The stone didn’t hit me

Everyone was waiting for it, the news about her 12th grade results. Every single day, someone in the house would shout, “The results are out!” And every single day, she’d feel the same wave of panic rise in her throat. This became a ritual. Wake up. Hear the whispers. Brace for the blow. And then exhale the nerves and disappointment. This went on for weeks. Every article, every message, and every whisper imprisoned her further, chanting: “Today’s the day.” But it never was.

At some point, they all reached an unspoken agreement. They pretended the results didn’t exist. That they had far more important things to do. But their silence hung in the corners of the house, haunting her dreams and clouding her thoughts.

That night, like every other, she had heard the whispers. Her heart skipped, despite her resolve. But she turned away, forcing herself to focus on the only thing she could control. “How on earth does one write a good personal statement?” she muttered into the glow of her laptop screen. “How personal is too personal?”

She had read dozens of articles, watched too many videos. None helped. She didn’t know where to start. She had no map for this. No counselor, no mentor, just her. And a family who believed in her, fiercely and blindly. Most days, she didn’t mind it. But sometimes, she wished they’d acknowledge she was still a child, who could fail.

She was mid-thought, drowning in her anxiety, when heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. Her father burst into the room, out of breath. “Your results are out!” She turned, ready to argue, it had to be another false alarm, but the look on his face silenced her. This time, it was real.

In seconds, the house became a battleground. Four people on four devices were trying to access a broken website. The portal had collapsed under the weight of an entire valley’s desperation. 20 minutes passed. Long and aching. “Got it!” she cried, breath catching in her throat. Her eyes scanned the screen, trying to hold on to the truth a little longer.

490 out of 500. She froze. For a moment, the world went silent. She stared at the screen, attempting to read the numbers one more time. She felt nothing, “490” she whispered. The room exploded. Clapping, shouting, cheering. The house lit up in a way it hadn’t in years. In their eyes, she saw something close to joy. And for their sake, she smiled.

But her smile stayed on her lips. It didn’t budge, didn’t travel beyond them . She felt nothing. No relief. No joy. Just a quiet stillness that distanced her from their happiness. Like she was watching it through a glass wall. She had learned not to get too close to moments like this. They never stayed. They flared and faded, like candles. And she couldn’t be the moth anymore. So she did what she thought was right. She pretended.

In the days that followed, the house filled with chatter. Word of her score spread quickly. Neighbours, relatives, strangers arrived at their door, smiling, bearing sweets, eager to be associated with the “bright girl.” The one who had topped Arts, of all subjects. She was expected to greet them all. Smile politely at people she could barely remember. Most didn’t ask her what she wanted. They told her. Civil services, of course. Don’t waste yourself on teaching. Use your brain for better, more important things.

The few who asked gently, genuinely, never got the true answer. She wasn’t ready to share her plans yet. Not in that room, not with those eyes watching. Her aunt arrived one afternoon, theatrical as always. She wore a pink firak yazar, embroidered in silver thread, as if in attendance for a wedding. She refused to sit in the guest room, brushing past everyone with, “That room is for visitors. I’m family.”

Stationing herself in the kitchen she began to, very slyly, gaze at everything around her. Juice was served. Then tea. No one forgot the rituals around her. Her voice came light, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable. “So,” she said, swirling her spoon in her cup. “What next?”

No answer was going to be the right one from her side. So she replied vaguely, “I’m still thinking, exploring options.” Her aunt leaned back a chuckle escaping her. She looked like a queen humoring a court jester. “You know,” she began, her voice coated in honey, “your cousin recently had to make her decision. Such a tough choice. But some of us still managed to choose wisely.”

Her mother composed a smile. “Our kids will be fine. Whatever subjects they choose, they have always worked hard, they’ll find their way.” A sharp reply followed immediately. “Of course,” said her aunt. “But let’s be honest. If you throw a stone out in the street, nine times out of ten it’ll hit someone who has studied Arts.”

Silence reigned as the words cut. Years ago, in a moment of excitement, she had declared her intention of studying Arts. And she had followed through. But this choice had followed her like a stray, sniffing at her heels, barking whenever. This time, something cracked.

She imagined the absurdity of her aunt’s statement. She imagined stones falling from the sky, thudding into the backs of unsuspecting, unemployed, overqualified Arts graduates across the valley. It was grotesque. It was unfair. It was hilarious.

She burst out laughing, a sudden and uncontainable laugh bathed in anger and exhaustion. She laughed for the years she hadn’t. She laughed like a madman. Her aunt blinked. Confused. Maybe offended. Or even worried. Her mother gave her that look, Not now.

But she couldn’t stop. Because if she didn’t laugh, she’d scream. And screaming, she had learned, was not as effective. Laughter, at least, left them guessing. In this ridiculous, liberating moment, something shifted. That night, when the house finally slept, she sat once more in front of her laptop. The cursor blinking on the screen. A soft, defiant hum lingered in her chest. Inciting not joy but clarity. She began writing not to convince or impress. She wrote to tell the truth. She wrote about growing up in a house full of certainty while carrying quiet doubt. About being celebrated for a score that felt like it belonged to everyone but her. About a subject choice that followed her like a shadow, mocking and belittling her. And this, for once, was enough. She thought about the stone her aunt had hurled across the table, meant to bruise. But it didn’t. She caught it midair. Laughed at it. And placed it gently beside her, not to throw back, but to someday build something with it. The stone didn’t hit her. And that was enough.

Imbesat Fatima, BA 3^rd year student at Ashoka University studying Social Anthropology