Ties That Hold Act III – Shattered Illusions

Mahi’s house smelled of roasted peanuts and rain.

Aanya hadn’t drawn that day. Her pencil felt heavy, like her hands didn’t know how to hold anything except the ache sitting in her chest.

She sat at the low wooden table, running her finger along the edge of a plate of mango slices, uneaten.

Her mahi leaned on the doorframe, eyes kind but quiet, as if she knew the words were coming, just not when.

And then, softly:

“It’s not just at home.

She’s been saying things. At school. Online, maybe.

People look at me like I’m a liar. Like I’ve done something dirty.”

Mahi sat across from her, gently placed her hand over hers.

“Who’s been saying things?”

Aanya looked down. “Rhea.”

“I… think she’s behind the rumours. That I’m sneaky. That I lie. I hang out with boys after school. Sell things to strangers. She says it quietly, sweetly, so no one sees the venom. But it’s her.”

Mahi was silent for a moment. Then she sighed. “And Rajeev?”

Aanya’s voice cracked. “He believes it. Or… he doesn’t want to believe me. It’s like… every time she whispers something, I lose a little more of him.”

A tear fell into her mango slice.

“I didn’t just lose my mom,” she whispered. “I’m losing my dad, too.”

Later that day, she texted Nisha.

“Can we meet? Just for a little while.”

Nisha replied within seconds.

They met outside a small stationery shop near the school.

Nisha pulled her into a hug before Aanya could say anything. “You, okay?”

“No,” Aanya said, voice muffled. “But I’m trying to be.”

They sat on a bench under the Gulmohar tree. Aanya showed her a printout—screenshots she’d quietly taken of a few anonymous posts in the school group chat. The kind that was vague enough to avoid punishment, but sharp enough to sting:

“Some people sell things behind their parents’ backs. Shame.”

“Caught a girl making bookmarks for cash. Desperate much?”

“Someone should tell her dad the kind of daughter he has.”

“I think Rhea’s using fake accounts… or feeding others lines to post,” Aanya said, her hands shaking a little. “She’s turning everyone against me without ever saying my name.”

Nisha was quiet for a moment, then nodded.

“We’ll fix this. You’re not alone, Aanya. Not anymore.”

Later, her art teacher, Mrs. Mrinalini Borphukon, found her by the storage room—eyes puffy, sketchbook untouched.

“I missed your brushstrokes,” the teacher said gently. “The ones that look like they’re trying to breathe.”

Aanya blinked at her.

“I’ve seen the changes,” the teacher continued. “You got quieter. Heavier. I didn’t know how to ask, but I’m here now.”

Something inside Aanya cracked open at that—just a little.

“I need help,” she said.

The teacher just smiled. “Then you’ll have it.”

That night, Aanya sat at her mahi’s desk.

The screenshots. The bookmarks. The journal page she’d found. The voice recording was still tucked into her old phone.

One last piece left: her mother’s photo.

She placed it gently in front of her.

“I’m going back,” she whispered.

“Not to stay quiet this time.”