"You’re ugly."
"You’re fat."
"Oh my god, look at her—trying to lighten her skin tone... ew."
"A boyfriend? Sis, have you even seen yourself in a mirror?"
"Cover up more or everyone’s gonna stare at those... they stick out like—"
"Her tits, bro. That’s the only decent thing about her."

I stood there, knife in hand, every cruel word crashing over me like waves—words spoken by people who once surrounded me. Their voices echoed in my head, louder than ever. None of this was helping. Not in the way I needed it to.

I was supposed to be a lawyer. I had dreams—real ones. I wanted to stand in courtrooms, speak truth, make change. I was meant to be more than this. But none of that mattered in the world I lived in. Society didn’t care about my ambition or my heart. They only cared about my body. About how I looked. About whether I fit into their definition of "pretty" or "acceptable."

I was nineteen when I had a crush on a classmate. Just a simple, harmless crush.
He laughed.
Everyone else joined in.
Like I was delusional for even thinking I was worth being liked.

My body became a spectacle. A joke.

My chest—something I never asked to be a focus—became the town’s favorite topic.
Men jerked off to it in silence.
Women shamed me for it in whispers.
And somewhere in between, I disappeared.

I’m not a person to them.
I’m an object. A punchline.
Too sexual to be respected, too different to be accepted.

What’s the point of a life like this?
Where pain is louder than hope, and your worth is measured by how invisible you can make yourself?

This... feels like the end.

I dragged the blade across my palm. Blood surfaced slowly, warm and thick, slipping down my fingers and pooling on the floor around me. I sat down beside it, watching it spread, deep red against the quiet.

"You shouldn’t have," I whispered. I didn’t know who I was talking to—maybe my creator, if they were still listening. If they ever had. Maybe they’d understand, even if no one else could.

"It had to happen," a soft voice answered, feminine and distant, like it traveled on the air itself. I thought I was imagining it. Maybe I was.

"Why should I die?" I asked, not angry—just tired.

"Who said you were?" the voice replied, wrapping gently around me like a breeze.

"You had to break the cycle. That’s how new things begin," she continued. "Everything led here for a reason. You were made for more than this. And love… it’s coming."

It sounded too beautiful to be real. Maybe my mind was just trying to comfort me as it all slipped away. But then—the room shifted. The light dimmed. My vision blurred at the edges.

I think this is it.

______________________________________________________________________________________

"Madhu, wake up."

I felt someone jump on my bed, the weight pressing down on me, pulling me back into reality. I must be dead, right?

"It’s time. Wake up." The voice, my younger brother, was urgent yet comforting.

"Madhu, wake up!" he repeated, his words like a lifeline. I slowly opened my eyes, blinking in confusion. My room was just as it had always been—neat, calm, familiar.

But… I should be dead. I killed myself. Didn’t I?

"I might have done everything wrong in your life," the same soft feminine voice whispered in my mind, "but I’m giving you a chance to rewrite it. Use it wisely, love."

I looked around the room, searching for the source of the voice. But there was nothing. Just silence.

"What date is it?" I asked my brother, my voice shaky. He looked at me, puzzled.

"1st of July," he replied, his brow furrowed in confusion.

My eyebrows furrowed in return. July? I was certain I killed myself on the 1st of December. Could I have time-traveled?

A strange laugh escaped me, too loud, too sharp. My brother flinched and ran downstairs, calling for our mother.

My mother rushed into the room, her eyes scanning me with worry as she quickly checked my temperature. "I told you not to stress, Madhu. University isn’t that bad," she said, her voice full of concern. If only she knew. I thought to myself.

"I got you a new kurti," she continued, her hands already moving to hand it to me. "Wear this. Cover up more, or everyone’s gonna stare at those… they stick out like—"

I felt a rush of anger well up inside me. I remembered all too clearly what had happened the last time I wore the bloody pink kurti she’d bought me—everyone thought I was a teacher and wished me well. It made me feel invisible in all the wrong ways.

"Ma?" I said, the word feeling unfamiliar but powerful in my mouth. For the first time in my life, I found the courage to speak, and it felt like I’d unlocked some kind of superpower.

"These are normal. I want to wear something comfortable," I said, surprising even myself. She stood there, stunned, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Was this the beginning of my new chapter? Could I really rewrite my life—change the way I’ve been living all this time?