School-story
Silence isn't always peace. Sometimes it feels like a shadow breathing beside you, louder than laughter and heavier than noise.
I never chose to sit alone. Life just placed me on the last bench one day and whispered, "Let's see how strong you are when no one claps for you."
When I entered Class 5, I was ten days late because I had been staying with my grandmother. New shift. New routine. New classroom. But I walked in with the same old comfort: my best friend. Or at least I believed she was. I had sat with her since Prep class. That seat felt like home.
Then a new girl entered. I smiled politely and said, "Could you sit with Riya? I always sit here with Sana." I wasn't rude. I was just a kid holding onto something familiar. But that tiny moment created a tiny crack that would someday split open.
The new girl, Meera, didn't just fit in—she sparkled. Confident, funny, handwriting so pretty it could get a marriage proposal from a stationery shop. I wasn't that girl yet. Spoiler alert: growth glow-ups exist.
Soon she became class monitor, and suddenly power came with a new vocabulary. One day I quietly whispered, "Please be quiet, I'm learning my poem." She snapped, "Stay in your limits. Everyone knows your place. If you wanted to study, do it at home. Don't act here."
I froze. I wasn't built for arguments back then. I was built for quiet survival. I looked around for support. Everyone looked away. Silence burns more when it comes from people who once called you friend.
That was the first crack in the old me. The quiet girl started learning how to grow a spine.
After summer break, I walked to my usual seat, expecting a smile. Instead, Sana was laughing with someone new. "I'm sitting here now," she said, like I was asking for her Wi-Fi password instead of space.
No explanation. No guilt. Just replacement.
Some friendships don't end. They evaporate.
So I took my bag and sat alone again.
Sana was the type who changed best friends faster than pencils lost their caps. I really saw it the day I asked for a pen refill during exams. She lied. Said she didn't have one. Minutes later, she pulled out three. It wasn't about ink. It was about trust.
From that day, I learned: some people sit beside you but never stand with you.
When I started raising my hand in class, some classmates rolled their eyes. One girl whispered, "Look at her trying so hard."
Trying is not shameful. Staying small to comfort others is.
Finding my voice hurt at first. Losing it forever would have hurt more.
During games period, when everyone split into groups—loud girls and quiet girls—I sat with the quiet ones. They talked. I listened. Physically present, emotionally invisible. I didn't want attention. I just wanted existence.
Later, Meera blamed me for seat changes. She needed a villain; I was convenient. I stayed silent because sometimes silence isn't weakness. It is choosing dignity over drama.
I sat alone from Class 6 to 8. Peaceful isolation beats fake companionship.
In 8th, a new girl, Anjali, arrived. She struggled with seating too. The teacher placed me with Sana again. They sighed, complained, acted like my existence was an inconvenience. Bags on floor. Tight space. Cold looks. One day Sana said, "Because of you, my bags get dirty."
I moved back to sitting alone. The teacher asked why. I smiled, "Peace is better than forced company."
Some "friends" only came near me when my tiffin opened. My sabzi had more love than I did. I watched them take most of my lunch while I ate dry roti like a side character in my own story.
I thought loneliness meant sitting alone. Turns out real loneliness is sitting with people who make you feel unnecessary.
Those years didn't just teach me English or maths. They taught me self-worth. They taught me that you don't always lose people. Sometimes you simply return them to the universe because you finally understand they were borrowed happiness, not home.
I didn't become louder. I just became unshakeable.
And trust me, the girl who learns to sit alone becomes the woman who never begs for a seat anywhere.
That first empty seat wasn't just a place. It was the beginning of a girl learning she could stand alone… and still rise. This was only the first chapter. The quiet girl isn't done yet.
— Written by Pragati Priya