Back in ninth grade in Punjab, things seemed off. Same school walls, Vikram still skulking hallways like trouble waiting to happen, Rishi showing up with that lopsided tie and ready with lines meant to shield her - but Dhanya now held something across miles, quiet and heavy between her ribs.

  Back then in Punjab, phone bills for overseas chats piled up fast - privacy? Not something Dhanya could count on. Each conversation felt like walking through a crowd whispering behind her.

  "Akka, the coast is clear," Shwetha whispered one evening.

  Midnight hummed through the house. Papa stayed late at work, his boots still by the door. Inside, Amma moved between stove and counter, knife hitting board in steady beats - tuk-tuk-tuk - a sound that swallowed smaller noises. Shwetha stood near the doorway, fingers loose around a phone she passed without speaking. Her help came with terms: one sweet treat saved, one secret kept. The air held its breath.

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  Three rings echoed through the air until a low, known voice answered.

  "Hello?"

  Franklin?” A whisper slipped out of Dhanya’s lips.

  Dhanya. Back in the north’s chill again? His words carried a warmth that erased every kilometer stretched between them. School had noise, but Franklin brought stillness - he’d talk of novels, of monsoon drops on ancestral roofs, even the hush left behind after the so-called Punjab sisters moved away.

  "It’s different here, Franklin," she said, huddled in the corner of the balcony. "Everything is about marks and discipline. I feel like I’m wearing a mask every day."

  "Then don't wear it when you talk to me," he replied.

  Lightness came through those talks. Short they were - not more than a few minutes, hushed tones filling the silence - yet only then did Dhanya shed the weight of being called the "Good Girl."