Chapter 2: The Smile That Wasn't Hers
The sound of laughter echoed through the hallways, muffled by the thick wooden door. Jiha sat on the edge of her bed, her hands clenched in her lap, nails digging into her palms. She had been told to smile — again. Told to fix her hair, wear the dress, and pretend everything was fine.
The after-party had begun downstairs.
Her new stepmother's heels had clicked with authority just before she shut Jiha into her room. "You will attend," the woman had said coldly, smoothing the silk of her own gown. "You're the daughter of the groom. People are watching. Don't ruin it."
The lock had clicked, and Jiha hadn't moved since.
The air in the room felt heavy, like it was pressing down on her chest. She looked at the mirror again, the same one that held her tears earlier that day. But now, there were no tears. Just silence. Just a hollow reflection of a girl in a too-bright dress with a smile she didn't know how to wear.
Downstairs, she heard her father's voice — light, almost carefree.
He hadn't come to check on her. Not even once.
Not when she went quiet during the vows.
Not when she hesitated to step into the family photo.
Not even now, locked away like a secret.
He was too busy smiling, too busy being someone else's dream.
Jiha stood slowly and walked to the door. She pressed her ear to the wood, listening to the voices that celebrated a future she wasn't part of.
She whispered softly to herself, "I'm still here." But no one heard.
The dress clung to her like a costume. The room, though beautiful, felt like a cage. Her mother's photograph, hidden beneath her pillow, was her only anchor.
There was a knock — light, hesitant.
"Jiha?" It was the maid. "They're asking for you."
Jiha didn't answer. She smoothed her dress, adjusted her hair, and fixed her face into the practiced, empty smile they all seemed to need.
And without a word, she walked to the door.
Because sometimes, being brave meant showing up even when your heart begged you to run.