The ceiling fan creaked above her head like an old song playing on loop — tired, broken, but still dancing. Ananya lay on her bed, earphones tucked deep, eyes wide open to the flickering light of her cracked phone screen.

It was 2:13 AM.

Everyone else in the house was asleep — her Appa’s snores echoed from the next room, and her mother’s glass bangles clinked softly every time she turned in sleep. But Ananya couldn’t sleep. Not when a new choreography video from her favorite K-pop group had just dropped.

Her heart raced as the beat kicked in.

Sharp. Clean. Effortless.

Every move felt like lightning in her blood. She watched the main dancer glide across the stage, spin, stop, and smirk — not for the fans, but for himself, as if to say, “I own this.”

Ananya rewound. Rewatched. Memorized.

And then quietly slipped out of bed.

She tiptoed past the kitchen, dodged the creaky third floorboard near the pooja room, and reached the backyard shed — her secret studio. Once meant for storing tools and coconuts, it now held her dream.

She flicked on the emergency light. The mirror on the wall was cracked at one corner. The tiles were uneven. But the moment she plugged her speaker in, the space transformed into Seoul’s biggest dance stage — at least in her heart.

She tied her hair. Took a deep breath.

And danced.

No instructions. No teachers. Just memory and obsession. Her footwork wasn’t perfect, her angles rough — but her fire was undeniable. The way she moved was not trained — it was felt.

Every drop, every kick, every pop and lock was a rebellion against the life she was born into.

Here, she wasn't someone's daughter.

She wasn’t a Tamil medium girl from a village school.

She wasn’t the girl who got laughed at for doing "Korean dance" in morning assembly.

Here, she was Ananya — future K-pop trainee.

When the music ended, her chest heaved with breathless joy. Sweat stuck to her kurti. Her anklet had snapped mid-step, one tiny bell rolling to the corner.

She picked it up and laughed softly. “Even you’re tired of this routine, huh?”

Suddenly, a sound — a soft thud.

She froze.

A shadow passed by the window. She ran to peek.

It was her mother. Standing silently, holding a glass of water, eyes reflecting the dance light.

Ananya’s heart sank.

Would she be scolded again? Would the mirror be broken like last time?

But Amma didn’t say a word.

She simply placed the water on the doorstep, turned, and whispered, "Drink when you finish. Don’t dance on an empty stomach."

And left.

Ananya stared at the glass, tears welling up.

The world hadn’t changed. Her father still wanted her to study for NEET. Her neighbors still mocked her dreams.

But in that one moment —

A closed door had opened.

Even if just a crack.

And sometimes, a crack was all a girl needed...

To let in the Seoul light.

The morning sun poured in like heat through a cracked window, warm but uninvited. Ananya stirred the sambar slowly, her muscles aching from last night’s dance. Her mind was elsewhere — stuck between beats, between dreams, between the heavy silence that always followed when the music stopped.

Her mother chopped onions next to her, silently watching.

“Your eyes are red,” Amma finally said. “Did you cry… or not sleep?”

Ananya shook her head. “Just tired.”

Tired — it was the truth, but not all of it.

She was tired from dancing.

Tired from hiding.

Tired from trying to sing when her own voice didn’t obey her.

Everyone thought singing came naturally to her just because she wrote songs. But it didn’t. Her voice cracked on high notes. Her breathing fell apart mid-chorus. And when she tried recording alone in the shed, she'd sometimes collapse onto the floor, clutching her burning throat, eyes stinging from frustration.

But she still did it.

Every. Single. Day.

Her phone’s voice recorder was full of unfinished takes — echoes of effort, not perfection.

When she sang for school programs, people liked the songs, but they never said, “Your voice is beautiful.” They said things like:

"Nice lyrics!"

"You work hard, no?"

"You’re brave to sing solo."

Brave.

As if singing with a broken voice was some kind of charity act — not survival.

---

A sudden slam broke her thoughts.

Her father entered, shirt askew, newspaper half-folded, annoyance already brewing.

“I got a call,” he barked. “Your name is on the school dance list again?”

Ananya stood still, clutching the ladle tighter.

“I didn’t sign it,” she lied. Her voice was steady, but inside, everything trembled.

He glared. “If I hear one more word about dance or music, I’ll break that phone of yours. Mark my words.”

The silence in the kitchen thickened. Amma sliced faster now, pretending not to hear.

---

Later that evening, when everyone had gone to bed, Ananya slipped into the shed again — her refuge, her prison.

She opened her lyric book and placed it on the table like a prayer.

Then, she stood in front of the mirror, breath shaky, throat sore from earlier practice. She hit play on the instrumental track — one she composed herself — and began to sing.

Her voice cracked on the second line.

She started again.

It cracked again.

She stopped, bit her lip, eyes burning.

And then…

She took a deep breath and began again — slower, steadier. The pain in her throat returned like fire, but she let it burn. Because if the fire was real, then so was the dream.

Her pitch was off. Her tone imperfect.

But every note screamed something only she could understand:

“I will not stop.”

---

That night, her voice didn’t sound like Seoul.

But it sounded like survival

But it sounded like survival.

It sounded like a girl who had nothing… but refused to give up everything.

And maybe — just maybe — that was the beginning of her real voice.

Not the voice others wanted to hear.

But the one she was born to find.

The shed was silent, but inside Ananya, everything screamed.

She sat cross-legged on the cold cement floor, her lyric book open before her — a torn notebook filled with dreams no one knew about. The word "Pain" was scrawled across the top of the page, thick and angry, like it had been written mid-tears. It had been.

This wasn’t just a song. It was her.

She had written it weeks ago, after another failed try at singing her own lyrics. No matter how hard she practiced, her voice refused to follow. It cracked. It shook. It choked halfway through. But tonight, after everything — the scolding, the silence, the lies — she was going to sing it. One last time. Even if no one would hear. Even if no one would care.

She opened her recorder and hit “Start.”

The backing music began. A slow, hollow piano loop she’d mixed herself. Each note sounded like a heartbeat underwater. Heavy. Trapped.

She took a breath, and the first line left her lips.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m buried alive,

Smiling outside, while burning inside…”

Her voice broke almost immediately. She coughed. Tears pricked her eyes, and her chest felt tight.

But she didn’t stop.

She clenched her fists, inhaled deeply, and pushed through.

“I hold my tears like secrets in my lungs,

But they rise every time I try to run…”

The high note came — and failed.

Her voice choked on the very emotion she had poured into the words.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her throat burned like it was full of smoke. Her lips trembled.

Still, she kept singing.

“But I sing through the fire,

Even if it kills me slow…”

She wiped her face, the paper beneath her soaking with drops.

Every breath hurt.

Every note fought her body.

Her voice no longer sounded like music — it sounded like a girl trying to survive the storm inside her.

“Because silence is louder

When no one wants to know…”

That line — her favorite — came out like a whisper.

But it echoed louder than anything she'd ever said.

By the end, her entire body was shaking. Her voice had fallen to a hush. Her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. Her knees were pulled close to her chest.

And yet, she reached out… and clicked save.

She didn’t listen back.

She didn’t check the pitch or quality.

Because this time, it didn’t matter how it sounded.

This time, she hadn’t sung to impress anyone.

She had sung because the pain was too much not to sing.

As she lay on the floor, breath slowing, she stared up at the rusted roof and whispered to the night:

"One day, someone will hear this."

Not just the song.

But her.

Even if her voice failed, her soul had already spoken.

And Seoul… wasn’t that far now.

EXTRA:

🎵 Pain

Lyrics by Ananya

Sometimes I smile just to hide the sound

Of a voice inside me, screaming underground

I laugh in rooms where I don't belong

Clapping for others, swallowing my song

And they say, "Be strong, be quiet, be good,"

But they never asked if I even could

I'm stitched in silence, thread made of shame

Dancing for peace, but burning in flame

This is pain, wrapped in ribbon and lace

It’s the ache behind a practiced face

It’s every “no” I turned into light

Every lonely note I sang at night

It’s a whisper they’ll never explain

But I know it well

I call it pain

I dream in colors I can’t pronounce

Write lullabies they won’t even announce

They use my words, but not my name

And still I give — again, again

And I try to rise, I try to breathe

But my lungs are locked, no room to leave

I sing through fire, I walk through glass

Not because I’m strong — just built to last

This is pain, wrapped in rhythm and grace

It’s the note that cracks but still finds place

It’s the stage I built inside my mind

For a world too deaf, too cold, too blind

It’s a feather soaked in the rain

And still I sing

I call it pain

Don’t tell me I’m brave for surviving

When all I ever wanted was to be seen

Don’t call it passion when it’s bleeding

Don’t call it fire — it’s gasoline

This is pain — in a whisper, a scream

The silence where I used to dream

It’s the echo of what I never said

The lullaby I sang instead

It’s the song they’ll never claim

But it’s mine…

It’s mine

I call it pain

And maybe one day,

When I sing again…

They’ll hear my name

Inside the pain.

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