Between the Glances

chapter 1

Siya had learned early that space was not something you were given—you carved it out quietly.
The house she lived in was always full. Voices overlapped, footsteps echoed, doors opened and shut without warning. It was a home built on routines, expectations, and unspoken hierarchies. Everyone belonged to it, but not everyone belonged equally.
She woke up before the alarm most days.

She woke up before the alarm most days.
Not because she had to, but because her body had learned the rhythm of the house. The kitchen lights switching on. The faint clatter of steel. The sound of water filling buckets. Mornings announced themselves long before the sun did.
Siya lay still for a few seconds, staring at the faint crack on the ceiling above her bed. The paint there had peeled years ago, forming a shape she had once tried to imagine as a bird. Now it was just a crack. Some things lost their imagination as you grew older.
She sat up slowly, careful not to disturb her little brother who slept curled up on the mattress placed beside her bed. He had kicked off the blanket sometime in the night, one arm flung over his head, hair sticking out in odd directions. Siya smiled without meaning to.
She reached out and pulled the blanket back over him, tucking it under his chin. He stirred, eyes fluttering open for a second.
“Didi?” he mumbled.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “Sleep.”
He relaxed instantly, like her presence alone was enough proof that the world was still in place.
That was how it had always been with him.
Siya stood up quietly and moved toward the small mirror near the cupboard. The reflection looking back at her was familiar—calm face, observant eyes, hair that never quite behaved no matter how neatly she braided it. She tied it into a low braid anyway. Some habits were more about discipline than results.
From outside the room came her mami’s voice, already sharp with the day’s first irritation.
“Why is the milk still boiling? I told you to lower the flame!”
Siya didn’t flinch. She never did. Raised voices were just background noise here, like the ceiling fan or the pressure cooker whistle. She slipped into her kurta, adjusted her dupatta, and stepped out.
The house smelled of tea leaves and toast. Her mama sat at the dining table, newspaper spread wide, glasses perched low on his nose. He looked stern even while sipping tea, as if seriousness was a permanent setting for him.
He glanced up briefly when he sensed her presence.
“You’ll be late today?” he asked.
“No,” Siya replied. “Same time.”
He nodded, satisfied. That was all their conversations usually were—short, practical, functional. But there was something in the way he folded the newspaper slightly when she stood nearby, something in the way he noticed when she skipped meals or came home quieter than usual. He never asked questions. He didn’t need to.
Her mami moved around the kitchen briskly, bangles clinking sharply with every movement. She didn’t look at Siya, but her words were always aimed in her direction.
“Don’t forget you have to help in the evening. Just because you go to school doesn’t mean you don’t have responsibilities here.”
“I know,” Siya said calmly.
Anvi walked in next, already dressed, phone in hand, eyes sharp as ever. She looked Siya up and down once, her gaze lingering for half a second too long.
“You’re wearing that again?” she asked flatly.
Siya didn’t respond. She rarely did.
Naina followed soon after, adjusting her watch, hair neatly tied, expression composed. She gave Siya a brief nod—acknowledgement more than affection—but it was enough. Naina was like that. Distant, but not careless. Observing everything quietly, choosing her words carefully when it mattered.
And then came Tanya.
Barefoot, hair loose, still yawning, she plopped down beside Siya and leaned her head against her shoulder without warning.
“You’re cold,” Tanya murmured.
Siya smiled faintly. “You’re late.”
“So?” Tanya grinned. “You’ll wait.”
Siya always did.
Breakfast passed in fragments—complaints, instructions, reminders. Siya ate quietly, feeding her brother small bites between her own. He insisted on holding the spoon himself, spilling more than he managed to eat. Siya didn’t rush him. She wiped his mouth gently, listening to his half-formed stories about a dream he’d had.
By the time she left the house, her bag felt heavier than it should have. Not because of books, but because of everything else she carried without realizing.
The school gates welcomed her with familiar noise—children shouting, teachers calling out names, the sound of bells cutting through conversations. This was a different kind of chaos. One she understood.
Her classroom smelled faintly of chalk and old wooden desks. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, dust particles floating lazily in the air. Siya placed her bag on the table, arranging her books neatly. Order calmed her.
When the students filed in, the room changed. Their voices filled the space, their energy bouncing off the walls. Siya watched them with quiet fondness. Teaching was the only place where she didn’t feel like she had to shrink or adjust herself. Here, her calm was an anchor.
“Good morning, ma’am,” they chorused.
“Good morning,” she replied, her voice steady.
She moved through the lessons with ease, explaining patiently, answering questions, noticing who was distracted, who was struggling, who needed an extra nudge of encouragement. She remembered things—small details about her students’ lives—and it made them feel seen.
By the time the last bell rang, her throat was dry and her feet ached slightly. But her mind felt lighter.
She packed her things slowly, as she always did. Outside, the sky had shifted to a softer shade, the kind that hinted at evening without committing to it yet.
As she stepped out of the school gate, she didn’t know that the day would end differently than it began. Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just… differently.
And for now, that was enough.
-
-
-
-
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.