The first thing I noticed about her was that she seemed strangely untouched by the room.
The first thing I noticed about her was that she seemed strangely untouched by the room.
The chair beneath her was old. The walls were stained with age. Dust floated through the afternoon light like tiny lost souls. Yet none of it appeared to belong to her. She sat there as though she had arrived from somewhere else entirely.
I was supposed to be listening
.
Instead, I found myself staring.
She was beautiful in a way that made me uncomfortable—not because beauty itself is frightening, but because it seemed impossible that such beauty could exist beside such sadness.
For a moment I forgot where I was.
I forgot that she was sitting in front of me.
I almost felt as though I had wandered into her world rather than invited her into mine.
Then she began speaking.
“I still remember the day I got my first period,” she said.
The sentence sounded ordinary.
Almost childish.
“I thought my life was over.”
A faint smile crossed her face.
“My mother explained that it would happen every month. Every month. As if that were a reasonable thing to tell someone.”
She laughed softly.
“There was the pain, of course. The stomach cramps. The headaches. The exhaustion. The dizziness. The strange feeling that my body had declared war on itself.”
She lowered her eyes.
“But that wasn’t the worst part.”
“The worst part was realizing what came with being a woman.”
The room seemed colder.
“I belonged to a conservative Muslim family. I dressed modestly. I covered my hair. I covered my body. I followed every rule that was given to me.”
She paused.
“It never mattered.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
She looked at me.
“The eyes.”
Her answer was immediate.
“The eyes always found me.”
She folded her hands together.
“No matter how much I covered myself, I could feel them. On buses. On streets. In markets. In classrooms.”
Her voice became quieter.
“Sometimes I wondered if becoming invisible was the only way to be safe.”
Outside, a bird struck the window and flew away.
Neither of us reacted.
“One afternoon I was returning home from tuition.”
The words came slowly.
“The bus was crowded at first.”
I listened carefully.
“Then people began leaving.”
One stop.
Then another.
Then another.
Until she was alone.
“The sun was still shining,” she said.
“I remember that part clearly.”
Her fingers tightened around each other.
“People always imagine darkness.”
She shook her head.
“But terrible things happen in daylight too.”
The silence stretched.
“The bus took a wrong turn.”
Something inside me tightened.
“I knew it was wrong immediately.”
She looked toward the window.
“I remember thinking that maybe I was mistaken.”
A weak smile.
“Human beings are talented at lying to themselves.”
The room felt smaller now.
The air heavier.
“I tried to leave.”
She swallowed.
“I tried to scream.”
Her voice faltered.
“I tried to fight.”
Then she looked directly at me.
“People always ask whether I resisted.”
The smile vanished.
“No one asks why resistance wasn’t enough.”
I could not answer.
She continued.
“The days that followed stopped making sense.”
A shadow passed across her face.
“There was a room.”
She paused.
“A room where time became sick.”
I didn’t understand.
Neither, apparently, did she.
“Morning and night stopped existing. Hours stopped existing. Sometimes I woke up. Sometimes I lost consciousness.”
Her gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the walls.
“They came and went.”
The sentence was simple.
That made it worse.
“They treated suffering like entertainment.”
Her voice remained calm.
Too calm.
“As though another human being could be reduced to an object.”
She rubbed her hands together absentmindedly.
“I was beaten when I spoke.”
A pause.
“Beaten when I remained silent.”
Another pause.
“Mocked when I cried.”
The room seemed impossibly quiet.
“They laughed.”
For some reason that single detail felt heavier than everything else.
“They laughed while I begged.”
Her eyes grew distant.
“I remember realizing something.”
“What?”
“That cruelty does not always come from anger.”
I stared at her.
She continued.
“Sometimes people hurt others because they enjoy having power.”
The words settled into the room like stones.
“They wanted fear.”
She looked at me.
“So eventually I stopped giving it to them.”
I blinked.
“What do you mean?”
A tired smile appeared.
“I left.”
I frowned.
“You escaped?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
The smile remained.
“I left before my body did.”
For the first time, I didn’t know what she meant.
But somehow I understood.
“The mind can only carry so much pain,” she whispered.
“So one day it begins walking away.”
The room seemed darker now.
The sunlight had vanished.
Or perhaps I had stopped seeing it.
“I stopped counting the days.”
She stared at the floor.
“I stopped hoping.”
A pause.
“I stopped being afraid.”
Another pause.
“And then I stopped being alive.”
The sentence arrived gently.
Almost peacefully.
No tears.
No anger.
No dramatic conclusion.
Simply a fact.
The way someone might describe rain.
Or winter.
Or the setting of the sun.
Then she stopped speaking.
And suddenly something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
I looked around.
The room no longer resembled my office.
The walls were gone.
The furniture was gone.
The air smelled metallic.
Heavy.
Unnatural.
A strange ringing filled my ears.
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
And then I understood.
Till she was finished with her story, I realized I was standing right in front of her.
Her dead body.
A beauty turned into something the human mind refused to recognize.
Was I crying? Was I shocked? Was I traumatized? Was I dreaming? I don’t know. I don’t know who she is. I just know she was just like me.
But the good news is she was lifeless. Finally dead.
She was in peace. The suffering has ended.
I sat there staring blankly.
Was she me?
