The Last Bench

By Nuzat Morve

SURVIVAL IS’NT ALWAYS A ROAR , SOMETIMES ITS THE QUITE STRENGTH TO KEEP GOING WHEN NO ONE’S WATCHING 

~QUIETLY SHE ROSE 

CHAPTER 1 : THE ARRIVAL  

The car slowed down at the iron gates of St. Marigold’s Girls’ Boarding School, its wheels crunching over gravel that sounded louder than Anaya’s own thoughts. She stared out of the window, watching the tall buildings rise beyond the gates—elegant, old, and far too quiet. 

Her hands trembled in her lap, fingers digging into the sides of her sketchbook. Not from cold, but from something heavier. Something she had no name for. Fear? Loneliness? The ache of being left behind? 

Her parents sat in silence, the kind that hurt more than yelling. Her mother checked her phone for the seventh time in a minute. Her father didn’t even say goodbye properly when the car came to a stop. 

No hugs. 

No "You’ll be okay." 

Just a hurried, distracted, "Take care." 

She didn’t cry. She wanted to, but she’d done that already last night, when she heard them arguing about who’d drop her off. It wasn’t about her—it never was. She was just a responsibility being passed around like luggage. 

A staff member took her to her class. Anaya walked with her head down, suitcase in one hand, sketchbook clutched to her chest like armor. 

“Your seat is there,” the teacher said, already turning away. “Last bench.” Of course it was. 

She slid into the seat quietly, placing her bag beside her. The classroom buzzed with noise— girls chatting, laughter bouncing off the walls, the smell of perfume and lunchboxes filling the air. No one looked her way. No one asked her name. She was just a shadow at the edge of their world.

But Anaya didn’t mind. 

The last bench felt like home. Tucked away, unnoticed. Safe. 

She opened her sketchbook and stared at a blank page. Her pencil hovered, but her hand didn’t move. What could she even draw? Her brother’s teary face from this morning? Her mother’s sighs? Her father’s silence? 

She flipped to the next page. Then the next. All empty. Like her. 

She bit her lip. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly, hoping no one saw. 

She pulled her sleeves down over her hands and whispered, “You’ll get through this, Anaya. You always do.” 

But deep down, she wasn’t sure if she believed it anymore.

CHAPTER 2 : ECHOES FROM HOME  

The dorm room smelled like polished wood and old bedsheets. Anaya stood in the doorway, suitcase at her feet, scanning the two empty bunks before choosing the one by the window. She didn’t care who’d arrive later. She just wanted a view—something to stare at when the silence in her chest grew too loud. 

She sat on the bed, letting her fingers trace the edge of the mattress. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t familiar. But it was hers now. 

She pulled out her sketchbook, the same one she hadn’t dared to draw in since she arrived. Still blank. Still waiting. Like her. 

That’s when the memories crept in—slow and uninvited. 

She saw her little brother, Ishaan, seven years old and full of questions he shouldn’t have to ask. 

“Why does Mum cry when she thinks we’re asleep?” 

“Is Dad going to stay this time?” 

“Can we go back to the way it was?” 

Anaya never had answers. She only had soft bedtime stories and tighter hugs. She became the silence between storms—the one who made sure the lights stayed off at night, that Ishaan didn’t hear the arguments echoing through the walls. 

When she left this morning, he handed her a folded piece of paper, his small fingers cold from holding it too long. 

“Don’t open it now,” he’d said. “Open it when you miss me.” 

She hadn’t opened it. Not yet. But now, sitting alone on a new bed in a room that didn’t know her name, she needed him. 

She unfolded the note. 

“You’re my superhero, Didi. Come back soon. Draw me something happy, okay?” — Love, Ishaan. 

Her hands trembled. 

A single sob escaped before she could catch it. She pressed the paper to her chest and curled into herself, like she could fold into nothing. No one saw. No one had to. She was good at being quiet. 

After a while, she sat up, wiped her tears, and opened her sketchbook.

This time, the pencil moved. 

She didn’t draw the arguments. She didn’t draw the fear. She drew Ishaan. 

Smiling. On a swing. Holding a balloon shaped like the sun. Happy—because that’s what he needed to see. And maybe, just maybe, what she needed to believe.

CHAPTER 3 : THE SMUDGE  

The morning came too early. 

Anaya blinked against the pale sunlight peeking through the curtain. For a moment, she forgot where she was—until the unfamiliar ceiling reminded her. This wasn’t home. No smell of burnt toast from the kitchen. No thump of Ishaan’s footsteps running across the floor. 

Just the soft hum of girls chatting, alarm clocks ringing, and shoes shuffling across polished floors. 

She got ready quietly, braided her hair like Ma used to, and slipped her sketchbook into her bag. It felt like her safety net—something solid in a world that still felt like it could collapse at any second. 

Classes passed like a blur. The teachers talked, chalk dust danced in sunlight, and Anaya… drifted. No one spoke to her, and she didn’t expect them to. She liked it that way, didn’t she? 

Until it happened. 

It was during History class. The teacher's monotone voice was describing wars and dates Anaya couldn’t care about. She’d placed her sketchbook beneath her textbook, shading a quiet sketch of a girl curled on a windowsill—half her, half someone else. It was something she did often: drawing pieces of herself she couldn’t speak aloud. 

When the bell rang, she closed the book quickly, but not quickly enough. Someone behind her had seen. 

“Hey… wait,” a voice called softly. 

Anaya froze. 

She turned, slowly. A girl with short curls and a sharp but curious gaze stood near her bench. Not mean. Not mocking. Just… observant. 

“Was that your drawing?” she asked. 

Anaya’s throat tightened. Her fingers curled around the edge of her desk. “Yeah,” she said, barely above a whisper. 

The girl smiled—small, but real. 

“It was beautiful.” 

Just that. No questions. No noise. Just… recognition.

Anaya blinked, unsure of what to say. No one had ever called her art beautiful before. At home, it was just something she did to "stay busy." 

“I’m Meher,” the girl added, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I like people who draw things they feel.” 

And with that, she left. 

Anaya sat there for a moment, stunned. Her heart was thudding, not from fear—but from something else. 

Was this what it felt like to be seen? 

She glanced at the sketch still peeking from the edge of her notebook. It had a smudge now, where her palm had rested too long over the pencil lines. 

Somehow, that smudge made it more real. Like proof she had been here. That her silence was starting to echo beyond just herself.

CHAPTER 4 : A CORNER OF COLOR  

The next day felt... different. 

Not because anything dramatic had happened. Not because the sky looked any bluer. But because for the first time in weeks, Anaya wasn’t entirely invisible. 

After morning assembly, as students buzzed out of the hall, Meher walked beside her. Not too close. Not demanding. Just… there. Matching her pace. 

“We have double Art today,” Meher said casually. “You’ll like the room. It smells like crayons and old magic.” 

Anaya looked at her, unsure if she should respond. But Meher didn’t expect her to. She just smiled and kept walking, humming under her breath. 

In the art room, the world shifted. 

Sunlight spilled through wide windows, falling onto easels, color palettes, half-finished canvases, and jars of brushes that stood like quiet soldiers. The scent of paint clung to the walls—raw, earthy, familiar. 

Anaya chose a table at the back, like she always did. But this time, Meher sat across from her. 

“Do you draw only in black and white?” Meher asked softly, her fingers playing with a stub of charcoal. 

Anaya paused. “Mostly. Colors… feel too loud.” 

Meher nodded, not laughing or questioning. “That makes sense,” she said. “But sometimes loud can be healing too.” 

They didn’t talk much after that. They didn’t have to. 

As the rest of the class splattered color on paper with messy energy, Anaya sketched quietly— a girl standing in the rain, arms outstretched, not trying to avoid it, but letting it fall. It was the first time her pencil had moved so freely since arriving. 

When the period ended, Meher waited while Anaya packed up. Then, as they left the room, Meher reached into her pocket and handed her something small and folded. 

“It’s nothing big,” she said. “Just something I wrote a while back. I thought maybe… you’d get it.” 

Anaya opened it later, back in her dorm, with her heart oddly full. 

It was a small poem. Just five lines.

Some people don’t shout. 

They whisper in lines and shadows. 

They stitch their soul into paper, 

hoping someone might read it 

before the ink fades. 

Anaya read it three times. Then once more. And for the first time since she arrived, she smiled. A real one.

CHAPTER 5 : SUNLIGHT AND SKETCHES  

Saturday mornings at St. Marigold’s were slower, like the whole school let out a sigh of relief. No ringing bells. No rushed breakfasts. Just time. 

The sky was painted a sleepy blue, dotted with cotton clouds that drifted like thoughts. Most girls were scattered across the grounds—some playing badminton, others chatting in groups or lounging on the grass. 

Anaya sat under a neem tree near the edge of the school’s garden, her sketchbook open on her lap. The shade fell in dapples across her page as she traced slow, careful lines of a tree— this very tree—but with birds nesting between its branches and a small child sleeping peacefully beneath it. 

Her mind was quiet. And it felt... good. 

“Room for one more?” Meher’s voice broke the silence gently. 

Anaya looked up and nodded. Meher dropped onto the grass beside her, tucking her legs beneath her and pulling out her own sketchpad—thinner, messier, colorful. 

They didn’t speak at first. Just drew. Side by side. 

Meher hummed softly, her pencil dancing in loose curves across the page. After a while, she turned to Anaya. “Can I tell you something weird?” 

Anaya glanced at her, curious. 

“Whenever I draw with someone and the silence feels good—like, not awkward—I know that person matters.” 

Anaya didn’t answer immediately. But she felt it too. That quiet between them wasn’t empty anymore—it was comforting. Like background music you didn’t realize you needed. 

She looked at Meher’s sketch. It was a messy, beautiful burst of color: two girls beneath a tree, the leaves above them shaped like stars. 

“You always draw in color,” Anaya murmured. 

Meher nodded. “Because it’s what I want to feel. Not always what I do.” 

Anaya’s chest tightened at that. It was like Meher had plucked a thought right out of her own heart. 

After a long pause, she whispered, “My brother… he used to sit beside me when I drew. He’d ask me to sketch dinosaurs and superheroes, and then he’d color them in. He was so bad at it —went outside the lines every time.” Her lips curved upward, eyes misty.

“But I never fixed it,” she continued, voice softer now. “I liked it that way.” Meher didn’t interrupt. She just listened. 

“He gave me a note,” Anaya added, brushing her fingers across her sketchbook cover. “Told me to draw something happy.” 

“And did you?” Meher asked. 

Anaya nodded. “I drew him holding the sun.” 

The girls sat quietly after that, sketching, remembering, healing. 

Somewhere between laughter from the playground and the rustle of leaves above, something changed. The grief didn’t disappear. But it breathed. It eased. It made room for light.

CHAPTER 6 : PAPER WALLS  

Sunday evening rolled in with golden skies and distant bells echoing from the chapel. Anaya sat at her usual corner in the library, sketching without thinking—just letting her pencil do the talking. 

She drew a girl standing in front of a tall wall. 

The wall wasn’t made of bricks, but… paper. 

Each sheet held pieces of her: A memory. A dream. A fear. A truth. 

Some pages fluttered in the wind, as if begging to be read. 

She didn’t notice the figure walking past behind her. Not until a soft voice cut through her thoughts. 

“That’s… breathtaking, Anaya.” 

Her heart skipped. 

She looked up. It was Mrs. Rosario, the Art teacher. She had a reputation for being tough, but passionate. Kind, but sharp-eyed. 

Anaya instinctively closed her sketchbook, fingers gripping the cover like armor. Mrs. Rosario sat across from her. 

“You’ve been hiding this talent,” she said, not unkindly. “Why?” 

Anaya shrugged. “I just… draw for myself.” 

Rosario nodded. “That’s where the best art comes from. But sometimes, the world deserves to see it too.” 

Anaya didn’t respond. Her throat tightened. 

“We have a student exhibition next month,” Rosario continued. “I’d like you to submit something. Actually… I’d like this.” 

Anaya’s chest rose and fell. 

The girl in the sketch—surrounded by her paper walls—suddenly looked more like her than ever. 

She nodded faintly, too stunned to argue. Rosario smiled, patted her shoulder, and left. 

And just like that, her drawings weren’t hers alone anymore. They were stepping out into the world.

Back in her room, her phone buzzed. 

Ma. 

Anaya stared at the screen, heart hammering. She hadn’t heard her mother’s voice in days. Not since the quiet goodbye at the train station. 

She picked up. 

“Anaya?” Her voice was soft, tired. 

“Hi, Ma.” 

A long silence. 

“How are you?” Ma asked, like she wasn’t sure she deserved the answer. Anaya swallowed. “Okay.” 

“Ishaan misses you. He... he made a drawing today. Said it was for you.” That cracked something in her. 

“He asked why you didn’t call him back yesterday. I didn’t know what to say.” 

Anaya turned toward the window, blinking away sudden tears. “Tell him I’m sorry. I just… forgot.” 

“He forgave you,” Ma whispered. “He said superheroes get busy sometimes.” A silence filled with held-back words. 

Then, her mother added softly: 

“Are you still drawing?” 

Anaya looked at her sketchbook on the bed. “Yes.” 

“Good. I’m glad.” 

Another pause. 

“Anaya?” her mother said, voice lower now. 

“Hmm?” 

“I know I haven’t always been… there. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.” Something shifted in Anaya’s chest. Hope—or fear. Or maybe both. 

“Okay,” she whispered.

After the call ended, she sat still for a long time. 

Then, without overthinking, she flipped to a new page and began a new sketch. 

This one wasn’t of sadness. 

It wasn’t of walls. 

It was of a girl standing at a door, holding it open. Not stepping out yet—but thinking about it.

CHAPTER 7 : UNFRAMED  

The art room had never been this loud. 

It wasn’t noise—just energy. Paints being passed around, chatter buzzing, canvases leaning on every surface like stories waiting to be told. 

Anaya stood in the far corner, her piece carefully propped on the easel. The Girl at the Door. She’d added soft light pouring in from behind, and the shadows stretching forward as if the world was welcoming her in. 

Mrs. Rosario had walked by earlier, nodded with a proud smile, and said, “This is the one.” And it would have been a perfect day—if Riya Sethi hadn’t seen it. 

Riya. Confident, bold, loud. The kind of girl who owned every hallway she walked through. Always first in line. Always surrounded by people who laughed a little too hard at her jokes. 

“Whoa,” Riya said, approaching with a group of girls trailing behind her like perfume. She stared at Anaya’s painting for a moment. 

“Is this yours?” she asked, eyebrows arched. 

Anaya nodded, uncertain. 

Riya tilted her head, lips curling. “It’s... deep, I guess. Kinda sad though. Why’s she alone? And what’s with the whole mysterious vibe?” She smirked. “Trying to be, like, the tortured artist or something?” 

Laughter bubbled around her. 

Anaya’s throat went dry. Her fingers curled tightly around her sketchbook, still tucked against her chest like a shield. 

She didn’t reply. 

Riya leaned in closer, voice dropping just enough to sting. 

“You know, just because someone draws moody stuff doesn’t mean they’re interesting. Sometimes people just want to pretend they’re broken.” 

Anaya flinched inwardly. 

Before she could move or speak, a voice came from behind. 

“Sometimes people draw what they feel, not what they want to show off.” It was Meher.

She walked over, calm but firm, her eyes steady. 

“Maybe try understanding something before mocking it.” 

Riya rolled her eyes. “Relax. It’s just an opinion.” 

“Right,” Meher said. “And this is just respect. You should try it sometime.” Riya scoffed, shrugged, and walked away. 

But the moment had cracked something. 

Anaya felt… seen. Not in the good way. Not in Meher’s way. But in a way that made her want to fold herself back into her paper walls. 

Later, as they sat under the neem tree again, Anaya finally whispered, “Maybe I shouldn’t submit it. Maybe it’s too personal.” 

Meher looked at her, quiet for a second. Then said: 

“Anaya… the fact that it’s personal is exactly why it matters.” 

Anaya looked down, a tear slipping out despite her will. 

Meher reached over and gently tore a corner off her own sketchbook. 

She scribbled three words and passed it over. 

"Vulnerability is brave." 

Anaya held it like a bandage and a promise. 

Maybe not everyone would get it. 

But someone would. 

And that was enough.

CHAPTER 8 : THE FRAME AROUND HER  

The exhibition day arrived cloaked in anticipation. 

The school’s old auditorium had been transformed into a dream. Fairy lights looped across the ceiling. Tables held handmade invitation cards. Every canvas stood tall, each frame holding a glimpse into someone’s soul. 

Anaya stood near the back of the room, her painting set on a wooden stand, a small name tag below it: 

“The Girl at the Door” — Anaya Kapoor 

She hadn’t slept much. Her stomach had fluttered all morning. This was the first time her emotions weren’t trapped in silence or shadow—they were here, visible. Framed. Watched. 

“Breathe,” Meher whispered beside her, bumping her shoulder. “People are already stopping at yours.” 

Anaya scanned the crowd. Teachers. Students. A few parents. Everyone moved in waves, stopping, smiling, discussing. 

And then… her breath hitched. 

Because standing by the door, scanning the room nervously, was someone she hadn’t seen in months. 

Ishaan. 

Her little brother. 

Clutching a paper drawing in one hand and her mother's fingers in the other. Anaya couldn’t move at first. Her heart felt like it had forgotten how. 

But then—she did. 

She crossed the room in shaky steps, eyes fixed on them. 

Ishaan saw her and lit up like a thousand suns. “Didi!” 

He ran, and she knelt, arms open, letting him crash into her. 

“You came,” she whispered, burying her face in his hair. 

“Mumma said you were showing your drawings,” he said proudly. “I made one too!” 

He handed her his folded paper. A crayon sketch of two people under a sun, one taller, one smaller, holding hands.

“I’m the small one,” he grinned. “You’re holding the sun again.” 

Anaya laughed through her tears. 

Her mom stood a few feet away, unsure, guilt lining her eyes. 

Anaya stood, still holding Ishaan’s hand, and met her mother’s gaze. “You brought him,” she said softly. 

Her mom nodded. “I wanted to see what he sees in you.” 

She looked past Anaya, at the painting—The Girl at the Door. 

“Now I understand.” 

The auditorium felt smaller suddenly. More intimate. Like all the noise fell away. Meher appeared, beaming. “Told you someone would get it.” 

Anaya looked at her, then at her brother, then back at her painting. 

A line of students had begun forming in front of it, each stopping, staring, whispering something she’d never expected: admiration. 

And for the first time, she wasn’t scared. 

Not of being seen. 

Not of feeling deeply. 

Not of stepping forward.

CHAPTER 9 : LETTERS I NEVER WROTE  

The exhibition had ended, but the feeling hadn’t. 

It lingered like a soft echo in her chest. Like something unfinished, waiting to be unfolded. That night, long after lights-out, Anaya sat on her bed, legs curled beneath her, her sketchbook closed for once. 

In its place: a simple notebook. Blank pages. Lined. Waiting. 

She picked up her pen, unsure where to begin. 

Then, in her neat, careful handwriting, she wrote: 

Dear Anaya, 

I’m sorry it took me so long to speak to you. 

I was scared of saying the wrong things. Of bringing up memories that still hurt. But I think the silence hurt more. 

You’ve carried a world inside you—and not once have you let it break you. I know you still miss the version of yourself who used to smile a little more easily. Who used to draw dinosaurs for Ishaan and not worry about whether she was “good enough” to matter. 

But here’s something you need to know: 

You are still her. And you are more. 

Her hand trembled slightly as she wrote, but she didn’t stop. 

I saw the way people looked at your painting today. They didn’t just see art. They saw you. 

And you didn’t hide. 

That’s brave. 

Keep being brave. 

Keep drawing. 

And please… keep writing. 

Love, 

The you who finally believes you’re allowed to heal. 

She closed the notebook.

The room was quiet except for the rustle of trees outside the window and the soft, steady rhythm of her heart. 

Somewhere in the dark, she felt lighter. 

For the first time, she wasn’t waiting for someone else to understand her story. She was writing it herself.

CHAPTER 10 : THE OTHER SIDE OF SILENCE  

Three years later. 

The gallery smelled faintly of old wood and fresh paint. Anaya stood beneath a white spotlight, her hands tucked into the pockets of her linen kurta, watching strangers stop in front of her paintings—some smiling, some crying, some just standing still. 

The collection was titled “Unspoken.” 

Every piece was from a different time in her life. 

The girl at the door. 

The little brother and the sun. 

A pair of tired eyes behind a kitchen window. 

A smile stitched back together. 

At the center of it all hung her newest piece—one she’d painted last. It was a mirror. 

Just a mirror, framed in rough charcoal brushstrokes, surrounded by a storm of blank paper sheets swirling around it. 

At the bottom, a line was scrawled in soft ink. 

What story would your silence tell—if it was finally heard? 

A girl—maybe 14, maybe 15—stood in front of it for a long time. Then she took out her phone and took a picture, her hands trembling a little. 

Anaya watched her, her heart full. 

She had once been that girl. 

And now, she was the one holding the light. 

So now it’s your turn, dear reader. 

What have you kept tucked away in your silence—waiting, patiently, to be heard?

Author’s Note 

NUZAT MORVE, 

I never imagined I’d be a writer. 

I’m a 12th-grade student in India, preparing for architecture entrance exams— surrounded by subjects like physics and chemistry that I try to understand but never truly connect with. They never made my heart race. But books? Books always did. 

Since Class 8, reading has been my constant companion. Stories made me feel understood in ways the world sometimes couldn’t. But writing? That was a secret I kept to myself. A quiet comfort I never intended to share. 

Until one day, during an aptitude class, my teacher spoke about the journey of the woman who created Harry Potter. Something about that story stirred something in me. For the first time, I thought: maybe my words matter too. 

And that’s where everything changed. 

From that moment on, I couldn’t stop writing—and I didn’t want to. My first book, Seven Twos Are Fourteen, was born from that spark. Since then, writing has become more than a passion. It’s a part of who I am. 

The thought of letting it go? 

Feels like losing a part of myself. 

So here I am—still figuring out equations, chasing college dreams, trying to balance it all—but deep down, I know where my soul feels at home. In stories. In emotions. In words. 

And if you’ve ever felt torn between what the world expects and what your heart whispers— 

I hope you choose the whisper. 

Because sometimes, that’s where your truth lives. 

— The girl who chose to write anyway. 

 14 APRIL,2025.

By Nuzat Morve