sad or hurtful.

But because for the first time in a Long time ,I've felt seen .

Not by others.

By myself .

So I kept writing.

The more I wrote ,the more fantasy bloomed .

Lira begins to meet people in her dream world—pieces of herself. A version that screamed. A version that danced.A version that she desired .

A version that is deeply buried under”should” and “musts”.

And me ?

I began to remember the girl I was before applause became pressure, achievement became expectations and silence became survival.

The next morning;

My mother knocked on the door the next morning. “You are late” ,she said ,”your maths class starts at 10”.

I nodded.”I know.”

She looked at the mess of papers on the floor ,the tired eyes ,wet ink on my fingers “what is all this?”

“Just writing some thoughts,” I whispered.

She frowned. “Writing won't get you anywhere. It's not your future.”

I wanted to scream .But Instead,I smiled. Quiet girls know how to survive .

Until we don't want to anymore.

That week ,I skipped class once .just once

I sat in a cafe with my dairy ,my headphones in , played lofi songs , and rewrote Lira's story .

She was learning to say ,”no”.To write poems in the margins of tests.To walk past mirrors without flinching.her world was changing,and mine was , too .


I showed it to no one .

Except for one person.

Mrs.sharma ,My old English professor.The only adult who ever told me my words mattered .

She read my story , silently flipping slowly . Then She closed the diary and said,”This is real ,This is yours, your power .”

I blinked my tears back .

“ Send it ,” she said . “Somewhere .Anywhere .Let the world see you.”



A month later ,an email came .

Subject line : “Accepted for publication.”

My breath stopped .

They didn't want a published novel or poetry .They wanted a raw work . The trembling voice of someone finding herself .
They called it ,” an act of finding yourself.”

I didn't tell my parents at first .I waited until it was printed .until the cover bore my name .until i could hold proof in my hands .

When I showed them ,they were silent .

My father asked, “will it help your resume?”

I laughed ,softly . “ No . But it helped me .”

My mother didn't understand. But she hugged me anyway.

Sometimes, love shows up in the pause before judgment.



Now the notebook has new pages.

Lira lives on ,So do I .

So my passion of writing poetry and novels.

And when I visit schools to talk and motivate about writing,I begin with this :

“I was the quiet girl. The background one .The achiever who forgot to dream .Until one night ,I picked up a pen ,and gave myself permission to exist .”




The End .

“It's the end of this story only because the real story began from here .”