My blue jeans hugged every curve like they'd been stitched onto my skin. They looked incredible in the mirror. Out here, though, they felt like punishment every step sent a dull ache crawling up my legs, my heels striking the pavement in sharp, rhythmic clicks that echoed through the quiet evening. The fading sun painted the streets in amber and gold, but I barely noticed. My entire body was focused on surviving the walk home without collapsing dramatically in the middle of the road.

"Oh, God..." I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. "Why did I think these were a good idea?"

Beauty really was pain.

By the time my street came into view, relief settled over me like a warm blanket. Home. Almost there. Almost safe. Almost free from pretending I wasn't one bad step away from ripping these jeans off and setting them on fire.

Then I looked up, and my soul quietly left my body.

"Oh... no."

Mom stood at the gate with a frying pan hanging casually from one hand. She wasn't shouting. She wasn't pacing. She simply stood there, watching me with an expression so calm it made my stomach twist. That was worse. Much worse.

A nervous smile found its way onto my face, the kind people wore moments before their execution. I considered turning around and pretending I'd walked into the wrong neighborhood. Too late. She had already seen me.

"Mom..." I began cautiously, forcing an innocent smile. "You're still awake?"

She didn't answer. She just kept staring — the kind of stare only mothers possessed, one capable of peeling away every excuse before you even spoke it aloud.

My heartbeat stumbled. Well, Kriti... this is how you die.

Before I could invent a believable lie, her fingers shot forward and caught my ear in a merciless grip.

"Ow! Mom!" I yelped, stumbling after her. "Please! Please let go! I swear I'll never do it again!"

"Oh?" she asked, twisting my ear another fraction. "Which part won't you do again? The part where you disappear for hours? Or the part where you switch off your phone and make your mother think something terrible has happened?"

"I didn't switch it off!" I cried.

She raised an eyebrow.

"...Probably."

Her grip tightened.

"Okay! Fine! Maybe I did! Maybe the phone died! Maybe I forgot to charge it! There are many possibilities!"

"Kriti."

"Yes?"

"You think this is funny?"

"...No?"

"It sounds like you do."

"It absolutely isn't."

She finally released my ear, though the disappointment in her eyes hurt far more than the pain ever had. The sting faded almost instantly, but the guilt remained, settling deep in my chest like a stone.

"I was worried," she said quietly, her voice softer now. "Do you know how many times I called you?"

The playfulness disappeared from my face. I couldn't even bring myself to meet her eyes. Instead, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her, resting my forehead against her shoulder like I had a thousand times as a child.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered. "I really am. I was about to leave college, but my teacher handed me another assignment. I thought I'd finish it quickly... I didn't realize how late it had become."

She let out a tired sigh, the kind only mothers seemed capable of carrying.

"You could've called me."

"I know."

"You could've borrowed someone's phone."

"I know."

"You could've sent one message."

"I know..." I mumbled, my voice barely above a whisper.

For a long moment, she didn't say anything. Then her fingers slipped into my hair, smoothing it back with a tenderness that had never changed, no matter how old I became.

"Don't scare me like that again."

"I won't."

This time, I meant it.

She studied me for another second before gently taking my hand and leading me inside. Even now, she held onto me the way she had when I was little, as though letting go might somehow make me disappear.

Our house wasn't grand. It never had been. The paint had faded over the years, and the furniture had long since lost its shine, but every corner carried memories that no amount of money could ever buy. It smelled of sandalwood, warm spices, and home. To anyone else, it might have looked ordinary. To me, it was the only place where the noise inside my head ever went quiet.

"I'll heat the food," Mom said, disappearing into the kitchen.

"I'll freshen up first."

I dropped my bag beside the couch and plugged my phone into the charger. The black screen lit up immediately. Twenty-three missed calls. My stomach twisted. Most of them were from Mom. A few were from my teacher. I closed my eyes for a second, silently cursing myself. Brilliant, Kriti.

I climbed the stairs and pushed open my bedroom door... and a smile found me before I even realized it. The room was spotless. Every sketch that had been scattered across my desk now sat neatly stacked. My pencils rested inside their holder, gemstones were sorted into tiny glass containers, and the half-finished jewelry pieces I'd left lying around had been arranged with impossible patience.

Mom. Of course. She always cleaned my room without saying a word, pretending she hadn't touched anything.

A quiet laugh escaped me. Being a jewelry designer meant living in constant chaos. Inspiration arrived without warning, usually at three in the morning, and left behind mountains of sketches, tracing paper, loose gemstones, and unfinished ideas. Cleaning was always tomorrow's problem. That, and I was hopelessly lazy.

I grabbed a pair of black sweatpants and an oversized pink T-shirt before making my way into the bathroom. The moment the cold water cascaded over my body, every aching muscle sighed in relief. I closed my eyes, letting the steady rhythm of the shower wash away the dust, exhaustion, and lingering frustration of the day. Vanilla-scented shower gel foamed beneath my fingertips as I worked it across my skin, humming softly to a tune that had been stuck in my head since morning. For a few precious minutes, the world disappeared. No expectations. No deadlines. No revenge. Just silence.

I turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around myself before stepping into my room. Tiny droplets rolled lazily down my shoulders while the cool night air drifted through the open window. Reaching for my moisturizer, I massaged it into my skin, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla and citrus.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and paused.

"Hmm..." I tilted my head dramatically. "Look at you."

The woman staring back looked entirely too pleased with herself.

"If some poor man ever manages to marry you," I said, pointing accusingly at my reflection, "he deserves a national award for surviving this much perfection."

I spun once, struck a ridiculous pose, and blew myself a kiss. "You're welcome."

A laugh escaped my lips. Call me vain if you want. I preferred confidence. Life had taken too much from me already ...I refused to let it steal the ability to love the woman staring back at me.

I changed into an oversized pink T-shirt and loose black pajamas before tying my damp hair into a lazy ponytail. The soft cotton settled against my skin, finally replacing the torture device I'd proudly called jeans. Much better.

Grabbing the small box of sweets I'd bought on the way home, I wandered downstairs. The familiar aroma of spices wrapped around me the moment I stepped into the kitchen. Mom stood by the stove, humming softly as she stirred the curry, completely unaware that the smell alone was enough to make me forget every miserable step I'd taken on the walk home.

I placed the sweets on the dining table before lifting the lid off one of the serving bowls. My eyes widened. Chicken. My favorite. I didn't even bother pretending to have manners.... I stole a piece straight from the bowl and popped it into my mouth. A satisfied hum escaped me. "Oh, wow..."

Mom turned just in time to catch me red-handed. "Kriti."

"What?" I asked innocently, chewing as if nothing had happened.

"You couldn't wait thirty seconds?"

"I was conducting quality control."

She rolled her eyes, though the smile tugging at the corners of her lips betrayed her.

"The quality seems excellent," I declared dramatically. "Five stars. The chef deserves a raise."

She laughed a soft, genuine laugh that filled every empty corner of the house. "There is no raise."

"Then at least promote yourself."

She shook her head and set another bowl on the table. "You and your nonsense."

"I get it from you."

"I have no idea where you get it from."

"Lies."

Still smiling, she sat across from me. For a little while, neither of us spoke. There was something comforting about the silence not the lonely kind, the peaceful kind, the kind only shared between people who never needed words to understand each other.

I scooped some paneer curry onto my plate before stealing another piece of chicken. "This is illegal."

Mom frowned. "What is?"

"This food. It's too good."

She laughed again, shaking her head. "I swear, whoever marries you is going to spend half their life listening to your nonsense."

"Only half?"

"The other half they'll spend apologizing."

I gasped dramatically. "My own mother has no faith in me."

"I have plenty of faith." She reached across the table and gently brushed a strand of hair away from my face. "I just know my daughter."

Something inside me softened. Mom had always looked at me like I could conquer the world — even on the days I couldn't conquer myself.

"So..." she asked after a moment. "How much longer is your internship?"

"One month."

"And after that?"

"I've got an interview." I picked absentmindedly at my food. "Ma'am also told me there's a jewelry competition coming up. She doesn't know who's hosting it yet, but apparently it's a huge opportunity."

Mom's eyes lit up instantly. "I already know who's going to win."

I looked up. "You."

I laughed. "You haven't even seen the other contestants."

"I don't need to." She smiled with complete certainty. "My daughter has worked harder than anyone I know."

The words settled somewhere deep inside me. Most people saw jewelry ...pretty necklaces, diamond rings, sparkling stones. They never saw the sleepless nights, the countless failed sketches crumpled into the bin, the cuts decorating my fingertips from stubborn metal wires, the frustration, the sacrifices. Every design I created carried a piece of me, and every success belonged to one person. Mom. She had sacrificed more than anyone ever should. Everything I became , everything I would become would always belong to her first.

A familiar ache tightened in my chest. Then another face slipped quietly into my thoughts. Dad. For a heartbeat, I could almost hear his voice. The smile disappeared from my lips, and I lowered my head, pretending to focus on my food before the tears gathering in my eyes could betray me. Not now. Mom would notice. She always noticed.

After dinner, I carried our plates to the sink while Mom busied herself wiping down the table. I disappeared into the living room and returned a moment later with a small gift box tucked behind my back.

"Mom."

She looked up from the kitchen. "Hmm?"

"I got something for you."

A crease appeared between her brows as she walked toward me. "For me?"

I nodded, unable to hide the grin tugging at my lips.

She accepted the little box carefully, turning it over in her hands as though trying to guess what was inside. "What is it?"

"You'll ruin the surprise if you keep asking questions."

"Oh? So now I'm not even allowed to ask?"

"Nope."

"Bossy."

"I learned from the best."

Rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience, she lifted the lid. For a second, she simply stared. Then her entire face lit up. "My favorite sweets."

The excitement in her voice carried the same childlike wonder it always did whenever someone remembered the little things about her. A warmth spread quietly through my chest. No matter how difficult life became, she never stopped finding happiness in the smallest moments.

"They're all yours," I said.

She looked at me with mock suspicion. "You're not planning to steal them later?"

I placed a hand dramatically over my heart. "You wound me."

"You've stolen them before."

"That was... research."

She laughed, the sound filling the house so effortlessly that I wished I could trap it inside a glass bottle and keep it forever. Without another word, she pulled me into a hug. I wrapped my arms around her automatically, resting my cheek against her shoulder.

For a heartbeat, the world felt safe. If heaven existed, I imagined it felt like this. Warm. Quiet. Home.

"Thank you, my love," she whispered.

My eyes drifted shut. "I should be thanking you."

She frowned slightly. "For what?"

"For choosing me."

She gently cupped my face. "As if I had another choice."

"You definitely didn't."

We both laughed. But somewhere beneath my smile, guilt lingered. She had sacrificed everything for me dreams, jewelry, comfort, a future she never got to live and she had never once complained. Not even when life gave her every reason to.

"I have to leave early tomorrow," I said, kissing her forehead. "Don't wait up if I get busy."

"I'll always wait."

The words were simple. Ordinary. Yet they settled inside my chest with an unexpected weight, because she meant them. She would always wait for me.

"I know."

I smiled one last time before climbing the stairs. The house gradually fell silent behind me, only the ticking wall clock and the distant chirping of crickets remaining. I pushed open my bedroom window, welcoming the cool night breeze that slipped through the curtains like an old friend. Moonlight spilled across my desk, washing over unfinished sketches and scattered pencils before settling against the worn pages of my design book.

I untied my ponytail, letting my hair tumble freely over my shoulders. The wind caught the loose strands immediately, dancing through them as though trying to tell me secrets I'd forgotten long ago. For a while, I simply listened. The silence wasn't empty. It breathed. It watched. It waited.

Then my phone vibrated against the desk. The sharp sound shattered the fragile peace surrounding me. I glanced at the screen. Ma'am.

I answered almost immediately. "Hello, Ma'am."

"Kriti!" she exclaimed, unable to hide her excitement. "I was waiting to tell you. Your application has been accepted."

I frowned. "My application?"

"The competition."

For a second, everything inside me stopped.

"What?"

"They accepted your design portfolio."

I shot to my feet so quickly the chair scraped loudly across the floor. "You're serious?"

"I've never been more serious."

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it real, uncontrolled, hopeful. The kind of laugh that hadn't belonged to me in a long time.

"Oh my God..."

"I knew you'd react like this."

"I actually got in?"

"You did."

I covered my mouth, trying to slow the ridiculous smile spreading across my face. Months of sleepless nights, countless failed sketches, every cut across my fingertips, every sacrifice  for the first time, it finally felt like they had meant something.

The laughter faded with the call. I lowered my phone onto the desk and leaned back in my chair, letting the silence settle around me once more.

Mumbai.

The word echoed through my mind like a promise. Or maybe a warning. If I won the competition, I wouldn't just earn an internship at one of the biggest jewelry companies in Asia I'd leave everything I'd ever known behind. Home. Mom. This tiny room that had witnessed every dream, every breakdown, every victory no one else had seen.

My fingers tapped absently against the wooden desk while my thoughts drifted somewhere between excitement and fear. How am I supposed to convince Mom? She had spent her entire life protecting me. How could I ask her to let me go especially to a city as ruthless as Mumbai?

I closed my eyes and drew a slow breath. One step at a time, Kriti. Win first. Convince Mom later.

The thought earned a small smile. Reaching across the desk, I pulled my design journal closer. Its worn leather cover had softened over the years, the edges curled from endless use. Every page carried a piece of my journey unfinished sketches, crossed-out ideas, coffee stains, fingerprints dusted with graphite. My story.

I flipped through the pages slowly. Some designs made me cringe. Some made me laugh. Others reminded me of nights when sleep had become a stranger because inspiration refused to let me rest.

Then my fingers stopped.

A necklace. Simple. Elegant. Painfully familiar. I traced the sketch with my fingertips as though I could feel the weight of the real piece beneath my skin.

Mom's necklace.

A lump formed in my throat. Years ago, she had sold it  not because she wanted to, but because she had to. My college fees had been due that week, and there hadn't been enough money. She never cried. Never complained. She simply removed the necklace her parents had gifted her on her wedding day, smiled at me as though nothing was wrong, and quietly walked out of the house.

She returned without it.

I remembered asking where it had gone. She'd smiled. "Jewelry can always be bought again, sweetheart."

No. Some things couldn't. That necklace had carried memories. Love. Family. A life she'd been forced to let go of so I could chase mine.

A tear escaped before I could stop it. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and looked at the sketch again.

"I'll make it for you," I whispered into the silence. "One day... I'll make it even more beautiful."

Not because she needed another necklace. But because she deserved to wear every sacrifice she had ever made with pride instead of regret.

I turned another page. Then another. My smile returned. The earlier sketches were terrible crooked rings, oversized earrings, necklaces that looked more like tangled vines than jewelry. A laugh slipped from my lips. "I actually thought these were masterpieces." God, I had been dramatic since birth.

The pages continued to turn beneath my fingertips. Every sketch marked another version of myself. The little girl who dreamed. The teenager who refused to quit. The daughter trying desperately to make her parents proud.

Then one drawing caught my attention.

I frowned. I didn't remember drawing this. The lines were too clean. Too confident. Too... perfect.

My pulse slowed. The signature wasn't mine.

My smile disappeared. A strange uneasiness crept beneath my skin. I looked at the next page. Then the next. The same handwriting. The same flawless designs. Every breath became heavier than the last.

"No..." My voice was barely audible. That wasn't possible.

I shoved my chair back and hurried toward the old bookshelf tucked into the corner of my room. It had stood there untouched for years. Most people would have thrown it away. I never could.

Sliding it aside with both hands, I reached into the narrow space hidden behind it. Dust coated my fingertips. Cobwebs clung to my wrist. Then my hand found it.

An old leather-bound book. Its cover was cracked with age. The pages smelled of time itself.

Carefully, I opened it. The first page fluttered beneath my trembling fingers. Then the second. The third. My breath caught.

The same necklace. The same ring. The same bracelet. Every design. Every single one.

They weren't mine.

They had belonged to him.I meant it.

Here's the first part. I hope you all enjoy reading it. 🖤 I just hope at least one person takes a moment to leave a comment.....it would truly mean a lot to me. See you on Wednesday!