The classroom had quieted into that soft lull that always follows the initial storm of settling down. Pens clicked, books opened with lazy enthusiasm, and the droning of English grammar rules filled the room like the hum of a ceiling fan—present, constant, ignorable.
I stared ahead, but my mind was far, far away.
I wasn't the usual thirteen-year-old girl with dreamy eyes and no clue about adulthood. No, I was mentally twenty-five, crammed with two lifetimes of mistakes and lessons. I knew now that adulthood wasn't just about freedom—it came with responsibilities that grew heavier the more you tried to fly.
One of the heaviest burdens? Financial independence.
In my past life, I'd learned this the hard way. One salary wasn't enough—not when life kept throwing surprises like medical bills, broken appliances, or dreams that demanded money to chase them. I had promised myself I would never depend on just one stream of income again.
That's why I was planning ahead this time.
I didn't want to let money dominate my school days just yet—I had time for that. These years were mine to learn, to grow, to build myself. This time, I would use the "carefree" part of school life to upskill and experiment. I wasn't going to rush into the rat race just yet, but I'd start sowing the seeds.
And the first seed?
Writing.
I wanted to be a writer—not the dreamy, quill-holding poet in a tower, but a content writer who could earn, inform, and maybe inspire. I knew the reality—freelance gigs didn't pay well in the beginning. You had to build a portfolio, prove your voice, and find your niche. But what better way to begin than with something I already loved? Stories.
So, I would write a novel. Or two. Maybe a serial. Not for traditional publishing, though—I didn't have access to agents or printers. I'd go digital. Webnovel. Wattpad. Tapas. All those platforms where readers waited for the next chapter, like people wait for bus arrivals.
Of course, I couldn't post anything from here—not unless I wanted to go through the hundred-layer permission process just to touch a computer. Internet access in this hostel was like a rare celestial event—possible, but only if everything aligned.
You had to submit a formal request letter—signed by your subject teacher, approved by the computer lab assistant, and finally sanctioned by the warden. All for two hours of supervised usage in the evening study time. And no, you couldn't do that more than once or twice a month.
So I'd work offline. Write drafts. Plan arcs. Create character sheets in notebooks. And when I went home for long holidays—like the semester break—I'd upload them all in one go, schedule releases, and let them drip out like clockwork.
Even those 2–3 day visits to my parents every month? I wouldn't waste them typing away. I'd spend that time with Amma and Appa, with Santhosh, catching up on warmth and home-cooked food. My writing could wait.
My hand was already sketching a rough outline on the back page of my social notebook. "Title: Still Unnamed. Genre: Slice of life, romance, family bonds. Female lead. Rebirth theme." I underlined "rebirth" twice. A smirk tugged at my lips. Maybe I was just documenting my life with fictional names.
The English class ended while I was plotting the midpoint twist. Social Studies began—again, the same unit on French Revolution. I had already self-studied this one last week.
I flipped to an empty page, letting the droning voice of the history teacher become white noise. My pencil danced. Chapter 1: She wakes up in a room not her own, in a body too small for her soul.
Yes. This was the beginning.
This time, I wouldn't wait for adulthood to give me permission. I was starting now.
The next period was French. A collective groan swept through the room as the language teacher walked in, her ever-so-precise steps echoing on the floor tiles. Most students barely tolerated the subject—verb forms, nasal sounds, and genders for objects—it all felt pointless to them. But I liked it. I'd avoided learning French in my past life, assuming it was too hard or too "non-useful." This time, I wanted to try everything I once ignored.
"Take out your assignments," the teacher said in her clipped accent, tapping her register with a practiced rhythm. "Ten lines about yourself. Let's see what you've written."
She went bench by bench, scanning the pages. The same pattern appeared in most notebooks: "My name is Anjali." "I am thirteen years old." "I have a younger sister." "My hobby is dancing." Over and over again, like someone had dictated it word for word.
I suddenly felt uncertain. Maybe I had overdone mine.
I'd written longer, more detailed sentences. "J'ai un frère cadet de huit ans qui s'appelle Santhosh. Il adore jouer au badminton." (I have an eight-year-old younger brother named Santhosh. He loves playing badminton.) I had written about how I liked to read books in both English and Tamil, how I wanted to be a writer one day, and how my favorite snack was karasev, not just "I like reading."
The teacher stopped at my bench and looked down at my notebook.
After reading silently for a few seconds, she looked up and gave me a rare smile.
"Très bien, Nila," she said. "You've gone beyond what was asked. Not just simple facts—you've made an effort to express details, and your sentence structure is thoughtful. This is the kind of engagement I wish more students showed."
A few heads turned. I smiled politely and muttered a "Merci, Madame," my heart fluttering just a bit. Praise from language teachers always felt special—it was like they were acknowledging something that wasn't immediately visible to others.
The rest of the class passed in a blur. I barely noticed the conjugation drill on the board or the passive way others repeated after her. I was still smiling when the bell rang for recess.
Recess at this school wasn't the loud frenzy I was used to in my past life. It was more contained, partly because of the rules and partly because everyone was still adjusting to hostel life. I walked to the auditorium where a kiosk served warm almond milk to those who had pre-ordered it with their monthly coupon card.
The milk was hot and slightly sweet, with a touch of cardamom. I took small sips, standing near the pillar and watching the filtered sunlight play on the mosaic tiles.
That's when I noticed it.
A group of girls on the other side of the hall were pointing. Whispering. And not subtly.
"That's her, no?" one of them said. "The one who got her things back from the warden?"
Another girl nodded. "She spoke right in front of the chief warden also. Someone said she didn't even get scared."
Their eyes met mine briefly before they looked away, giggling behind their palms.
More students passed by, and I saw one boy point at me, then mouth something to his friend, who looked back at me with raised eyebrows.
I took another sip of milk, trying to appear unbothered. But the air around me suddenly felt heavier.
I hadn't expected attention, especially not this kind. I thought what happened yesterday would be just one small moment in the hostel's long memory. But clearly, it had spread.
I wasn't sure if it was admiration or gossip, but one thing was certain—people had started noticing me.
And noticing wasn't always a safe thing.
The classroom was quiet, filled only with the soft rustling of pages and the occasional squeak of a chair. Our math teacher, having finished revising the chapter, had begun checking notebooks one by one. I had already completed this chapter last week, so I wasn't too worried. Instead, I pulled out a sheet from my folder and began writing a letter home.
It felt strangely comforting, putting pen to paper. I wrote about the weekend's inspection, the argument, the Chief Warden's visit. Not with anger — I had moved past that — but with a calm honesty. I told them everything that happened, how it unfolded, and how I handled it. I also wrote about the reactions afterward. How some students admired my courage, how others were curious. How deep down, I wasn't trying to be brave or rebellious. I was just trying to be fair to myself and to what I believed was right.
I know tomorrow is the phone call day, but letters feel safer. There's no one listening in, no pressure to squeeze everything into five minutes. I could tell Appa and Amma everything — even things I might hesitate to say out loud.
When the bell rang for lunch, I folded the letter neatly, slid it into the envelope, and held it close for a moment. I'd drop it in the hostel's post box after lunch.
There was still a long week ahead. But for now, I felt grounded. Like I had planted a piece of myself, not in defiance, but in trust. In the belief that my parents would read my words and understand not just what happened, but who I was becoming.