A Heart Screaming in Silence

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Holi had passed, but the colors didn’t linger—only the weight of the day settled in my chest. By 2:30 PM, I had fallen asleep, unaware of how the rest of the evening would unfold. When I woke up, there was a call from Shivraj, my classmate till 10th, the one I had tied rakhi to for four years. I thought I’d go to the chhat, listen to songs, talk to him for a moment. Just a moment. But my parents had other plans. The phone was snatched from my hands, and the door was shut in my face.

So, I went to chhat anyway. Earphones in hand, but no music playing. Aastha was there. She wanted to dress up in traditional clothes, take pictures. I refused. We walked instead. Frustration bubbled inside me—I had needed silence, but she was always there, phone in hand, lost in someone else’s words while I stood beside her, invisible. I just wanted my own phone, not to talk to anyone, not to escape—but so that when no one spoke to me, I could still have something, something to hold onto.

But even chhat was no longer mine. She had started coming here instead of her own. If she had stayed on her own chhat, at least I would still have this one thing, this one place to be alone. To talk to myself. To cry if I needed to. Is it wrong to want either complete solitude or complete presence? To not always exist in between?

After the walk, we decided to get ready. I borrowed a dress from her—I didn’t want to go home. I applied makeup at her house, but it didn’t suit me, so I sneaked back, grabbed my own, and returned. Pragya joined us. She wanted to take pictures too, so we all went back to my house. I had no choice but to let her in. I asked my brother for the phone—not to chat, just for the pictures. He handed it to me, but only because I wouldn’t be talking to anyone.

I wasn’t dying to talk to Shivraj. I just wanted to finish the conversation, to say goodbye on my own terms. But maybe that was too much to ask. Maybe I should have just hidden everything from them, instead of trying—just once—to let them trust me.

For a brief moment, I was happy. Dad wasn’t home, we took pictures, things felt okay. But then, my mother walked in. And like always, she had something to say. Something to pick apart. Something to control.

I argued. Took off my bangles. Hid Shivraj’s chat. Left the phone and went back to chhat.

We tried to take pictures there, but the darkness swallowed everything. Our excitement, our plans—it was all wasted. We changed back. Talked a little. Then they left.

I went to Akshat, asked him what time he woke up in the mornings. The only response I got was a harsh tone, rude words, a version of him I didn’t recognize. At that moment, I was craving for a brother—for someone to just be there. I went to Dad instead, asked if he could wake me up at 6 AM. All he said was, If someone wants to wake up, they can do it on their own.

I went back to my room. I tried to sleep. But I was hungry.

So, I went to the kitchen. Fried some rice. Made a sachet of Maggi. It was my first time frying rice on my own, and it was nearly perfect—just a little too much oil. But the realization hit harder than the hunger itself: If I don’t do this for myself, no one will. And that truth—more than anything else—was painful.

I took the plate back to my room. With no internet, I read the downloaded novels while I ate. But the novel was too long, and the food was too little. In the end, I told myself, It’ll be okay. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and study.

But I woke up at 4 AM instead, struggling to breathe. My nasal congestion was worse. I reached for my inhaler. Went looking for my mother’s phone, but I couldn’t find it. They had hidden it—intentionally, I knew. So I took my father’s instead.

I turned on the hotspot, filled the registration for my exam. I made it to the last step before exhaustion pulled me under. It was 6 AM.

I woke up late—9 AM. I freshened up, decided to head to the library. My test was from 9 to 12:30, but since it was open anytime, I still had time. I finally found the phone.

I asked Mom what I could have for breakfast. She responded—barely. And yet, I was surprised. I had expected silence.

Then, I touched the phone. Tried to check my schedule. And saw that someone had changed the lock. Removed the fingerprint access.

And that was it.

My hunger disappeared. My body screamed for release, for an outlet. I wanted to scream—so loud that they could all feel it.

I called Dad, asked for the PIN. He refused. No need to take a phone to the library.

I tried to reset it. Nothing worked.

So I went to Akshat, asked for the PC. Just two minutes. I wanted to check if I could reset the phone from there. But I found nothing.

A few moments later, Akshat was angry—I had snatched something from him. I hadn’t meant to. But I had done it.

And I realized—I wasn’t just fighting for a phone. I was fighting to hold onto something—some control, some agency, something that was mine.

Still, I tried to focus on my test. Opened it. Answered one question. Ended it in three minutes. A test of 3 hours and 30 minutes. Finished in three minutes.

Not because I didn’t care. But because I had nothing left to give.

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This is the 18th year of my life. The year that will decide my college. The year that will shape my future.

And yet, I keep asking myself—how will I bear this separation? How will I live without them?

But then, the next moment, all I want is to get as far away as possible. To run. To breathe.

I try to tell myself that I love them. That I should love them. But the love they give me is suffocating. It’s control. It’s isolation.

I wonder if they have ever thought the same about love and care.

Right now, I am hungry. My heart feels unbearably heavy. But the last two years have made me so numb that, despite all of this—not a single tear has fallen.

Just a heart, screaming in silence.

No words. No sobs. Just silence.

I will either make it to college this year—or to heaven.

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