Reassigned by Fate

For a moment, Vikram just stared at her.

Then, he let out a short, nervous laugh. "Adhira?"

She nodded, her fingers gripping the edge of her dupatta.

The others had noticed now. One by one, their eyes turned to her. Some confused, some shocked, some… unreadable.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Another voice broke the silence—Rahul, always the loudest in their group.

Adhira’s chest tightened. "No. It’s not a joke."

Rahul scoffed. "Come on, Aditya, we haven’t seen you in months and now you—"

"It’s Adhira," she corrected, forcing her voice to stay steady.

Rahul’s expression darkened. "So it’s true then?"

She didn’t answer.

"Man," one of the others muttered. "This is… weird."

Vikram shot him a look. "Shut up, Rajesh."

Adhira glanced at Vikram. His face was unreadable, but his hands were clenched into fists. He was angry—whether at her or for her, she couldn’t tell.

"So what, you’re a girl now?" Rahul pressed.

Her nails dug into her palms. "I didn’t have a choice."

"Didn’t have a choice? Seriously?" Rahul scoffed. "You were one of us, man. Now look at you—"

"Enough."

Vikram’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension.

Rahul stepped back, muttering under his breath.

Vikram exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Listen, Adh—" He stopped himself, hesitated, then continued, "I don’t know what to say. I really don’t."

Adhira swallowed. "You don’t have to say anything."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "Do you still play cricket?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Cricket. You still play?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "No."

Vikram let out a short breath. "That’s a shame. We still have our weekend matches."

A small, sad smile tugged at her lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Some things don’t change."

She looked at him, searching for something—judgment, disappointment, pity.

But there was none.

Only the same old Vikram, standing in front of her, unsure of how to react but trying anyway.

And somehow, that was enough.

For now.

But not all friendships survived change.

As she turned to leave, Rahul muttered, "Not in our team, though."

The words stung.

She clenched her fists. She wanted to argue, to fight, to remind them that she had once been their best batsman.

But what was the point?

Without another word, she walked away.

That night, she sat on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

She had known this would happen. That some people would accept, and some never would.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Vikram.

"Cricket or not, you’re still my friend. Just thought you should know."

She stared at the screen, her vision blurring slightly.

Then, for the first time in a long time, she smiled.

The house felt emptier than ever.

Her mother moved around the kitchen, pretending everything was normal. But the silence at the dining table spoke louder than words.

Her father’s chair remained untouched.

The tea he used to sip every morning sat undisturbed on the counter.

Adhira watched her mother place the food on the table with quiet efficiency. It was routine, muscle memory. But there was something missing—something even her mother’s forced smiles couldn’t hide.

"Is he coming home tonight?" Adhira finally asked.

Her mother flinched, just for a second. "He’s… busy."

Busy.

That was the word they had been using for weeks.

Busy at work.
Busy with meetings.
Busy avoiding her.

She pushed her plate away. "I’m not hungry."

Her mother sighed. "Beta, please—"

"Just stop, Amma," Adhira snapped. "Stop pretending."

Her mother looked away, her fingers tightening around her sari.

Adhira exhaled sharply. She didn’t mean to hurt her. But how much longer was she supposed to wait?

How much longer was she supposed to be nothing to him?

That night, she made a decision.

She was done waiting.

She needed answers.

She needed to see him.

The next morning, she took an auto to his office.

The building was the same—tall, glass-fronted, corporate.

The receptionist blinked in surprise when she walked in. She had known Aditya. But Adhira?

"Sir is in a meeting," the woman said hesitantly.

Adhira’s jaw clenched. "I’ll wait."

She sat in the reception area, ignoring the curious glances from employees passing by.

Minutes stretched into an hour.

Then, finally, the door to the conference room opened.

Her father stepped out, talking to a colleague.

For a moment, he didn’t see her.

Then his eyes landed on her—and his entire body stiffened.

Adhira stood.

The colleague looked between them, sensing the tension, and quickly excused himself.

Silence.

Her father’s face was unreadable.

Adhira swallowed. "Papa."

He didn’t respond.

She took a step forward. "You didn’t come home last night."

Still, silence.

Her heart pounded. "Are you ever going to talk to me?"

His lips parted as if to say something—but then he looked away.

That hurt more than words ever could.

He turned to the receptionist. "Cancel my meetings for the rest of the day."

Then, without another glance at her, he walked past.

Adhira stood frozen, her nails digging into her palms.

He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t said anything cruel.

But he hadn’t said anything at all.

She had prepared for anger, disappointment, even disgust.

But not this.

Not this complete, crushing absence.

She turned and walked out.

For the first time since the accident, she truly felt like an orphan.

That night, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been crying.

She had always thought a father’s love was unbreakable.

That no matter how much things changed, he would still see her—not just the body, not just the differences.

But maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe love was conditional after all.

The house was quiet when Adhira returned.

She had expected her mother to ask where she had gone. To ask why her eyes were red. To press her into talking.

But Amma only looked at her once, then went back to folding clothes in the living room.

Adhira stood in the doorway, unsure what to say.

For the past few weeks, she had been drowning in silence—her father’s silence, her own silence, the world’s silence.

She was tired of it.

She walked into the room and sat down beside her mother.

"I went to see him," she said.

Her mother’s hands stilled.

Adhira swallowed. "He wouldn’t even look at me."

Her mother sighed, smoothing out a dupatta on her lap. "I know."

"You knew?" Adhira’s voice was sharp. "You knew he wouldn’t—" She stopped, shaking her head. "Then why didn’t you say anything?"

Her mother met her gaze, and for the first time, Adhira saw something in her eyes she hadn’t noticed before.

Pain.

Not just sadness—but deep, quiet, unspoken pain.

"Because it’s not my place to stop you," Amma said. "This is something you had to see for yourself."

Adhira exhaled shakily. "I thought—" Her voice cracked. "I thought maybe he just needed time."

Her mother reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Maybe he does."

Adhira scoffed. "Or maybe he never will."

Her mother didn’t deny it.

And somehow, that hurt more.

That night, Adhira couldn’t sleep.

She kept thinking about her father, about the way he had turned away. About how much easier it would have been if he had just yelled.

At least anger meant something.

At least anger wasn’t emptiness.

She turned over, staring at the ceiling.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

Her mother stood at the door, holding a cup of warm milk.

Adhira sat up. "I don’t want—"

"Just drink it," her mother said gently, sitting beside her.

Adhira hesitated, then took a sip.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, her mother said, "Do you know what my name means?"

Adhira blinked. "What?"

"My name," Amma repeated. "Nalini. Do you know what it means?"

Adhira shook her head.

Her mother smiled faintly. "It means lotus."

Adhira frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because a lotus grows in the mud," Amma said softly. "It survives in the dirtiest water, but it still rises, clean and beautiful."

Adhira stared at her, the words settling in her chest.

Her mother reached for her hand. "I know this hurts. I know you feel alone. But, beta, you are stronger than you think."

Adhira looked down at their joined hands.

"Do you know what your name means?" Amma asked.

Adhira swallowed. "Strong. Lightning."

Her mother nodded. "You are."

Adhira’s throat tightened. She wasn’t sure if she believed it.

But maybe—just maybe—one day, she would.

That night, she slept without tears.

And in the morning, when she looked in the mirror, she saw not just a girl lost in pain—

But a girl still standing.

A girl still rising.

Like a lotus.

Like lightning.

Like herself.

🏵️The scent of fresh jasmine filled the house.

The kitchen was alive with the sounds of boiling payasam, sizzling banana chips, and the rhythmic clatter of steel utensils.

It was Onam.

A festival Adhira had always loved.

As Aditya, she had spent every Onam morning running errands for her mother—fetching vegetables, setting up the pookalam, making sure their family’s onakkodi was ironed and ready.

This time, she wasn’t sure where she fit in.

"Come help me with the flowers," her mother called from the veranda.

Adhira hesitated before stepping outside.

The courtyard was already a riot of colors—bright yellow marigolds, deep red roses, delicate white jasmine, all arranged in a circular pookalam.

A few of the neighborhood aunties were there, busy with their own decorations. When they saw her, the conversations slowed, their eyes flickering with hesitation.

Adhira felt the weight of their stares.

For a moment, she thought about turning back.

But her mother held out a basket of petals.

"Come," she said simply.

So Adhira knelt beside her and began arranging the flowers.

It was an old, familiar rhythm. A quiet meditation. A task she had done every year without thought.

Slowly, the murmurs faded.

She wasn’t sure if the aunties had accepted her presence or just chosen to ignore it. But for now, it didn’t matter.

She was here. She was part of it.

And that was enough.

The real test came at the temple.

Their family had a tradition—after the morning prayers, they would visit the temple together, dressed in their best Onam attire.

Adhira had dreaded this moment.

Not just because of the crowd, or the whispers that might follow her.

But because of the saree.

Her mother had placed the cream-colored kasavu saree on the bed the night before.

"It’s yours," she had said softly.

Adhira had nodded, but when she tried to drape it, her hands had trembled.

She had worn kurtas before. Salwars. Simple things that didn’t feel too different from her old life.

But this? This felt like crossing a line.

Like saying goodbye to Aditya forever.

She had wanted to refuse.

But when she saw the way her mother’s eyes shone with unspoken pride, she had swallowed her fear and let her mother drape it around her.

Now, as they approached the temple, she clutched the edge of the saree tightly.

People turned.

Some stared. Some whispered.

Some did nothing at all.

She kept walking.

One step. Then another.

Until finally, she stood before the deity, hands folded in prayer.

She closed her eyes, exhaling deeply.

She wasn’t sure what she was praying for.

Maybe strength.

Maybe peace.

Maybe for the world to stop feeling like a battlefield.

When she opened her eyes, her mother was watching her.

Proud.

Adhira blinked back the sudden sting of tears.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a loss.

Maybe this was a beginning.

The Onam celebrations had quieted down, but Adhira’s heart was still restless.

The day had been better than she expected—her mother’s silent support, the temple visit, even the small smiles from the aunties had given her a sense of belonging.

But something still lingered inside her. A question she couldn’t shake.

Was this enough?

Could she truly start over without the weight of her past pulling her back?

She was about to retreat to her room when the doorbell rang.

Her mother, busy clearing the table, called out, "Can you get that?"

Adhira wiped her hands on her saree and walked toward the door.

She pulled it open—and froze.

Standing before her was someone she hadn’t seen in a long time.

Someone who had once been her closest friend.

Meera.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

Adhira took in the sight of her—her long braid neatly pinned, her usual kohl-lined eyes widening in shock.

"Aditya?" Meera’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Adhira flinched at the name.

Meera caught herself. "I mean—" She hesitated. "Adhira?"

Adhira swallowed hard. "Yeah. It’s me."

Meera blinked rapidly, as if trying to process what she was seeing. "I—I wasn’t sure if I should come. But… I had to."

Adhira stepped aside. "Come in."

They sat in the living room, a silence stretching between them.

Adhira hadn’t seen Meera since before the accident.

Back then, Meera had been more than a friend—she had been one of the few people Aditya had truly trusted.

They had spent years together, sharing dreams, frustrations, and laughter.

But then everything changed.

And Meera had disappeared.

"Why now?" Adhira finally asked.

Meera exhaled. "I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to… reach you."

"You could’ve tried."

"I was scared," Meera admitted. "Not of you. But of saying the wrong thing. Of hurting you."

Adhira’s chest tightened. "You hurt me by leaving."

Meera lowered her gaze. "I know."

The silence stretched again.

Then, softly, Meera said, "You look beautiful."

Adhira’s breath caught.

No hesitation. No awkwardness.

Just a simple truth.

For the first time in a long time, she felt seen.

Really seen.

Meera smiled, reaching out hesitantly. "I missed you, you know."

Adhira looked at her—this girl who had been part of her past, but who might still have a place in her future.

Maybe some things could be rebuilt.

Maybe some friendships weren’t meant to be lost forever.

She placed her hand over Meera’s and smiled.

"I missed you too."

Meera’s presence felt both familiar and foreign, like an old melody with missing notes.

After their initial conversation, they had settled into an uneasy silence, sipping on chai that had long gone cold.

There was so much to say, but neither knew where to begin.

Finally, Meera spoke.

“Do you remember our last Onam together?”

Adhira blinked. “Yeah.”

How could she forget?

They had gone to the local fair, eating too many pazham poris, laughing over silly things. Meera had dragged Aditya to a fortune teller’s stall, where the old woman had smiled and said, Your future will be unexpected, but you will find your true self.

At the time, they had laughed.

Now, the words sent a strange chill down Adhira’s spine.

“I never imagined things would change so much,” Meera said, stirring her tea absently.

Adhira watched her carefully. “And?”

Meera looked up, eyes searching hers. “And… I regret not being there.”

Adhira swallowed. “Then why weren’t you?”

Meera hesitated. “I—” She stopped, then sighed. “I was confused. I didn’t know how to react. You were my best friend, and suddenly—suddenly, everything was different.”

Adhira’s throat tightened. “Different, how?”

Meera exhaled. “I was scared that… maybe you weren’t the same person anymore.”

The words hit harder than Adhira expected.

“I am the same person,” she said, voice trembling. “I just… I look different. I have a different name. But inside, I’m still—” She broke off, suddenly unsure.

Who was she now?

Before, she had been Aditya.

Now, she was Adhira.

But was she truly the same?

Meera reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “I know that now.”

Adhira stared at her. “Do you?”

Meera nodded. “I do. And I want to fix things.”

The sincerity in her voice made Adhira’s chest ache.

She wanted to believe her.

She really did.

But trust was a fragile thing.

And some wounds took time to heal.

She looked down at their joined hands.

Maybe this was a start.

The afternoon stretched into evening, and Meera didn’t leave.

For the first time in months, Adhira didn’t feel the weight of loneliness pressing down on her. Meera’s presence filled the gaps in the silence, bringing with it pieces of the past—memories of whispered secrets, shared laughter, and stolen moments of freedom.

But despite the familiarity, something was different.

Adhira could feel it.

The way Meera looked at her—not with judgment, but with a cautious curiosity. As if she was seeing her for the first time and trying to piece together the person she used to know with the one in front of her now.
After dinner, they sat on the veranda, the cool evening breeze brushing against their skin.

“I want to understand,” Meera said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Adhira turned to her. “Understand what?”

Meera hesitated before speaking. “Everything. How you felt. What you went through. I wasn’t there when you needed me, and I can’t change that. But I can listen now.”

Adhira studied her for a long moment.

Then, she began to speak.

She spoke about the accident—the pain, the surgeries, the moment the doctors told her there was no going back.

She spoke about the fear, the confusion, the nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if she would ever feel whole again.

And she spoke about the moment she chose to live as Adhira—not because she had to, but because deep down, she felt like she was always meant to.

When she finished, Meera’s eyes were damp.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

Adhira smiled faintly. “I didn’t expect you to.”

Meera was silent for a moment. Then, softly, she said, “You’re brave.”

Adhira looked away, the words making something in her chest tighten. “I don’t feel brave.”

“You are,” Meera insisted. “You chose to be yourself, even when the world made it hard.”

Adhira exhaled slowly. “It still is hard.”

Meera reached for her hand again, lacing their fingers
together. “Then let me be here for you this time '

Adhira’s breath caught.

She wanted to believe her.

She wanted to trust that this wasn’t just temporary, that Meera wouldn’t disappear again.

But trust took time.

And time was something she was finally learning to give herself.

For now, this was enough.

A step forward.

Adhira had just begun to settle into her new reality.

Her mother had started speaking about her future again—not in hushed whispers, but with cautious optimism. Meera had kept her promise, visiting regularly, filling Adhira’s days with laughter and warmth.

For the first time in a long time, life felt… normal.

But normal never lasted.

Not for her.

It was a Saturday afternoon when the past came knocking.

Literally.

The doorbell rang, and Adhira, still drying her hair from a shower, called out, “Amma, I’ll get it!”

She swung the door open—and felt the air leave her lungs.

There, standing on the doorstep, was Rohan.

She had spent months trying to forget him.

Once, Rohan had been her best friend. Her brother in everything but blood.

They had grown up together—playing cricket in the gullies, sneaking into movie theaters, dreaming about the future.

Then the accident happened.

And Rohan disappeared.

Not a single call. Not a message. Nothing.

Now, he stood before her, looking almost the same—taller, broader, but with the same familiar intensity in his eyes.

Except this time, his gaze held something new.

Something unreadable.

Adhira’s grip tightened on the doorframe. “What are you doing here?”

Rohan exhaled. “Can we talk?”

She wanted to slam the door in his face.

But a small, stubborn part of her needed to hear what he had to say.

So she stepped aside.

“Five minutes,” she said flatly.

Rohan nodded and stepped in.

The silence between them was thick as they sat in the living room.

Adhira crossed her arms. “Say whatever you came to say.”

Rohan ran a hand through his hair, looking at her—really looking at her. “You changed.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “No kidding.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice was quiet. “You… look happy.”

Adhira stilled.

It wasn’t what she expected him to say.

She had been bracing for anger. For judgment. For the inevitable “Why did you do this?”

But instead, he sat there, studying her like he was trying to understand something.

“I should’ve come earlier,” he admitted. “I was… scared.”

She scoffed. “Scared of what? That I’d turned into some stranger?”

Rohan shook his head. “No. Scared that I’d let you down.”

Her breath caught.

Because he had.

And now, here he was, admitting it.

“Then why now?” she asked, her voice softer than before.

Rohan hesitated. “Because I saw you at the temple on Onam.”

Adhira’s eyes widened.

“I didn’t have the courage to talk to you then,” he continued. “But when I saw you walk in, head held high, in that saree… I realized something.”

She swallowed. “What?”

“That you’re still you,” he said simply.

The words hit something deep inside her.

She turned away, blinking rapidly. “Took you long enough.”

“I know.” Rohan’s voice was thick with something she couldn’t quite name. “But I’m here now. If you’ll let me be.”

Adhira looked at him then—at the boy who had once been her brother, and the man who was now trying to mend the broken pieces between them.

She wasn’t sure if things could ever go back to the way they were.

But maybe, just maybe, they didn’t have to.

Maybe they could build something new.

She took a deep breath.

“We’ll see,” she said.

And for now, that was enough.

The evening breeze carried the scent of damp earth as Adhira and Rohan sat in the veranda, the silence between them thick with unspoken words.

Rohan drummed his fingers against the armrest of the chair, his gaze flickering between Adhira and the floor. He had come here to apologize, but now that he was here, the words felt heavier than he expected.

Adhira wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

She had let him in, yes. But the walls around her weren’t coming down so quickly.

Finally, Rohan exhaled. “I don’t know where to start.”

Adhira leaned back, arms crossed. “Try ‘I’m sorry.’”

Rohan let out a humorless chuckle. “I am. You have no idea how much.”

She stared at him, waiting.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I was a coward. When the accident happened, I should’ve been there. But I—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I didn’t know how to face you.”

Adhira’s jaw tightened. “Why?”

Rohan sighed. “Because everything changed so fast. One day we were talking about college, bikes, movies… and the next, you were in the hospital. And when I heard about—” He gestured vaguely, struggling. “About what happened, I—”

“You disappeared,” Adhira finished for him.

Rohan winced. “Yeah.”

She let out a slow breath. “You know what hurt the most?”

He shook his head.

“It wasn’t just losing a friend. It was realizing that you didn’t think I was worth staying for.”

Rohan’s face fell. “That’s not true.”

“It felt true,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I needed you, Rohan. And you weren’t there.”

Rohan looked down, guilt heavy in his expression. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

Adhira watched him for a long moment.

“No,” she said finally. “You don’t.”

Rohan flinched, but she wasn’t finished.

“But maybe… maybe we can start again.”

He looked up, hope flickering in his eyes. “Really?”

She gave him a small, tired smile. “We’ll see.”

For now, it was all she could offer.

And for now, Rohan would have to accept that.

The tea stall near the college gates was exactly as Adhira remembered.

The wooden benches, the smell of boiling tea leaves, the chatter of students—it was all unchanged.

But she had changed.

And today, she would have to face that change head-on.

She gripped the glass of chai in her hands, staring at the steam curling into the humid air. Across from her, Rohan was watching her carefully.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready,” he said.

Adhira took a deep breath. “I am ready.”

She had spent too long hiding.

Avoiding.

Fearing.

If she wanted to reclaim her life, she had to take this step.

She turned her gaze toward the entrance of the tea stall.

And then, she saw him.

Karthik.

Karthik had been one of Aditya’s closest college friends.

They had pulled all-nighters before exams, played endless matches of badminton, and dreamed about the future over countless cups of chai.

But he didn’t know Adhira.

Only Aditya.

Now, as he walked toward their table, laughing about something on his phone, Adhira felt her heart pound.

Would he recognize her?

Would he accept her?

Or would she see that familiar look—the one she had faced so many times—the shock, the hesitation, the rejection?

Karthik finally looked up. His smile froze.

His eyes flickered over her, confusion knitting his brows.

Then, he looked at Rohan. “Hey, man. Who’s…?” His voice trailed off.

Adhira took a deep breath. “It’s me.”

Karthik’s frown deepened. “Sorry?”

She straightened her shoulders. “It’s me, Karthik. Aditya.”

Silence.

For a moment, it felt like the entire tea stall had gone quiet.

Then, Karthik let out a short laugh—like he had misheard her. “Wait, what?”

Adhira held his gaze. “I’m Adhira now.”

The laughter faded from Karthik’s face.

He looked at Rohan, as if searching for an explanation. But Rohan just sat there, silent.

Then, Karthik turned back to her.

His face was unreadable.

“…How?” he finally asked, his voice low.

Adhira swallowed. “It’s a long story.”

Karthik ran a hand through his hair. “No kidding.”

More silence.

Then, he exhaled. “I don’t— I mean, I didn’t expect this.”

Adhira nodded. “Neither did I.”

Another long pause.

Then, Karthik shook his head, almost in disbelief. “You… look different.”

She let out a small, humorless chuckle. “That’s the point.”

Karthik let out a breath. “Man, this is—” He stopped himself. “I mean—” He hesitated.

Then, slowly, a small, uncertain smile formed on his lips.

“…Adhira,” he said, testing the name for the first time.

And something inside her eased.

She smiled back.

“Yeah.”

The days that followed felt like walking a tightrope.

Karthik hadn’t rejected her.

But he also wasn’t the same around her.

There was hesitation in his words, a carefulness in the way he spoke—as if he was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

Adhira noticed the pauses, the moments when he would start to call her Aditya and then stop himself. She saw the way his eyes flickered over her, like he was still trying to fit her into a frame that no longer existed.

She understood.

Change wasn’t easy.

But she was tired of waiting for people to catch up.

One evening, as they sat on the college steps, Karthik finally broke the silence.

“I keep thinking about all the things we did together,” he said. “The late-night bike rides, the cricket matches, all of it.”

Adhira smiled. “We can still do those things.”

Karthik hesitated. “Can we?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It just… feels different now.”

Adhira exhaled. “It is different, Karthik. But that doesn’t mean we have to stop being friends.”

Karthik was quiet for a long moment.

Then, he gave a small nod. “I guess I just need time.”

She had heard those words before.

From family. From teachers. From people who had walked away.

But this time, she saw something else in Karthik’s eyes—effort.

And for now, that was enough.

A few days later, she met Rohan at the tea stall.

“You look exhausted,” he observed as she sat down.

Adhira sighed. “It’s just… tiring, you know? People trying to figure out how to treat me. It’s like they don’t see me, just this… change.”

Rohan leaned back, thoughtful. “You can’t control how people see you. But you can control what you do about it.”

Adhira looked at him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning—” Rohan smirked. “Let’s stop giving a damn.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly do we do that?”

Rohan grinned. “Simple. We go play a cricket match. Just like old times.”

Adhira blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

She hesitated. “What if people stare?”

Rohan shrugged. “Let them.”

Adhira studied him for a moment.

Then, a slow smile formed on her lips.

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s play.”

The cricket ground near the old college building was buzzing with energy.

Adhira stood at the edge of the field, gripping a cricket bat in her hands. It felt familiar—yet different.

She had played here countless times as Aditya, but today was the first time she was stepping onto the field as Adhira.

And people were watching.

She could feel the stares, hear the whispers.

“Wait, isn’t that Aditya?”
“No, she goes by Adhira now.”
“But… can she even play like before?”

Adhira exhaled slowly. Ignore them.

Rohan gave her a reassuring nudge. “Nervous?”

She shot him a look. “No. Are you?”

He grinned. “Not at all. But I’d love to see you prove them wrong.”

She smirked. “Watch me.”

The game started, and as the first few overs went by, Adhira fell into rhythm.

She wasn’t just playing to prove a point—she was playing because she loved the game.

When she bowled, the ball spun just as sharply as it used to.

When she batted, the sound of leather meeting wood sent a familiar thrill through her veins.

And slowly, something changed.

The whispers quieted.

The stares softened.

People weren’t seeing her as Aditya-who-changed.

They were just seeing Adhira-who-could-play.

And that was enough.

Later, as the game ended, Karthik walked up to her.

“You still hit like a beast,” he said, shaking his head in amazement.

Adhira grinned. “Did you expect anything less?”

Karthik hesitated. Then, with a small smile, he extended his fist for a bump.

She tapped her knuckles against his, and for the first time, she felt something shift.

Not everything had to be like before.

Some things could be new—better, even.

And Adhira was ready for that.

The evening air was thick with the scent of jasmine as Adhira stepped into the house. The day’s cricket match had left her muscles aching, but there was a different kind of weight pressing on her mind.

She had felt something shift on the field today.

For the first time, people weren’t seeing who she used to be. They were seeing her.

She wanted to hold onto that feeling.

But reality had other plans.

Her mother was waiting at the dining table, stirring a cup of tea absentmindedly. The moment Adhira entered, she looked up.

“We need to talk.”

Adhira frowned. “About what?”

Her mother gestured for her to sit. Adhira did, bracing herself.

Then, Amma exhaled and said, “Your future.”

The words hung in the air.

Adhira took a sip of water, trying to buy herself time. “My future?”

Her mother nodded. “You’re finishing college soon. What comes next?”

Adhira hesitated. She had been so focused on the present—on navigating friendships, reclaiming spaces, proving herself—that she hadn’t thought much about what lay ahead.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Her mother pursed her lips. “Have you considered your career? Marriage?”

Adhira nearly choked on her tea. “Marriage?! Amma, let’s slow down.”

Her mother sighed. “I’m not saying now. But eventually, you’ll have to think about it.”

Adhira frowned. “Do you think anyone would—” She stopped herself.

Her mother’s eyes softened. “You are my daughter, Adhira. Never doubt your worth.”

Adhira swallowed past the lump in her throat.

She wasn’t sure if society saw her that way yet.

But sitting here, under the warm glow of the dining room light, she realized something.

The days that followed were filled with a new kind of uncertainty.

For so long, Adhira had been focused on the now—on surviving, on reclaiming her place, on proving herself.

But now, the question of the future loomed over her.

She sat in the library, her laptop open, scrolling through career options. Engineering? Journalism? Social work?

Nothing felt quite right.

She shut the laptop and sighed. Across from her, Rohan raised an eyebrow. “Deep sigh. Must be something serious.”

“Amma asked me about my future,” she admitted.

Rohan smirked. “Ah, the ultimate desi parent question.”

Adhira chuckled but then grew serious. “I just… I don’t know where I fit, Rohan. The world still sees me differently.”

He leaned back. “So? Make your own space.”

She frowned. “It’s not that simple.”

Rohan shrugged. “Maybe not. But since when have you let that stop you?”

Adhira thought about that.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe it wasn’t about finding a place that fit her perfectly.

Maybe it was about creating one.

And for the first time, she felt a spark of something new.

Hope.

Adhira sat on her bed, staring at her phone screen. The search results were filled with stories of people like her—those who had fought against expectations, carved their own paths, and made a place for themselves in the world.

Some had become activists. Some had pursued careers in media, law, or medicine. Others had simply chosen to live quietly, away from the noise of society’s judgment.

She admired them all.

But what about her?

What did she want?

Her mind drifted to the countless hours she had spent reading, writing, expressing herself through words.

Could she do something with that?

She glanced at her bookshelf—stacked with novels, essays, poetry collections.

A thought began to form.

The next day, she met Rohan at their usual tea stall.

“I think I want to write,” she said.

Rohan blinked. “Like… essays? Books?”

“Maybe both,” she admitted. “I want to tell stories. Stories like mine. Stories people don’t talk about enough.”

Rohan grinned. “That’s actually perfect for you.”

“You think so?”

He nodded. “You’ve been telling your own story every day. Maybe now, it’s time to tell others.”

For the first time in a long while, Adhira felt a sense of purpose.

This wasn’t just about proving something to the world.

It was about creating something meaningful.

A new dream.

Hers.

Adhira sat at her desk, staring at the blank document on her laptop screen.

The blinking cursor seemed to mock her.

She had the words in her heart—the emotions, the memories, the struggles—but putting them down felt overwhelming.

Where should she begin?

How much should she reveal?

Would people even listen?

The sound of her mother’s voice broke her thoughts.

“Adhira, come have tea.”

She closed her laptop with a sigh and walked to the kitchen.

Her mother handed her a cup, studying her carefully. “You seem lost in thought.”

Adhira hesitated. “I… I want to write something. About my journey.”

Her mother’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That’s wonderful.”

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Adhira admitted. “What if people don’t accept my story?”

Her mother placed a gentle hand over hers.

“You don’t write to be accepted,” she said. “You write to be heard.”

Adhira swallowed.

Maybe Amma was right.

Maybe this wasn’t about seeking approval.

Maybe it was about telling the truth—her truth.

And so, after finishing her tea, she went back to her desk.

She placed her fingers on the keyboard.

And she began to write.

The soft hum of the ceiling fan filled the room as Adhira typed, her fingers moving hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence.

She wrote about the accident. The hospital. The fear.

She wrote about waking up to a reality she had never imagined.

She wrote about losing people, gaining others, and the endless struggle of trying to be seen for who she truly was.

Each word felt like a piece of herself being laid bare.

But she didn’t stop.

Days passed, and her draft grew longer.

One evening, she finally shared a few pages with Rohan.

He read in silence, his brow furrowed in concentration.

When he finished, he looked up. “Adhira… this is powerful.”

She exhaled, relief washing over her. “You really think so?”

Rohan nodded. “This isn’t just a story. This is a voice that people need to hear.”

Encouraged, she decided to share it with others.

But not everyone reacted like Rohan.

She emailed a section to her old professor, hoping for feedback. The response came quickly:

"This is an interesting perspective, but perhaps you should consider writing about something… less personal?"

Her hands clenched around her phone.

Did he think her story wasn’t valid enough?

At home, when she mentioned her writing to a family friend, the woman smiled awkwardly. “It’s good that you’re expressing yourself, but… do you really want to put all this out in the world?”

Doubt crept in.

Maybe she was making a mistake.

Maybe people didn’t want to hear this story.

But then, she thought about Rohan’s words. This is a voice that people need to hear.

And she realized—this wasn’t about whether people were ready for her story.

It was about whether she was ready to tell it.

And she was.

No matter what.

Adhira sat in front of her laptop, her heart pounding.

The document was ready. She had spent days refining the words, making sure they reflected her truth.

Now, it was time to share it with the world.

She hovered over the Publish button on a blogging platform.

A deep breath.

A moment of hesitation.

Then—click.

It was done.

The first few hours were quiet.

She refreshed the page again and again, but there were no responses.

Had she made a mistake?

Was her story just another drop in the ocean, lost in the endless flood of online content?

She was about to close her laptop when the first comment appeared.

"I don’t know you, but I just read your story. And I want to say—thank you. Thank you for putting into words what so many of us feel."

Adhira’s breath hitched.

Then came another.

"This is one of the most honest things I’ve ever read. Please keep writing."

And another.

"I have a friend going through something similar. I’m going to share this with them. Your story matters."

Tears welled in her eyes.

For the first time, she truly felt it—her words had power.

And nothing, no doubt or hesitation, could take that away from her.

Adhira’s story spread faster than she had expected.

Within days, people were sharing it on social media. Messages poured in—some from strangers who resonated with her words, others from people she had once known but never expected to hear from again.

Some were supportive.

"You’ve given me the courage to accept myself."
"I wish I had your strength."
"Thank you for writing this."

But not everyone was kind.

"This is just attention-seeking nonsense."
"Why do you have to make everything about gender?"
"You were better off before."

The negativity stung. Even though she had braced herself for criticism, seeing cruel words aimed directly at her made her heart ache.

For a moment, she considered deleting the post, erasing her story from the world.

But then she thought of the people who had reached out—the ones who had found comfort in her words.

If she stayed silent, what message would that send?

She wasn’t just speaking for herself anymore.

So, instead of retreating, she responded with strength.

"You don’t have to understand my story. But I will keep telling it for those who need to hear it."

And just like that, she chose courage over fear.

Months passed, and Adhira’s life changed in ways she had never imagined.

Her blog gained a steady following. People started reaching out for interviews, podcasts, and even magazine features. She was no longer just a person trying to navigate life—she was a voice for many.

Her mother watched with quiet pride. Rohan cheered her on. Even Karthik, who had once struggled to understand her, sent her a message one day:

"I read your article. You’re doing something important. Keep going."

It wasn’t a full reconciliation, but it was something.

And for Adhira, that was enough.

As she stood at her window one evening, watching the city lights flicker in the distance, she realized something.

Her journey wasn’t over.

There would always be challenges.

There would always be people who doubted her.

But she had found her place—not in society’s acceptance, but in her own voice, her own purpose.

And that was the greatest victory of all.

With a smile, she sat down at her laptop.

A new story was waiting to be told.

And she was ready.

Wait for the second part 🌷🌹🏵️🌸