The Other Name

chapter 2

I picked it up gently. The lachrymatory.
A small, glazed bottle the color of faded sky, cool in my palm.
Baba had shaped it himself, one summer at the pottery barn. His hands around mine, guiding the soft clay,
laughing when it wobbled.
He said, "This is for your tears, Azra. So you never think they’re wasted. So you know that even sorrow has shape, has weight, has meaning."
I had forgotten it till now. But the moment I touched it,
everything came rushing back—
his voice, the warmth of the sun on our backs, the smell of wet clay and lemon iced tea.

I held it close, as if my grief could pour into it.

Then I turned.

Isla stood by the door, arms open. Her eyes were red, like mine, but her voice was steady.
“Your light still shines, Azra. It always has. Remember what your father used to say?”
I nodded into her shoulder, hearing him in her words.
“That light lives in you.”

I whispered, “I’ll keep visiting. I promise.”

Then I stepped into the car beside Arabella.
And the house I knew—the world I knew—slipped away behind me.

The car was silent.

Arabella had her hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, her face a porcelain mask—flawless, unreadable.
I sat beside her, clutching the lachrymatory in my lap, its surface still damp with the warmth of my hand.
Outside, the world blurred past, but inside me, everything was slow.
Heavy.
Each mile we drove was a thread pulling me farther from him.

The seat smelled like her perfume—cool, expensive, sharp like white lilies in glass vases.
Nothing like the warm cinnamon scent of Baba’s car.
I stared out the window, watching the sun fold behind buildings.
A part of me wanted to speak. To ask Arabella if she ever missed him.
If she remembered the way he used to hum while washing dishes.
But I couldn’t.

She didn’t speak either.

We just… drove.

I closed my eyes for a moment. And in that quiet, I imagined Baba’s voice again.
“Courage isn’t loud, Azra. Sometimes it’s just you… breathing through the pain, and still moving forward.”

The car finally turned into her driveway.

It was long, paved in dark stone, flanked by hedges trimmed so precisely they looked like they’d never dared to grow wild.
The gates had opened soundlessly, as if the house already knew we were coming.
Arabella’s mansion stood at the end, tall and pristine—like something out of a magazine I never wanted to live in.
Ivory walls, endless glass, a wide set of steps that led to doors taller than any person had a right to be.
The lights glowed a warm gold from the inside, but it didn’t feel like warmth. It felt like display.

As the car came to a smooth halt, a woman in a black uniform opened Arabella’s door before she even reached for the handle.
Another came for my side.
Their movements were efficient, professional, practiced. No questions, no welcome. Just duty.

I stepped out slowly, holding the tear bottle tight in my hand.
The gravel under my shoes made no sound—everything was too polished, too perfect.
Two more staff members appeared at the door, bowing slightly as Arabella walked past them, her heels clicking softly against marble.

The foyer opened like the entrance to a palace.
Clean lines, cool tones, polished floors that reflected the chandelier’s light like water.
A grand staircase curled up the side like a silk ribbon.
There were no photographs. No misplaced shoes. No forgotten mugs of tea.
Just space and silence.

One of the maids stepped forward. “Welcome home, ma’am. Your room is ready, Miss Azra.”

My room.

I didn’t even know what that meant here.

Arabella nodded, already halfway to the living room.
She didn’t look back at me, didn’t ask if I was okay.
She assumed I’d follow.
And I did.

Because where else could I go?

But even as I crossed that glossy floor, my heart stayed behind—somewhere back on that broken road,
where Baba once knelt beside me, wiping mud from my scraped knee,
telling me not to cry.

And now I had nothing left but a bottle for my tears,
and a house that had no space for grief.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The bed was soft, the sheets cool and expensive. The room smelled faintly of lavender, like someone had misted it for relaxation.
But it felt like a hotel room—too clean, too untouched.
There were books on the shelves, but none of them were mine.
The walls were pale cream. No posters. No scratches on the corners. No noisy fan that rattled like Baba’s old one.

I lay staring at the ceiling, the tear bottle beside me on the nightstand.
Everything here had been arranged for comfort.
But comfort doesn’t come in silk or scented candles. It comes from voices, laughter, memories.
And this room had none of those.

The silence felt padded and artificial, like the whole house was afraid of emotion leaking through the walls.

Next Morning

The next morning, I found my breakfast already waiting on a tray.
A maid had placed it by the window—perfectly cut fruit, eggs folded into neat corners, a glass of juice that looked untouched by air.
Arabella didn’t join me. She was already dressed, heels on, phone in hand, coordinating something about stocks and a board meeting.

“We’re going to visit your new school today,” she said smoothly, without looking up.
“Finish quickly. It’s a prestigious place, and I want you presentable.”

She glanced at me then. A pause. Then, softer, rehearsed:
“I know this is hard, Azra. But I’m doing what’s best for you.”

I just nodded. I didn’t have the strength to challenge her version of “best.”

At the School

The building itself looked like it had been carved from ambition—tall iron gates, historic architecture, clean lawns trimmed like manicured eyebrows.
Students passed by in perfect uniforms, their backs straight, their eyes sharp.
Arabella’s heels clicked confidently as we walked through the hall.
I kept close, my uniform too new, my heart too unsure.

In the principal’s office, the walls were lined with plaques and framed photos of alumni shaking hands with people in suits.
Principal Raman was tall, grey-haired, and polished like his mahogany desk.

Arabella smiled, offering her hand.

“Arabella Anouk. I believe you’ve already received my assistant’s call?”

“Yes, of course. Welcome, Ms. Anouk.”
He turned to me. “And this must be Azra?”

I nodded faintly.

Arabella placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, but it felt like it was more for the principal than for me.

“She’s exceptional. First in every class since she began school. National-level karate champion. Her father—” she paused, adjusting her tone “—recently passed, so I’ve brought her here for a new start.”

The principal nodded sympathetically.

“She must be very strong.”

Arabella smiled like it belonged in a magazine spread.

“She’s always been brilliant. But more than that, she carries my name. And I don’t take that lightly. I expect nothing short of excellence, and Azra has never disappointed.”

She turned to me, voice still warm, but her eyes instructing: say nothing foolish.

“You’ll enjoy this place, darling,” she said. “I’ve ensured everything is arranged for your comfort. The best deserves the best.”

Principal Raman looked pleased. “With a profile like hers, we’d be glad to have her. We’ll need a short evaluation test later, but I’m confident she’ll do well.”

Arabella nodded like it was already a given.

“I don’t raise mediocrity, Mr. Raman.”

Then, brushing a hand over my hair in a motion that almost felt tender—
but didn’t quite reach her fingers—she said, “I'll leave you to get familiar, Azra. I have a board meeting.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away.
Her perfume lingered longer than she did.

Break came, and with it, noise.
Chairs scraped softly across the floor, bags unzipped, water bottles clicked open.
Groups formed easily, like they always had been that way—like no one here ever had to wonder where they belonged.

I stayed seated.

Unwrapping the sandwich the maid had packed for me—whole grain bread, avocado, not a trace of spice or comfort.
It tasted like politeness.
Like something meant to impress, not nourish.

My eyes drifted to the window.
I imagined Isla beside me, unwrapping something loudly, probably chips she wasn’t supposed to bring.
Her laughter would’ve filled this too-perfect room like sunlight.
She would’ve elbowed me and said, "You’re making that face again, Azra. The one that looks like you’re doing calculus in your head."
And Baba—he would’ve shown up during lunch sometimes, just to bring me samosas in paper bags.
Just to say, “You’re not studying on an empty stomach, are you?”
Just to see me.

A lump rose in my throat.

And then I heard them before I saw them.

Three girls—flawless hair, flawless skin, voices smooth like practiced speech.
They approached with the kind of confidence only people who had never been on the outside could have.

“You’re Arabella Anouk’s daughter, right?” one asked, smiling like it was already a compliment to be recognized.

I nodded slowly.

“Oh my god, your mom’s like, everywhere,” another added, twisting her bracelet. “My dad invested in one of her firms last year.”

They sat without asking. Their words poured like gloss.

“Do you travel a lot? Like first class or private?”
“What perfume do you wear? You smell really—expensive.”
“Do you have the new Solène phone? I heard your mom has the platinum edition already.”
“My mom said your mom was on the cover of Forbes Luxe. Twice.”

I blinked. It wasn’t conversation.
It was inventory.
And somewhere between “do you have a stylist?” and “what’s your allowance like?”
I realized I hadn’t spoken a single word.
And they hadn’t noticed.

That’s when it hit me, sudden and sharp:

I didn’t belong here.

Not just in this group. Not in this building.
Not in this polished, careful world where everyone smiled with teeth but not eyes.
Where laughter was polite, not loud.
Where grief had no seat, and silence wasn’t comfort but threat.

They kept talking.

I quietly wrapped up the rest of my sandwich and slipped it back into my bag.
They didn’t notice when I stood and walked away.

Back to my corner.
Back to the window.

And I held onto one truth like a thread—
That somewhere, Isla was probably laughing at something ridiculous.
And Baba’s voice still lived inside me,
Even here.

Even now.

The bell rang.
Students rose with mechanical precision, packing bags that probably weighed less than what I was carrying inside me.

Outside, a black car waited, engine already running.
Of course. Arabella didn’t believe in delay or disorder.

I slid into the back seat. The driver offered a polite nod through the rearview mirror. I barely returned it.
As the car pulled away from the school gates, I watched the building fade into the distance—its clean walls, its careful trees, its iron gates that felt more like a cage than a shield.

I couldn’t breathe here.

I pressed my forehead to the window and thought, I have to leave this place. I have to go back home.
Back to where the walls had stories, not silence.
Back to where Isla was waiting.
Back to where Baba’s laughter still echoed in the corners.

I decided I would ask Arabella. Not with anger. Just truth. Just heart.

That Evening

Arabella was in her home office, surrounded by screens and files, on the phone with someone about international shares and expansion.
I hovered outside for a moment before knocking.

She looked up, mildly annoyed, and muted the call.

“What is it, Azra? I’m in the middle of something important.”

I stepped in, hands clenched at my sides.

“I want to talk to you,” I said, quietly but firmly. “It won’t take long.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Speak.”

“I want to go back. To my old school. I’ve tried, but… I don’t fit here. I don’t want to pretend like I do.”

She looked at me for a long second, then leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Azra,” she said with that careful, business-smooth voice. “You are not here to ‘fit.’ You are here to excel. To belong to something better. To rise.”

“But I don’t want this better,” I said, the words trembling in my throat. “I want real. I want my life back. Baba’s home. Isla. My school—”

“You’re being childish,” she cut in, tone cool. “You’re grieving. That’s understandable. But don’t confuse sentiment with decision-making. You’ll stay where you are. I’ve arranged the best, and I won’t have my daughter throwing it away.”

I stared at her. She was already turning back to her screen.

Conversation over.

That Night

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering against my ribs.

If words didn’t work, maybe actions would.
She cared about her name more than anything.
She didn’t want chaos in her polished world.

What if I brought chaos right to her doorstep?

The thought was ridiculous. Wild. Not like me.
But the longer I stared into the silent dark, the clearer it became.
If I couldn’t escape this place… I’d make her want to send me away.

The day dragged.

Lessons passed like distant noise, the teachers speaking in smooth, rehearsed tones, the students nodding along like marionettes. I sat in my corner, untouched by all of it, watching, waiting.

It was during the last period that I noticed them.

Three boys seated near the back—casual, slouched in their chairs, the kind who didn't need to try hard to not care.
One of them leaned over, whispering something. The other laughed, low and sharp.
Then, with a practiced hand, one of them reached into his backpack, pulled out a cigarette pack, and slipped it into his pants pocket under the desk.

They thought no one saw.

But I did.

They moved like they were used to being invisible. Or feared.

When the bell rang, they didn’t join the flow of students heading for the exit. Instead, they took the back hallway, near the storage rooms and computer lab.

I followed.

My footsteps were light, deliberate. I stayed far enough not to alert them but close enough to track where they went.
They slipped into the old computer lab. At least that’s what it looked like.

I hesitated for a second. Then pushed the door open.

Inside, the air was thick—old machines humming, dust catching the sharp rays of light through the blinds.
They didn’t notice me at first. One of them was typing furiously on a keyboard, code flashing across the screen. The others stood around him, watching.

The smell of smoke clung to the room.

“You’re going to get caught,” I said.

They froze.

All three turned to me at once.

The one at the keyboard narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

I stepped in, slowly. “Azra.”

“The golden girl?” another said, scoffing. “What—did you come to report us to your perfect mommy?”

I smiled. Cold. “Actually… no. I came to join you.”

Silence.

The first one stood up, folding his arms. He had this half-smirk like he didn’t believe me yet.
Tall, lean, sharp-jawed—he had the air of someone who knew he could break rules and walk away clean.

“You? What are you going to do? Report us, then act like a rebel to impress someone?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I want in. I saw what you were doing. You’re hacking the test scores.”

“So what if we are?”

“I want in on that. On all of it.”

Laughter, low and disbelieving, rippled through them.

“What—your mom didn’t buy you the right exam results?” the one leaning against the desk said. “Or are you just bored of playing perfect?”

I looked him straight in the eye. “I want out. Out of this life. Out of this school. The only thing she listens to is reputation. If I ruin hers, she’ll send me back. That’s the goal.”

They exchanged glances.

The leader—the one who had been typing—tilted his head.

“You think acting out a little will shake someone like Arabella Anouk?”

“No. But enough chaos in the right places? Enough headlines? She’ll bury me fast. She doesn’t clean mess—she cuts it off.”

He studied me for a long moment. Then, he gestured to the fourth monitor.

“You ever used Kali Linux?”

“No.”

“You ever jailbroke a system?”

“No.”

He grinned.

“Then you’ll learn. Fast. If you screw up, we all burn.”

“I won’t,” I said.

He held out his hand. “Zayden.”

I shook it.

“Welcome to the shadows, Azra Kailan.”

And just like that, I stepped off the path she carved for me
and into one I’d build myself—with fire.

When I reached the house, the sky was already slipping into twilight.

I had walked the whole way—slow, deliberate steps, letting the minutes stretch just to see how far I could push the silence before it broke.

As soon as I stepped inside, I heard her voice.

“Where have you been?”

Arabella stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded, eyes blazing sharp through the dim light.
Her voice echoed down, cold and cutting.
“The driver waited for over an hour. Your phone was off. Do you have any idea what kind of scene you’ve caused?”

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t even look at her.

Just walked past, my footsteps soft against the marble, up the stairs, down the hallway, into my room.

I closed the door.

Didn’t lock it.

Didn’t explain myself.

I didn’t need to.

She’d spent my whole life turning me into something perfect.

Now she could watch what happened when perfection broke.

Next Morning

I was still half-asleep when the knock came—sharp, quick, and immediately followed by the door swinging open.

Arabella stood there, phone in hand, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Get up.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Get. Up. Now.”

Her voice wasn’t raised. It was worse than shouting. It was the sound of something being held back by pure force of pride.

She tossed the phone onto my bed.

The principal’s voice echoed from the speaker. Calm. Professional.
But every word was a match.

“—deeply disappointed. We’ve discovered a hacking attempt on the grade system. Your daughter’s login credentials were used. Three other students were involved, but all of them gave her name when questioned. She instructed them, if caught, to blame her. We take this breach very seriously—”

I didn’t listen to the rest.

Arabella snatched the phone away and ended the call without a word.
She stared at me. Not like a mother. Not even like a person.
Like a brand looking at its first public flaw.

“You told them to use your name?” she said slowly, like she still couldn’t believe it.

“I told them the truth,” I said, voice flat.

Her silence cracked.
The fury came in full force.

“Are you insane? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
She was pacing now, heels striking like fire against the floor.
“You think you can play the rebel and it won’t touch me? That you can throw tantrums in my name and I won’t burn with you? My name is on headlines. On contracts. On companies that rely on image. You are dragging me down with your childish, reckless—”

“I never asked to carry your name,” I cut in quietly.

She froze.

For one breath, the room felt like it had stopped breathing too.

“You were gifted that name,” she said, voice dropping to something venomous.
“You were raised by someone who couldn’t even afford to buy you a future, and now you dare shame the one person who’s given you everything?”

I met her gaze without flinching.

“You gave me a mansion,” I said. “You never gave me home.”

Arabella stepped back like I had slapped her.

And for once, she had no words.

Arabella was still in my room.

She hadn’t left after that call.
She walked back and forth across the floor, the sharp rhythm of her heels tapping against the tiles like a metronome for her anger.
She wasn’t yelling now. She didn’t need to.
She moved like people do when their pride is bleeding but they refuse to let anyone see it—tensed shoulders, clenched fists, teeth pressed into silence.

I sat on the edge of the bed, still, watching her.

She finally stopped, turned to me.

“I can’t risk my name,” she said tightly. “Not for your rebellion. Not for your grief. I’ve worked my entire life for what I have, and I will not let it crumble because of your childish need to be dramatic.”

She turned, her eyes scanning the room like she was calculating damage.

Then suddenly, she was pulling drawers open.
Yanking my desk apart.
Opening the wardrobe, the side pockets of my school bag.

“What are you doing?” I asked, standing.

She didn’t answer.

I stepped toward her. “What are you doing?”

She spun, her voice clipped. “You were holding on to something. That bottle. That tear vase. Where is it?”

Arabella held the tear vase like it meant nothing.

Glass. Fragile. Beautiful. Mine.
And yet, in her grip, it looked like it didn’t belong to anyone anymore.

“You’re going to a different school,” she said, her voice crisp, final. “I’ve already made arrangements.”

My stomach twisted. “What do you mean, different school?”

“A place where they don’t tolerate chaos. Where respect isn’t begged for—it’s earned.”
She paced again, her tone getting quieter, sharper. “Where children like you are shaped. Whether they want it or not.”

My mouth went dry. “You’re sending me away?”

“To a proper institution. With rules. Discipline. Consequences.”
She looked out the window like she could already see it in the distance.
“The dorms are… strict. Cold. Not made for comfort. And the staff don’t care about excuses. They care about order.”

She smiled slightly. Almost nostalgically. But there was no warmth in it.

“I’ve seen what that kind of place can do,” she added, almost to herself. “It’s not easy. But it works.”

I stared at her, heart pounding.

There it was. Not a confession—but a glimpse.
She didn’t have to say she’d been there.
It was all in her voice. That tight pride. That steel-coated memory she refused to name.

“You can’t be serious,” I whispered.

Her eyes flicked back to me. “Serious enough to pack your things. You leave in two days.”

“And the vase?” I asked, bitterly. “That’s part of the punishment too?”

She held it up in her fingers like something cheap off a shelf.

“You lost the right to carry symbols of grief when you started turning your pain into destruction.”

That broke something in me.

“You don’t get to take him from me too.”

“I already have,” she said simply, and walked out of the room with the tear bottle in hand.