When you smile

Chapter 4

Arya P.O.V.

The weight of the world seems to have turned into a personal trainer today, squatting on my shoulders like it's preparing me for the "Burdens of Life" championship. It's like a relentless reminder that beauty is the unsung hero of this place, forever waiting for its acceptance speech. And here I am, a walking masterpiece, buried under an avalanche of assignments. Seriously, did they have a meeting and decide, "Let's give the beautiful girl all the homework"? As if that wasn't enough, I've become a one-woman show: collecting books, completing projects, and submitting them solo. It's 5 pm, and I drag myself home like I've just survived a boot camp for the exceptionally gorgeous.

I open the door with all the enthusiasm of a sleepy sloth, attempting to announce my grand entrance to my mom, but my words bail on me mid-sentence, like "nope, not today."

"Who's throwing a pity party?" A familiar snicker slices through the air.

Not again. Will she ever take a vacation from tormenting me? I swing my gaze towards the source, and there's my older sister, Meghna, treating the couch like a throne while wearing a grin that says she's the reigning queen of comedy. Her teeth are so bright, I'd use them as a flashlight in a power outage. Her long black hair looks like it's auditioning for a shampoo commercial, swaying like it's in a music video. Oh, and her brown eyes? They're twinkle lights of mischief. Meghna, the college guru who treats attending classes like a distant relative's wedding—occasionally. She's been on a mission to turn our couch into a pancake. What could be so hilarious? My hands are practically begging for a massage, and her laughter's like a bonus round in a stress Olympics.

"Oh, I knew you'd bring your stand-up routine. Bless your heart," I grumble, giving my hair a frustrated ruffle.

She giggles with the audacity of a squirrel raiding a bird feeder.

"What's cracking you up?" I ask, aiming for nonchalance but probably sounding like an annoyed parrot.

"Your face. It needs a makeover," she laughs, her mocking tone making her sound like the head designer of "Insults R Us."

Yeah, sure thing. I decide to RSVP to her comment with my best "ignore" response.

"How was your day?" My mom spreads her arms for a warm hug, like she's running a free emotional spa.

"Exhausting, as usual," I pout, diving into her embrace like I'm seeking refuge from the chaos of my life.

"Complaints, as constant as gravity, Miss Rotadu," Meghna glances at me, her brown eyes throwing a party of amusement, and starts laughing again. Why does she find joy in poking the sleeping bear? I'm too tired to join the circus, but she's like the ringmaster with an unlimited supply of popcorn. Why is she calling me "Miss Rotadu" anyway? I'm not some kind of sobbing superhero; I'm just someone who happens to have her moments of elegance. How about "Miss Elegance" instead?

"Excuse me, Miss Rotadu? I believe you meant to address me as Miss Universe," I retort, letting my voice take on a hint of mock-seriousness.

"Oh, the universe of delusion you're living in! Even a ghost at a stand-up comedy night would get more attention than you. You're like a makeup store exploded in a Disney movie!" She sticks her tongue out, savoring her attempt at making me laugh-snort.

Hold on a second, what's with all these nicknames? And seriously, who comes up with this stuff?

"Yeah, keep the material coming. Your eyes need to attend an improv class," I shoot back, refusing to let her comic critique of my appearance deflate my inflatable ego. After all, I know I'm a masterpiece. I don't need her thumbs-up or thumbs-down ratings.