She Stayed Because It Was Pretty There

By Sharda Gupta

they called her lucky —

because she never had to pay the bill

for her own silence.

because someone always pulled the chair,

held the door,

told her she was “too precious to bleed.”

they gave her things

soft enough to confuse her skin into forgetting

what it’s like

to be wild.

but she knew —

deep down,

a golden cage is still a cage.

she learned to smile

with lips stitched shut

and wear the dress of dignity

like it wasn’t choking her ribs.

they said,

"you’re so graceful,"

but never asked what it cost

to hold that much grace

in hands that only wanted to break things.

and maybe she stayed —

not because she was weak

but because the world made rebellion

look so ugly on her.

and she was tired

of being told

what beautiful should look like.

she kept hoping

that someone would see the cracks

not as flaws,

but as places where the light was trying to get in.

but they only saw the mess.

they only loved her

when she was unbroken,

quiet,

beautiful in ways they understood.

so she learned

to bleed internally —

to cry only in bathrooms

with the tap running.

to scream

in ways no one could hear —

like cleaning the kitchen twice

when she already did it once,

like over-apologizing

for taking up space.

she held onto the softness

like it was the last piece of her

they hadn’t touched.

but even softness can become armor

when the world sharpens itself

against you.

she started talking to the mirror.

not because it had answers,

but because it didn’t interrupt.

and one day,

she didn’t smile back.

she just stared,

and whispered,

“I miss you.”

not the woman they made,

but the girl she buried

under all the “shoulds.”

and that night —

not loud,

not dramatic,

not even brave —

she simply stopped asking

for permission.

to feel.

to be angry.

to want more

than survival in a silk dress.

and maybe,

the world won’t applaud her for it.

maybe they’ll say she lost her way.

but she knows —

losing their version of you

is the first step

to remembering

your own name.

she didn’t leave in fire.

there was no slamming door,

no suitcase dragging behind like a metaphor.

she just woke up

one morning,

and stopped folding herself.

she wore her voice

like skin.

not loud.

just present.

and when they said,

“you’ve changed,”

she didn’t flinch.

she smiled,

the kind of smile

that knows what it cost

to return to your own bones.

she still remembers

how easy it was

to disappear politely.

but now —

she writes her name

in full.

she takes seconds at the table.

she says no

and does not apologize

for surviving her own silence.

she plants flowers

not for the vase,man can do:

to stop performing her pain

and start living her truth.

no longer a hostage.

no longer a pretty prisoner.

just

a woman,

wild in her softness,

unapologetic in her becoming,

and finally —

free.

First, Be Human

disown all your privilege —

the velvet cages,

the praise wrapped in chains,

the softness used to silence you.

don't be a woman.

not first.

not only.

be human.

feel without asking.

speak without shrinking.

break without shame.

your freedom won’t come

wrapped in roses or rituals.

it will come

the day you stop being

what they told you you were born to be.

and start becoming

what your soul

has always known

you are.

By Sharda Gupta