When I became my own heroine

The school bell rang as if it were also yearning for freedom. In fact, it sounded like a fire alarm at the Civil Defense. Shiro stuffed her notebooks into her bag and swung them over her shoulder, cruising the crowded corridor like someone swimming against the current in a river of yawns. High school was supposed to be the best years of her life—at least, that's what the motivational posters and dusty teachers always said. But it felt like a slow prison sentence. Every day. Every day. As she stepped out into the sun, she stared at the sky. Bright. Open. Boundless. . . She averted her eyes because the bright lights weren't good for her eyes. Not like my life, she thought, reaching for her books. "Shirooooo!" A familiar, dramatic scream pulled her out of her thoughts. Reham. There she was—running down the stairs in her unironed school uniform, her backpack swinging like an umbrella behind her, her hair frizzy from the heat and chaos of the day. "You look like a sad main character from an old anime!" Reham smiled, caressing her arm. "Like—"Oh, the weight of existence!" Come on, lighten up." Shirou rolled her eyes but smiled. "I'm the main character. Just stuck in the wrong plot." Their walk home was brief, but filled with everything and nothing—Reham's latest chatter about the teachers' secret crush, a debate about which anime villain was right, and a shared bag of spicy potato chips that they both later regretted eating. It was really hot. For a few moments, she was able to forget. Forget the gray apartment building waiting like a monster at the end of the street. Forget the walls that looked like prison bars and the noise behind them. Forget that as soon as she walked through the front door, she was no longer Shiro—she was what everyone wanted her to be. As soon as she walked in, she was struck by the smell of overcooked lentils. The television was playing a soap opera her mother loved—dramatic music, a woman crying in slow motion—and her little brother was screaming from the living room. She sighed; it sounded like an Indian soap opera. "Oh, why are you back so early?" her big brother said. "I always stink. It's the smell of my soul," Shiro muttered to herself. He heard. He didn't laugh. He never laughed. Their relationship was built on cold stares and hushed fights. He hated her for reasons he probably couldn't explain. She hated him because it was easier than crying. She went to her room—not that it was really her room, but more like a corner with a curtain and a mattress. She took off her school uniform, threw it on the floor, sat down, and took a deep breath. "Shiro!" Her mother's voice came through the walls like a thunderbolt. Shiro flinched, thinking, "What do you want this time again?" She barely had time to respond when her mother burst in, waving something. "What's that? A pen mark on your sleeve?! You two are lazy! You don't even wash your clothes!" "I do," Shiro said coldly. "You just don't see it." A slap. It didn't hurt. Not exactly. She was used to it. It burned in her chest. "I'm sick of this house," Shiro whispered when her mother left. "I'm sick of being owned like... a broken vase you put on a shelf." She didn't have a phone. Because, God forbid, she might fall in love with one. As if a phone was a gateway to evil, rather than, well, a basic means of communication. Her mother always said, "Girls with phones become problems." But Shiro already felt like a problem—a problem they wished didn't exist. Since she was born, her father barely looked at her. And when he did, it was with tired, expressionless eyes. As if she reminded him of the life he hadn't lived. Money? They had enough to eat. Sometimes enough to buy clothes, despite the months apart. Middle-class? No. Happy? Absolutely not. That night, lying on her thin bed, staring up at the ceiling, Shiro made a promise to herself. She whispered so quietly the walls couldn't hear: "This isn't the end of my story. This isn't my whole life. This is just... the beginning of the part where I'll take back everything that was taken from me." She wouldn't be what they wanted. She wouldn't spend her days waiting for marriage, or service, or disappearance, or a man to protect her. Or to be saved by someone or some prince she knew wasn't in a fairy tale. She would become everything they said she couldn't be. Even if she had to crawl to get there. Not out of revenge. Not applause. But because she deserved to live her life fully, loudly, and freely. And freedom—as she now knew—would never be given to her. Freedom isn't given. It's taken away. The next day High school smelled of chalk dust, overcooked lentils from someone's lunchbox, and dreams that never made it past the hallway. The walls were a dull yellow, painted with patchy paint and scrawled curses in tiny, ugly script. Time had sucked the life out of them. They looked like old teeth—stained, cracked, and tired. Shiro walked down the main hallway, her head slightly lowered, not out of fear, but out of appreciation. Eye contact was an invitation—one she'd learned not to hand out easily. Especially so she wouldn't have to greet people. She was antisocial and didn't like talking to people. Her shoes squeaked. Her bag dug into her shoulder. Her uniform—too big for her frame—moved awkwardly as she walked, as if it didn't belong there. Which was perfect. Because she, too, didn't feel like she belonged. School wasn't a building. It was a cave, a prison-like structure. A concrete box with flickering lights and stifling rules. The windows looked out to the sky, but none of the students looked up. The whispers of girls applying lip gloss to the mirrors. The sound of a football hitting the wall outside. The raucous laughter of boys who were never asked to be young. It was all just background noise in a boring opera of routine. Shiro sat in the back of Row 3B, third seat from the left, under a broken ceiling fan that spun just enough to make you wish it would work—but it never did. She placed her chin in her hands and stared blankly ahead. "Is this it?" "Is this the life everyone pretends to be satisfied with? This doesn't satisfy me one bit." Her inner voice was sharp. Clear. But it wasn't loud enough to escape her lips. Reham sat beside her, drawing a sad picture in the corner of her notebook. “If this math class gets any more exciting,” she whispered, “I might explode with joy.” Shero smiled sarcastically. “Please, this will be the highlight of my school year.” They shared quiet laughter. It was a small revolt. In this place, even laughter seemed forbidden. The day dragged on. Until history class. Their teacher, Professor Adel, was a man with many books and little patience. He always wore the same brown jacket, and his skin smelled of ink and coffee. But today, he closed the textbook with a sigh. For the first time in a long time, he looked at them. He looked at them honestly. “You know,” he said slowly, “they tell you this is your life. That this room, this city, this uniform—that’s it. But it’s not. Life doesn’t start after school. Life happens now. And most people miss it.” The students erupted, some barely listening. But Shiro's heart was still. She blinked. She raised her head. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't joking. Mr. Adel continued, walking slowly past their desks. "They'll ask you to follow the rules. Stay calm. Don't dream out loud. Especially if you're girls. Because dreaming, for some of you, is dangerous." He stopped beside Shiro. Their eyes met. Then he said something that was etched in her memory: "But let me tell you a secret: Life isn't for the obedient. It's for the brave." Shiro didn't breathe for a moment. Brave. What a dangerous word. What a beautiful word. After class, Reham complained about her grades. Shiro had also received a bad grade. Someone else complained about the assignments. The noise returned. But Shiro didn't hear him. Not quite. Her mind was busy. Quietly. Deeply. As she walked home under the late afternoon sun, the streets looked the same—cracked pavement, faded posters, an old man in the shop shouting out prices—but something inside her had changed. Her body still moved in the same world. But her soul had just taken its first step... somewhere else. "I wasn't meant to be small forever," she thought. "They built a cage. But they forgot—I have claws." Then she went into the shop and bought a small piece of cheap chocolate that was delicious despite its price.