Chapter 3: The Girl Who Didn't Speak

Chapter 3: The Girl Who Didn’t Speak

By the time Aarya turned thirteen, silence had become her native language.

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She didn’t speak much at school anymore. There was no point. When she did, her voice came out small—barely a whisper. Teachers barely noticed her unless she forgot her homework or tripped in the hallway. Her classmates called her "ghost girl". The name stuck.

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Her uniform was always too big for her, the fabric hanging loosely off her thin frame. Her shoes were scuffed, her bag faded and patched. Each morning she walked to school alone, clutching her lunchbox like a secret.

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And then, one morning in early spring, the new girl arrived.

Ziyana.

She walked into the classroom like a spark in a room full of ashes—hair tied in a messy ponytail, blazer unbuttoned, an untamed grin on her face. She didn’t wait for permission to sit; she just dropped into the empty seat beside Aarya.

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“Hey,” Ziyana said, pulling out a notebook covered in doodles. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aarya blinked, unsure how to respond. Nobody ever talked to her like that.

“I... haven’t,” she murmured

.

“Good,” Ziyana grinned. “Because I hate ghosts.”

The class tittered, but Ziyana didn’t care. She tapped her pencil against the desk, humming softly. Aarya kept glancing at her, trying not to stare. There was something magnetic about her confidence—like she carried sunlight in her pocket.

During lunch, Ziyana plopped down beside Aarya again. “So, ghost girl, what’s your name?”

Aarya hesitated. “Aarya.”

“Aarya,” Ziyana repeated, as if tasting it. “Pretty. I like it. You’re quiet though. Are you shy or just mysterious?”

Aarya shrugged, chewing her rice silently.

Ziyana leaned closer. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

“No one listens,” Aarya said softly, surprising herself.

Ziyana tilted her head. “Then I’ll listen.”

Aarya looked up. No one had ever said that to her before. Not her teachers. Not her family. Not anyone.

That afternoon, Ziyana got scolded for passing Aarya a note in class. When the teacher confiscated it, she read it aloud:

“Smile once. I want to see if the sun still works.”

The class laughed. Aarya turned red with embarrassment, hiding her face behind her book. But Ziyana just smirked and said, “What? It’s true. She’s been frowning since I met her.”

When the bell rang, Aarya waited until the classroom emptied before picking up her things. Ziyana was waiting for her at the gate.

“Walk home with me,” she said.

“I live far,” Aarya replied.

“Then I’ll walk far too.”

Aarya didn’t know why, but she agreed. They walked together through the dusty lanes, their shadows stretching side by side on the cracked pavement.

Ziyana talked the whole way—about how her family had moved from Karachi, how she hated maths, how she once climbed a tree to steal mangoes and fell into a drain. Aarya didn’t say much, but she listened. And for once, listening didn’t feel like punishment.

When they reached Aarya’s street, Ziyana stopped. The house looked smaller than usual, darker, as if it were watching them.

“Is this your place?”

Aarya nodded. “Don’t come here. My stepmother doesn’t like guests.”

Ziyana frowned. “She sounds like a joy.”

“She’s not,” Aarya whispered.

Ziyana stared at her for a moment, then gently reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from Aarya’s cheek. Beneath it was a fading bruise. “Who did that?”

Aarya stepped back. “No one.”

Ziyana’s eyes hardened. “Don’t lie.”

Aarya shook her head. “Please. Don’t ask.”

For a moment, they stood in silence. The wind carried the faint scent of burning wood and dust. Then Ziyana sighed, forcing a smile. “Fine. I won’t ask. But if anyone touches you again, I’ll break their nose.”

Aarya’s eyes widened. “You’ll get in trouble.”

“Worth it,” Ziyana said, grinning. “Besides, I’ve got good aim.”

It was ridiculous—and yet, for the first time in years, Aarya laughed. It was soft and uncertain, but it was real

Ziyana’s eyes lit up. “There it is! The sun still works.”

That night, Aarya couldn’t sleep. She lay awake under her cracked ceiling, her fingers tracing invisible shapes on the blanket.

A friend.

The word felt strange in her mouth. Heavy, almost dangerous.

From downstairs, she heard her stepmother’s voice—angry, sharp, accusing her father of wasting money again. Then came the sound of a slap, a crash, and her father’s muffled shouting.

Aarya buried her face in her pillow. Her chest hurt in a way she couldn’t name.

She wanted to run—to somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. But she couldn’t. Faris was asleep in the next room, small and sickly. She couldn’t leave him behind.

Still, she whispered into the darkness, “Thank you, Ziyana.”

The next morning, Ziyana was waiting for her outside school again, holding two cups of chai from the canteen.

“Here. One’s yours.”

Aarya hesitated. “I don’t have money—”

“Did I ask?” Ziyana smirked. “Drink before it gets cold.”

They sat on the bench together, steam curling between them. For a while, they didn’t talk. And then, quietly, Aarya asked, “Why are you nice to me?”

Ziyana looked at her. “Because you remind me of me.”

Aarya frowned. “You’re not like me.”

Ziyana laughed softly. “You think so? My dad’s gone. My mom works double shifts. I take care of my little brother alone. So yeah, maybe I smile too much, but it’s just so people don’t see the cracks.”

Aarya blinked. “The cracks?”

Ziyana nodded. “Yeah. The ones life leaves when it hits too hard.”

For the first time, Aarya looked at her not as someone loud or fearless—but as someone hiding her own bruises, just better at smiling through them.

When the bell rang, they stood up together. Ziyana nudged her playfully. “You’re stuck with me now, Aarya Khan.”

Aarya tilted her head. “Stuck?”

“Yep. Friends don’t run away.”

That afternoon, when Aarya returned home, she found her stepmother yelling again. But this time, Aarya didn’t cry. She walked past quietly, holding the memory of Ziyana’s laughter close like a shield.

And that night, under the same cracked ceiling, Aarya whispered a promise to herself:

“I’ll survive… maybe even smile again.”

For the first time in her life, silence didn’t hurt.

It simply waited—because someone, cared for her.

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