False Faces at School

There was a time when school felt like a break from home. A pocket of sunlight, even on cloudy days.

Not anymore.

“Aanya Sharma?”

The way people were saying her name lately—half-whispered, eyes scanning her face like it was a puzzle they didn’t want to solve—sent a different kind of chill down her spine.

In the locker hallway, someone snickered behind her.

“She doesn’t even eat lunch. Too busy showing off, maybe?”

“Did you hear what she did at that tuition place?”

“My cousin’s in her colony. Apparently—her stepmom’s always scolding her. Must be something wrong, na?”

The words were never said to her. Just near enough to stick like gum on her shoes.

Aanya kept walking, her shoulders tighter than her braid. She didn’t cry anymore. Not at school. That privilege had expired.

At the art room, she quietly slipped her sketchbook into her lap and drew while the others chatted. She didn’t look up until a voice cut through the murmur.

“Aanya?”

Nisha.

She was the only one who still used her name like it mattered.

Aanya looked up.

“Hey,” she managed, forcing a tired smile.

Nisha sat beside her, brows furrowed. “Are you okay? I mean, really, okay? You’ve been… I don’t know. Weird quiet. Even for you.”

Aanya shrugged. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“That rumour about tuition—who’s spreading it?”

Aanya’s pencil paused mid-shade.

“I don’t know,” she lied, softly.

She did know. She had a sickening hunch.

Someone at home was talking. Twisting. Feeding poison.

Nisha leaned in. “People can be cruel. But you’re not whatever they’re saying. You know that, right?”

Aanya gave a half-nod, eyes flicking back to her sketch—an ink drawing of a tree, with one branch broken and bent toward the ground.

She flipped the page, her fingers trembling, revealing a different drawing beneath: a simple bookmark design—floral pattern with a quote wrapped around it.

“Grow quiet, grow strong.”

It was one of five she had drawn the night before.

She was thinking of selling them. Quietly. Discreetly. Maybe to juniors who liked cute things. Maybe to the art teacher for her handmade wall board.

Not for profit.

Just for lunch.

Nisha glanced down and pointed. “You drew this? It’s gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” Aanya murmured.

She didn’t say what she really wanted to: Would you buy one?

Because asking for help was something she used to do. Back when she had a mother to say yes.

Now, even asking came with weight.