I am Maya Gupta.

I was born in a small village, raised in a middle-class family where love often tried to cover the cracks of our struggles. My father, Dhairya Gupta, worked as a private employee. In my early childhood, he was my hero — the man who played with us every evening after work, who took us out on weekends, who bought us little things even before we asked. Neighbors often said I looked just like his mother, my grandmother, and he believed it too. For him, I was not only his daughter but the reflection of his mother — his little girl who could do no wrong.

My mother, Vamika Gupta, a homemaker and part-time tailor, stitched not only our clothes but also the fabric of our lives. Her hands were always busy, her patience endless, though her quietness sometimes weighed heavier than words.

My elder sister, Shalini, was almost like a second mother to me. She was much older, and while she loved me, she never missed a chance to criticize — sometimes playfully, sometimes seriously. She forced me to study beyond my interest, pushed me into things I disliked, and always behaved as though she knew better. I often felt dominated, suffocated, though deep inside I knew she cared.

With my younger brother, Karthik, things were lighter. We were so close in age that we grew up like twins, companions in games, laughter, and secrets. He was my partner in mischief and my closest bond. Yet, even in happy moments, I sometimes felt strangely different, as if a piece of me didn’t belong.

But life never stays simple for long.

In school, I faced darkness I never expected. A teacher punished me harshly, unfairly, and as my grades slipped, the punishments worsened. I never told my family. I wasn’t used to standing up for myself; at home, someone was always there to speak for me. But my silence made the suffering worse.

At the same time, our home changed too. My father fell into the grip of alcohol. He returned late, faint and quarrelsome, sometimes fighting with neighbors and relatives. Financial struggles deepened — paying fees, transport, even daily needs became hard.

My bond with Karthik weakened. He tried to dominate me, and I couldn’t bear it. Shalini’s advice turned into constant demands. My mother, though loving, began siding more with them and cutting back my freedom because I was “a girl growing up.” I began to feel invisible, even in my own home.

The truth about school finally came out when Shalini discovered it. She and my father fought for me, confronting the teacher. The abuse ended, and my father, shaken, began trying to change his habits. Stability slowly returned.

But by then, something inside me had changed forever.

I became quiet, withdrawn. My father no longer valued my ambitions, focusing instead on Shalini — who by then had built her own path, married Aarav Arora, and become a mother to little Inaya, a bright one-year-old who became the center of the family’s joy. Karthik too was promising, balancing studies with part-time work. My mother’s love remained, but mostly in private. In the eyes of the family, I was a shadow.

I cried at the smallest things, avoided conversations, and drifted further into silence. My friends, once close, began choosing others over me. Even in my happiest spaces, loneliness followed me.

As the years passed, change swept through our family like a tide.

My sister Shalini moved ahead with her higher education, stepping closer to the dreams everyone admired. I, on the other hand, was shifted to a new school, a place where everything felt unfamiliar. My brother Karthik became busier, buried in tuitions and studies, while my father grew more consumed by work. Everyone seemed to have a direction, a purpose, a place they belonged.

And then there was me.

I tried hard to prove myself, to show I could shine like Shalini. I pushed into things that weren’t truly mine — subjects I had no love for, activities I didn’t enjoy — only to convince myself and others that I, too, could be someone. I picked up hobbies, tried to focus on academics, even forced myself into my sister’s path. But I wasn’t good at either. I was average, neither excelling in studies nor standing out in anything else.

My family, worried that I was “too sensitive,” restricted my outings. Little by little, my world shrank until it became just two places — home and school. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into years. I became, in a way, under house arrest. I told myself this was life, but deep inside, I felt something was slipping away.

My mother, Vamika, who had once been my quiet source of comfort, grew more anxious too. Her mind was always occupied with our futures, with what would happen to me, to Shalini, to Karthik. She worried endlessly, but her worry often came in the form of rules and restrictions.

And so, I drifted further into silence, into invisibility.

Time passed, and eventually, I completed my Master’s degree in computers. But the degree gave me little more than a piece of paper. Rejections piled higher than my hopes. Every application I sent out seemed to return with silence, or worse, a rejection. My inbox became a graveyard of failed chances.

Each day began to feel like survival, not living. I began to believe I was cursed with bad luck — a failure in a family where everyone else was moving forward. Shalini had her education and career, Karthik his promise and ambition, even my parents their pride in the children who were shining. And me? I was just… there.

And then, finally, it happened.

I secured a job.

To outsiders, it might have looked small, but to me, it was everything — my first real chance, my time to shine. For once, I felt the weight lifting, the hope rising. I told myself this was the beginning of a new chapter, that maybe my life was finally ready to change.

On the morning of my first day, I dressed carefully, my heart racing with nervous excitement. Will this job change my life? Will they finally see my worth? The questions circled endlessly in my mind as I hurried toward the office.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice the world around me.

And then, while crossing the road, it happened.

I collided with someone, stumbled, muttered a quick “sorry,” and looked up.

In that instant, my world froze.

The girl standing in front of me looked exactly like me. The same eyes, the same face, the same startled expression staring back. For a heartbeat, I thought I had stumbled into a mirror placed in the middle of the street.

A thousand questions rushed through my mind.. Who is she? Why does she look like me? What is happening?

But I didn’t ask. I couldn’t. As much as I wanted to stop her, to demand answers, there was something else pulling me harder — my job. My very first day. The one chance I had been waiting for, struggling for.

So I swallowed my confusion, turned my eyes away, and moved forward.

Yet the questions did not leave me. They followed me, clinging to every step, pounding louder with every heartbeat. Who was that girl? Why did she carry my face, my very existence, in hers?

I kept walking, but inside, I carried an uncontrollable storm of doubt, fear, and curiosity.

That was the day my life, which I thought was finally beginning, started to unravel instead.

My name is Amaya, and unlike most children, I never knew the comfort of my own parents. I was brought up by my uncle — my father’s brother.

Ever since I was little, I only knew fragments of my past, pieces of a story whispered by my family. They told me my parents’ marriage was never accepted. My mother, a Hindu, had married my father, a Muslim, and the families split apart in anger.

There were endless arguments, and one day, during a bitter fight, my mother was badly injured. My father, desperate to save her, left me in my uncle’s care. He promised he would take her abroad for treatment and return to take me back when all was well.

But he never returned. No letters, no phone calls, no trace of him. In time, we lost all contact. And when my uncle’s family lost property and were forced to move away, the link to my parents vanished completely.

So I grew up without them. Still, I was the apple of my family’s eye. My grandparents, my two uncles and their wives, my aunt and her husband, and all my cousins — a big, noisy, loving family — they gave me everything.

I was the eldest child among them, pampered and protected, cared for and loved more than I could have asked. My uncle, though a Muslim, insisted that I also follow my father’s Hindu traditions. And so, in our home, we celebrated both. Festivals were brighter, richer — a mixture of two worlds.

I lived a good life. I had friends, respect, love, and the gift of education. I studied hard, graduated in medicine, and began practicing as a doctor while preparing for my MS. On the outside, I seemed to have everything.

But inside, there was always a hollow place — the absence of a mother’s hand, the strength of a father’s embrace. Whenever I watched my cousins with their parents, or saw friends laugh with theirs, I felt the sting of emptiness.

I often wondered: Where are my parents? Do they even think of me? Why did fate keep me apart from them?

That question followed me everywhere. Even on the day that changed everything.

I was on my way to the hospital after receiving an emergency call. My phone buzzed nonstop as I hurried down the street, weaving through traffic, my mind on the patient waiting for me.

Then, in a flash, I saw something that stopped my heart: a family walking together — parents holding the hands of their little child.

For a brief moment, I imagined myself in that child’s place. I imagined what it would feel like to walk between my father and mother, safe and whole. But the picture dissolved, leaving only disappointment behind.

And then it happened.

I bumped into someone. Flustered, I quickly said, “Sorry,” and looked up.

My breath caught. The girl before me… she looked exactly like me. Same eyes, same face, the same stunned expression.

My mind raced. Was this some cruel trick? A mirror set in the middle of the road? Who was she? How could she exist?

But before I could say anything, my phone rang again — an urgent call from the hospital. I had no time to stop, no time to ask the questions screaming in my head.

I walked away, my thoughts in chaos, my heart pounding, leaving behind a girl who could have been… me.

That was the day the truth I had been searching for all my life began to unravel.