The morning sun filtered into my room, warm and golden—but I felt none of it.

I had barely slept, but I didn’t feel tired. I felt… done.

Quietly, I folded a few clothes into my duffel bag. My favorite cotton kurtas, loose pyjamas, the book I never finished, and the little diary Reva had gifted me that said "You are enough. As you are. Always."

I took one last look around my room. The place that had once felt like home, now just looked like walls. Painted corners filled with silent expectations.

I stepped out.

And walked straight into a storm.

The house was in chaos. My mother was yelling into the phone. My father’s face was red with rage. Relatives’ names and gossip buzzed through the air like bees in a swarm.

When they saw me, the yelling stopped.

Maa lowered the phone slowly and looked at me like I’d personally dragged her into the mud.

“Are you happy now?” she snapped.

I blinked. “What?”

Her voice cracked, eyes wide with humiliation. “*He married her. Rohit married that girl last night. He flew out with his family and married her in a temple. And now everyone’s talking about it—everyone! My brothers, your aunts, our neighbours—they’re all calling and laughing. You’ve made me the joke of this entire family!”

I stood there frozen, my bag slung over my shoulder, like I was a criminal caught in the act.

Baba didn’t even look at me. He just shook his head and walked out of the room.

Maa kept going. “You couldn’t have just swallowed your ego and let the engagement happen? You had to go there, create drama, ruin your name and ours? You couldn’t even hold onto one decent man.”

My chest tightened, but I held my ground.

“I’m going to Goa,” I said quietly. “Just for a while. I need space.”

Maa let out a dry laugh. “Of course you are. Run away, as always. You’re good at that.”

“I’m not running,” I said. “I’m leaving before this house finishes what Rohit started.”

Maa scoffed. “So what now? You’ll stay with that Reva girl? Do what? Waste more time? More money? Who will marry you after this, Ameya? Do you even care?”

I looked at her then, really looked at her—the woman who birthed me, raised me, judged me.

And I said softly, “Maybe marriage isn’t the prize, Maa. Maybe peace is.”

She stared at me like she didn’t recognize me. Maybe she didn’t.

“I’m going,” I repeated. “And I won’t be back for a long time.”

Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t ask me to stay. They didn’t try to stop me.

And somehow, that hurt more than all the shouting.

Because in that moment, I realized—

I wasn’t a daughter they were losing.
I was just a disappointment they were finally rid of.

I stepped out of that house without looking back, my bag over my shoulder and my heart in pieces. But this time, the pain came with clarity.

I had spent my whole life trying to be enough for people who never even tried to understand me.

Now… I would try to be enough for myself.

The sun was beginning to set when I stepped out of the train station in Goa.

The salty breeze wrapped around me immediately—warm, wild, a little chaotic. Like a place that refused to be tamed. The palm trees swayed as if they were dancing to some rhythm only the ocean could hear.

And for the first time in days… I let myself breathe.

I was in my worn cotton kurta, no makeup, swollen eyes from too many nights crying. But somehow, in this strange city with its golden skies and coconut-scented air, I didn’t feel the urge to shrink. Or explain.

Just exist.

I scanned the crowd for Reva—and then, I saw her.

She stood leaning against her scooty, sunglasses pushed up into her wild curly hair, wearing a T-shirt that read "Unbothered & Unapologetic". The second her eyes met mine, she pushed off and rushed toward me.

I didn’t even have to say a word.

She hugged me tight—arms wrapped around me, not letting go, not asking me to be strong. And just like that, the dam broke again.

I cried. Harder than I had at home. Because this time, I wasn’t crying alone.

She pulled back just enough to hold my face between her hands. “You made it,” she whispered. “You made it, baby.”

I nodded, too choked to speak.

She took the bag from my shoulder without asking and hooked her arm around mine. “Come on. I made your favorite maggi and that rose iced tea you used to be obsessed with. And there’s a mattress with your name on it, and zero judgment. We’re starting fresh, okay?”

I smiled through the tears. “Okay.”

As we rode through the winding lanes of Goa on her scooty—my arms wrapped tightly around her waist, my cheek resting on her shoulder—I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Safe.
Held.
Free.

The coconut trees passed by in a blur, and the sun dipped into the sea like it was painting the world with hope.

I had come here broken.

But maybe… just maybe… this was where I would begin to put myself back together.