Mira sat by the cracked window of her one-room apartment, watching the rain blur the city lights into streaks of trembling color. The room smelled of damp clothes and yesterday’s instant noodles. Outside, life moved with an urgency she hadn’t felt in years. Her world was quiet now—too quiet.
Three years ago, she’d been a nurse. She wore clean uniforms, worked night shifts, smiled at tired patients, and saved what she could to care for her younger brother, Sameer. But when the factory he worked in exploded during a night shift, everything splintered. Insurance didn’t cover contractors. Lawsuits went nowhere. Sameer’s spine was shattered, and Mira lost more than a sibling that night—she lost her grip on hope.
Every day since had been a struggle, like wading through deep mud.
Mira worked odd jobs now—cleaning offices in the early morning, waiting tables at a run-down café by noon, and delivering food through an app until late at night. She hadn’t taken a full breath in months. Bills stacked on her nightstand like silent threats. The rent was overdue again, and the landlord had started locking the mail slot so the letters wouldn’t fall through and stain the carpet.
Sameer barely spoke anymore. He stayed in bed, staring at the peeling ceiling, sometimes blinking to her voice. The brightness in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by a dull ache Mira couldn’t reach. She read to him every evening, even when her voice trembled with fatigue—sometimes poetry, sometimes the news, sometimes letters she pretended were from friends.
Tonight, she came home soaked to the bone, her shoes squeaking, her fingers numb. She tossed her phone onto the mattress, peeled off her wet socks, and sat beside Sameer’s bed.
“I made enough tips to buy eggs,” she said softly, brushing hair from his forehead. “Maybe I’ll make your favorite tomorrow—egg curry with chili. Remember how Ma used to burn it, and we’d eat it anyway?”
He didn’t smile. Just blinked once. Mira took that as something.
She leaned her head against the bedframe, listening to the rain drum against the roof like a thousand tiny footsteps trying to reach them. The silence pressed hard.
“Do you think things get better?” she asked the darkness, not expecting an answer.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of rain, the hum of the old fridge, and her own breath, heavy with exhaustion.
Then Sameer blinked again. This time, twice.
Yes.
Mira laughed. It cracked through the stillness, raw and fragile. She hadn't heard herself laugh in weeks.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Then I’ll believe it, too.”
She reached for his hand, cold and limp but still warm with life, and held it as the rain continued to fall—steadily, endlessly, like time refusing to stop. And for the first time in a long time, Mira didn’t feel completely alone. The struggle wasn’t over, but maybe it didn’t have to be quiet anymore.
