The morning sun poured in like heat through a cracked window, warm but uninvited. Ananya stirred the sambar slowly, her muscles aching from last night’s dance. Her mind was elsewhere — stuck between beats, between dreams, between the heavy silence that always followed when the music stopped.
Her mother chopped onions next to her, silently watching.
“Your eyes are red,” Amma finally said. “Did you cry… or not sleep?”
Ananya shook her head. “Just tired.”
Tired — it was the truth, but not all of it.
She was tired from dancing.
Tired from hiding.
Tired from trying to sing when her own voice didn’t obey her.
Everyone thought singing came naturally to her just because she wrote songs. But it didn’t. Her voice cracked on high notes. Her breathing fell apart mid-chorus. And when she tried recording alone in the shed, she'd sometimes collapse onto the floor, clutching her burning throat, eyes stinging from frustration.
But she still did it.
Every. Single. Day.
Her phone’s voice recorder was full of unfinished takes — echoes of effort, not perfection.
When she sang for school programs, people liked the songs, but they never said, “Your voice is beautiful.” They said things like:
"Nice lyrics!"
"You work hard, no?"
"You’re brave to sing solo."
Brave.
As if singing with a broken voice was some kind of charity act — not survival.
---
A sudden slam broke her thoughts.
Her father entered, shirt askew, newspaper half-folded, annoyance already brewing.
“I got a call,” he barked. “Your name is on the school dance list again?”
Ananya stood still, clutching the ladle tighter.
“I didn’t sign it,” she lied. Her voice was steady, but inside, everything trembled.
He glared. “If I hear one more word about dance or music, I’ll break that phone of yours. Mark my words.”
The silence in the kitchen thickened. Amma sliced faster now, pretending not to hear.
---
Later that evening, when everyone had gone to bed, Ananya slipped into the shed again — her refuge, her prison.
She opened her lyric book and placed it on the table like a prayer.
Then, she stood in front of the mirror, breath shaky, throat sore from earlier practice. She hit play on the instrumental track — one she composed herself — and began to sing.
Her voice cracked on the second line.
She started again.
It cracked again.
She stopped, bit her lip, eyes burning.
And then…
She took a deep breath and began again — slower, steadier. The pain in her throat returned like fire, but she let it burn. Because if the fire was real, then so was the dream.
Her pitch was off. Her tone imperfect.
But every note screamed something only she could understand:
“I will not stop.”
---
That night, her voice didn’t sound like Seoul.
But it sounded like survival
But it sounded like survival.
It sounded like a girl who had nothing… but refused to give up everything.
And maybe — just maybe — that was the beginning of her real voice.
Not the voice others wanted to hear.
But the one she was born to find.
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