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I stormed back to my room after that soul-draining circus with the vicious familia—the twisted Singhanias. Their faces smile like sugar, their minds plot like serpents, their actions bite like scorpions, and their words? Poison wrapped in honey.
What do we call such people in Hindi? My fingers itched for my phone. Fine, let's google it, let's give them the crown they deserve. "The double standard people in Hindi," I typed.
The answer blinked back at me like the universe was spitting truth straight into my face. Dogle. Ji haan, doglyat at its peak. The name fits them like a custom-tailored suit stitched out of hypocrisy.
I smirked, shaking my head, my jaw tightening as I replayed their fake politeness. My eyes burned, but not with tears—no, with rage that tasted metallic on my tongue. These people thought I'd bow, thought I'd dance to their puppet strings. They forgot one thing—Ikshita Singhania doesn't bend, she breaks the damn stage.
The corridor leading to my room stretched ahead, drowning in darkness. Shadows smothered the walls, the alley suffocating without a flicker of light. But fear? That's not what crawled under my skin. Fear doesn't live here anymore. Only fire.
My hands moved instinctively to my pocket, feeling the cold press of my inhaler, the familiar shape of my specs. A reminder—I may carry weaknesses, but I wear them like armor, not chains. My chest rose, steady, as if daring the darkness to try me.
"Come on then," I whispered into the silence, my voice sharp enough to slice. "Let's see who breaks first."
I moved forward, the silence of the corridor pressing against me.
Yes, I had an inhaler. Not because I'm weak, but because life has its own way of testing limits. Sometimes, while running, or when smoke wraps itself around me, breathing feels like a privilege snatched away. Doctors call it a mild case of asthma—tiny, almost laughable. But emergencies don't care if your illness is "mild." They come when they come. That's why I keep it close. Quietly. No one needs to know.
The darkness? I've never been on friendly terms with it. It hides too much, swallows too much. So, I make sure my phone is always charged, my torch always working. Because the world doesn't pause to give second chances, and depending on someone else to light your way is the first step to being left behind.
And the specs... small, but significant. I never needed them before. But insomnia has its price—nights of staring at the ceiling until my eyes burned, stress carving shadows into my vision. Now they help me see clearly, both near and far. A reminder that clarity isn't given, it's earned, even if it comes with scars.
The nightmares were becoming regular guests—uninvited, unrelenting. That heavy weight on my chest never fully left, squeezing me until even the smallest health issues showed up like unasked relatives at a wedding.
