That night, after the cafeteria wars and the paratha victories, Riya collapsed onto her bed like she'd survived a marathon. Which, honestly, lunch at St. Mary's basically was something.
Her room was its usual disaster zone. Textbooks scattered across the floor. Megha's rejected outfit, suggestions draped over the chair. A half-eaten packet of chips on the nightstand. And there, hanging on the back of her door like a neon accusation, was the pink top.
Megha had bought it for her last week. Shoved it into her hands with that look—the one that said "trust me, this will change your life."
"It's cute!" Megha had insisted.
"It's pink," Riya had replied.
"Exactly! Pink is confident. Pink is bold. Pink is—"
"Pink is loud."
"So are you."
Riya had stuffed it in her closet and pretended it didn't exist. But now, lying in bed with me open on her lap, she couldn't stop staring at it.
---
She clicked her pen. Chewed the cap. Started writing.
Dear Lunch Box
You ever look in the mirror and feel like it's showing you the wrong person? Like, that's my face. My body. My hair doing that stupid thing where it refuses to cooperate. But it doesn't feel like ME.
Megha says the pink top will "change my energy." As if a shirt has magical powers. As if wearing something bright will suddenly make me someone people notice.
But maybe that's the problem. Maybe I don't want to be noticed. Being invisible is safer. Quieter. Easier.
Anyway. The top's still hanging there. Judging me.
We'll see.
—
She closed me, shoved me under her pillow, and rolled over. But sleep didn't come easy. Because deep down, she knew what Megha meant.
The pink top wasn't about fashion.
It was about being seen.
---
The next morning, Riya woke up to her mom banging on the door.
"Riya! School! NOW!"
She groaned, stumbled out of bed, and stood in front of her closet. Her usual black hoodie hung there like an old friend. Safe. Comfortable. Invisible.
Next to it, the pink top practically glowed.
She grabbed the hoodie. Paused.
Looked at the pink top again.
What if I just... tried?
Her hand hovered between them. Heart racing for no logical reason. It was just a shirt. Just fabric. Why did it feel like choosing a side in a war she didn't sign up for?
She grabbed the pink top. Pulled it on before she could change her mind.
Looked in the mirror. And immediately regretted everything.
It was so pink . Like, aggressively pink. The kind of pink that demanded attention. The kind that said look at me when all she wanted was to blend into the walls.
She yanked her hoodie on over it. Zipped it halfway. The pink peeked out, but at least it wasn't... everywhere.
"Progress, not perfection," she muttered to her reflection.
Her reflection didn't look convinced.
---
At the bus stop, Varun spotted it immediately.
"Whoa. Did Barbie throw up on you?"
Riya glared. "Say one more word and I'm telling Aunt Sunita you ate the last three samosas."
His face went pale. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
He shut up.
Megha, of course, screamed. Literally. Loud enough that a stray dog started barking.
"OH MY GOD YOU'RE WEARING IT!"
"Megha. Volume."
"THIS IS HUGE! Character development! Growth! I'm so proud of you!"
"It's just a shirt."
"It's a STATEMENT."
Riya wanted to crawl into a hole. But also? Part of her felt... proud? Scared? Both?
Kabir didn't say anything. Just looked up from his sketchbook, raised an eyebrow, and smiled. Not a teasing smile. The quiet kind. The kind that said yeah, it suits you.
And suddenly, the pink didn't feel so loud.
---
First period: History with Professor Sharma.
Riya slid into her seat, hoodie still half-zipped. Safe. Hidden. Normal.
But Megha had other plans.
"Take it off."
"What?"
"The hoodie. Take. It. Off."
"Megha, I swear—"
"You wore the top. Now own it."
Riya looked around. Everyone was settling in, pulling out notebooks, ignoring her completely. No one cared what she was wearing. So why did it feel like the entire world was watching?
She unzipped the hoodie. Slowly. Like defusing a bomb.
The pink top was fully visible now.
Megha grinned. "There she is."
Riya felt naked. Exposed. Like she'd shown up to school in her pajamas and forgotten to notice.
Then, from two rows back, she heard it.
A whisper. Quiet, but sharp enough to cut.
"Why is she trying so hard?"
Her stomach dropped.
Another voice. "Pink's not really... flattering on her, is it?"
She wanted to zip the hoodie back up. Disappear. Pretend she'd never tried.
But then Megha reached over and squeezed her hand under the desk.
"Ignore them," she whispered. "They're just mad you look good."
Riya didn't feel good. She felt like a target.
But she didn't put the hoodie back on.
---
By lunch, the whispers had multiplied.
Some people complimented her. "Oh, cute top!" But was it genuine? Or pity? Riya couldn't tell anymore. Some people just stared, and she didn't know if they were judging or curious or mocking. And some people—like Naina—said nothing. Just looked. With that expression that said interesting choice.
Riya sat at their usual table, tiffin open, appetite gone. Megha was ranting about some Reel drama. Varun was stealing her pickle. Kabir was sketching in the corner. But Riya was somewhere else entirely. Trapped in her own head, replaying every whisper, every glance, every moment she felt too big, too bright, too much.
"You okay?" Kabir's voice, quiet as always.
She looked up. He was watching her. Not her shirt. Her.
"Yeah. Just... tired."
He didn't push. Just slid something across the table.
A folded piece of paper. She opened it.
A sketch. Her, sitting by the window, pink top catching the sunlight. Hair messy. Face thoughtful. Real.
At the bottom, one word: Unfiltered.
She stared at it. Then at him.
He shrugged. "You look like you. That's good."
"Good? I look like a highlighter."
"Yeah. But you look alive."
Something in her chest cracked open. Just a little. Just enough.
She folded the sketch carefully. Tucked it into her bag next to me.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
He just nodded and went back to drawing.
---
That afternoon, during break, Riya found herself in the bathroom. Staring at the mirror again.
The pink top stared back.
She still wasn't sure about it. Still felt too visible. Too exposed. But then she remembered Kabir's sketch. The way he'd drawn her—not perfect, not filtered, just... her. And she thought about the whispers. The judgment. The way people wanted her to shrink, to hide, to apologize for taking up space.
Screw that.
She straightened her shoulders. Looked herself in the eye.
"Okay," she whispered to her reflection. "Maybe I'm not ready to love this yet. But I'm not going to hate it either."
Her reflection didn't argue.
---
That night, she pulled me out again.
Dear Lunch Box,
So I wore the pink top today. And it was... weird. Some people loved it. Some people whispered. Some people didn't care.
But you know what? I survived. I didn't hide. I didn't apologize.
Kabir said I looked "alive." I'm not sure what that means, but I think I get it. Like, maybe being seen isn't about looking perfect. Maybe it's just about being real.
Also, some girl said pink isn't "flattering" on me, and I spent twenty minutes imagining creative ways to "accidentally" spill juice on her. I didn't do, obviously. But I thought about it.
Anyway. Tomorrow I'm wearing it again. Not because I'm confident. Just because I can.
Baby steps, right?
—
She drew a little doodle next to the words. Her, in the pink top, giving a peace sign. Messy hair. Big smile.
And at the bottom, she wrote:
If life's a runway, I'm the model who missed the cue but still rocked the walk.
I soaked up the ink, the smudged fingerprints, the weight of her honesty.
And I thought: Yeah. That's my girl. Not perfect. Not fearless. Just brave enough to try.
---
The next morning, she wore the pink top again. No hoodie this time.
Her mom did a double-take. "Beta, you look nice!"
Varun whistled. "Dang, didi's got style now."
Megha practically tackled her. "I KNEW IT! You're glowing!"
And at school, when she walked into class, the whispers were quieter. Not gone—but quieter. Naina glanced over. For a split second, something flickered in her eyes. Not jealousy, exactly. More like... surprise. Maybe even respect.
Kabir just smiled from his corner.
And Riya? She sat down, pulled out her notebook, and started doodling. Not hiding. Not performing. Just existing, In pink. Out loud.
And somehow, that felt like winning.
---
But then, during fourth period, Megha leaned over with that lookon her face. The one that meant trouble.
"So," she whispered, "the talent show sign-ups are today."
Riya's stomach dropped. "No."
"Hear me out—"
"No."
"You'd be do something amazing on the stage."
"Megha. I will kill you now, if you going stop this rubbish"
"Too late. I already signed you up."
"Megha, you—"
And just like that, the pink top confidence? Tested.
Lets see , what riya will do standing on stage in front of three hundred people?
That was a whole different kind of visibility.