Anya is sixteen years old, a quiet girl living in a small town in India. Her life looks ordinary from the outside—school, homework, family dinners, and the constant pressure of preparing for her upcoming board exams. But beneath that ordinary life lies a silent battle she fights every day.
She doesn’t hate her family. She doesn’t hate her relatives either.
But she hates the questions they always ask.
Whenever relatives visit, the conversation always follows the same pattern. They smile warmly, ask about her studies, and then the inevitable question arrives.
“Which class are you in now?”
“10th,” Anya replies politely.
The relatives nod with approval, as if this answer is a step in a long, predictable path. Then someone always laughs and says the same sentence.
“Oh, then everything will be settled in two or three years.”
Everyone laughs lightly, as if they are talking about something normal. Something expected.
But Anya doesn’t understand what that word truly means.
“Settled.”
What does settling mean for someone who is only sixteen?
For her relatives, the meaning is obvious. It means finishing school, maybe studying a little more if the family allows it, and then eventually getting married. For them, it is simply the natural order of life.
But for Anya, the word feels like a quiet cage slowly closing around her.
She smiles politely during these conversations because that is what a good daughter is expected to do. She never argues. She never complains.
But inside, she feels something tightening in her chest every time she hears those words.



One evening, Anya sat in her room doing her homework. Her desk was covered with textbooks and notebooks, and her pen moved slowly across the page as she tried to focus on solving a difficult math problem.
The door to her room was slightly open.
Outside, she could hear her mother talking to someone in the living room.
At first, Anya didn’t pay attention. Conversations like this were common in the house.
But then she heard something that made her hand stop moving.
“Sharma ji ki beti ka rishta dekh rahe hain,” her mother said casually.
“They are looking for a match for Sharma ji’s daughter.”
Her pen froze.
Her mother continued speaking in a calm voice.
“Eighteen ki hote hi kar denge shaadi.”
“They’ll get her married as soon as she turns eighteen.”
Anya didn’t move.
Her heart started beating faster.
The conversation outside continued as if nothing unusual had been said.
“Ladkiyon ko zyada der ghar pe rakho toh baatein banne lagti hain,” her mother added.
If girls stay at home too long, people start talking.
There was no anger in her mother’s voice. No cruelty.
Just reality.
And somehow, that frightened Anya more than anger would have.
Slowly, she turned her head toward the calendar hanging on the wall.
She stared at it silently.
Sixteen.
Two years.
Just two years until she turned eighteen.
Her mind filled with a quiet question she couldn’t stop asking.
If eighteen means marriage for Sharma ji’s daughter…
What will it mean for her?

That night, Anya tried to study again.
She opened her books, looked at the pages, and held her pen ready to write.
But the words blurred in front of her eyes.
Her thoughts kept returning to the same idea.
Two years.
It sounded like a long time when people said it casually.
But suddenly, it felt incredibly short.
Too short.
She closed her book slowly.
Her chest felt heavy.
Without thinking too much, she picked up her phone.
Not to escape.
Not to waste time.
Just to breathe.
She scrolled randomly through videos until her finger paused on something.
A dance performance.
The stage lights were bright and colorful. Music filled the screen. A group of young performers moved with confidence and energy.
It was a K-pop stage.
The girls dancing on the stage didn’t look much older than her.
Maybe seventeen.
Maybe eighteen.
But there was something different about them.
They didn’t look afraid.
They didn’t look like people whose lives were already decided by someone else.
They loo

Her mother had stitched it once with blue thread.


Her mother was already awake in the kitchen.


When Anya stepped out of her room, her mother stood up immediately.


Anya held the warm steel glass in both hands.


Her father had already called a rickshaw.


The old cycle-rickshaw stood under the streetlight.


Her father lifted her bag and placed it carefully on the seat.


Maybe if he did, he would say something he couldn't take back.


The wheels made a soft grinding sound on the road.


The small temple where bells ring every evening.


Halfway to the bus stand, her father spoke.


"You know we don't have money to fix mistakes."


"If something goes wrong there… we can't fly to bring you back."


That sentence hit harder than shouting.


Even though she knew she probably would.


At the bus stand, her mother's words echoed in her mind:


Money always counted carefully in their house.


When the bus started moving, Anya looked out of the window.


She pressed her mother's folded note against her chest.


Poor background doesn't mean no dreams.


In K-pop training, it won't be glamorous.


Chapter 8 - “The Rickshaw at 4:30 AM”