Reassigned by Fate

For a moment, Vikram just stared at her.

Then, he let out a short, nervous laugh. "Adhira?"

She nodded, her fingers gripping the edge of her dupatta.

The others had noticed now. One by one, their eyes turned to her. Some confused, some shocked, some… unreadable.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Another voice broke the silence—Rahul, always the loudest in their group.

Adhira’s chest tightened. "No. It’s not a joke."

Rahul scoffed. "Come on, Aditya, we haven’t seen you in months and now you—"

"It’s Adhira," she corrected, forcing her voice to stay steady.

Rahul’s expression darkened. "So it’s true then?"

She didn’t answer.

"Man," one of the others muttered. "This is… weird."

Vikram shot him a look. "Shut up, Rajesh."

Adhira glanced at Vikram. His face was unreadable, but his hands were clenched into fists. He was angry—whether at her or for her, she couldn’t tell.

"So what, you’re a girl now?" Rahul pressed.

Her nails dug into her palms. "I didn’t have a choice."

"Didn’t have a choice? Seriously?" Rahul scoffed. "You were one of us, man. Now look at you—"

"Enough."

Vikram’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension.

Rahul stepped back, muttering under his breath.

Vikram exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Listen, Adh—" He stopped himself, hesitated, then continued, "I don’t know what to say. I really don’t."

Adhira swallowed. "You don’t have to say anything."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "Do you still play cricket?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Cricket. You still play?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "No."

Vikram let out a short breath. "That’s a shame. We still have our weekend matches."

A small, sad smile tugged at her lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Some things don’t change."

She looked at him, searching for something—judgment, disappointment, pity.

But there was none.

Only the same old Vikram, standing in front of her, unsure of how to react but trying anyway.

And somehow, that was enough.

For now.

But not all friendships survived change.

As she turned to leave, Rahul muttered, "Not in our team, though."

The words stung.

She clenched her fists. She wanted to argue, to fight, to remind them that she had once been their best batsman.

But what was the point?

Without another word, she walked away.

That night, she sat on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

She had known this would happen. That some people would accept, and some never would.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Vikram.

"Cricket or not, you’re still my friend. Just thought you should know."

She stared at the screen, her vision blurring slightly.

Then, for the first time in a long time, she smiled.

The house felt emptier than ever.

Her mother moved around the kitchen, pretending everything was normal. But the silence at the dining table spoke louder than words.

Her father’s chair remained untouched.

The tea he used to sip every morning sat undisturbed on the counter.

Adhira watched her mother place the food on the table with quiet efficiency. It was routine, muscle memory. But there was something missing—something even her mother’s forced smiles couldn’t hide.

"Is he coming home tonight?" Adhira finally asked.

Her mother flinched, just for a second. "He’s… busy."

Busy.

That was the word they had been using for weeks.

Busy at work.
Busy with meetings.
Busy avoiding her.

She pushed her plate away. "I’m not hungry."

Her mother sighed. "Beta, please—"

"Just stop, Amma," Adhira snapped. "Stop pretending."

Her mother looked away, her fingers tightening around her sari.

Adhira exhaled sharply. She didn’t mean to hurt her. But how much longer was she supposed to wait?

How much longer was she supposed to be nothing to him?

That night, she made a decision.

She was done waiting.

She needed answers.

She needed to see him.

The next morning, she took an auto to his office.

The building was the same—tall, glass-fronted, corporate.

The receptionist blinked in surprise when she walked in. She had known Aditya. But Adhira?

"Sir is in a meeting," the woman said hesitantly.

Adhira’s jaw clenched. "I’ll wait."

She sat in the reception area, ignoring the curious glances from employees passing by.

Minutes stretched into an hour.

Then, finally, the door to the conference room opened.

Her father stepped out, talking to a colleague.

For a moment, he didn’t see her.

Then his eyes landed on her—and his entire body stiffened.

Adhira stood.

The colleague looked between them, sensing the tension, and quickly excused himself.

Silence.

Her father’s face was unreadable.

Adhira swallowed. "Papa."

He didn’t respond.

She took a step forward. "You didn’t come home last night."

Still, silence.

Her heart pounded. "Are you ever going to talk to me?"

His lips parted as if to say something—but then he looked away.

That hurt more than words ever could.

He turned to the receptionist. "Cancel my meetings for the rest of the day."

Then, without another glance at her, he walked past.

Adhira stood frozen, her nails digging into her palms.

He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t said anything cruel.

But he hadn’t said anything at all.

She had prepared for anger, disappointment, even disgust.

But not this.

Not this complete, crushing absence.

She turned and walked out.

For the first time since the accident, she truly felt like an orphan.

That night, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been crying.

She had always thought a father’s love was unbreakable.

That no matter how much things changed, he would still see her—not just the body, not just the differences.

But maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe love was conditional after all.

The house was quiet when Adhira returned.

She had expected her mother to ask where she had gone. To ask why her eyes were red. To press her into talking.

But Amma only looked at her once, then went back to folding clothes in the living room.

Adhira stood in the doorway, unsure what to say.

For the past few weeks, she had been drowning in silence—her father’s silence, her own silence, the world’s silence.

She was tired of it.

She walked into the room and sat down beside her mother.

"I went to see him," she said.

Her mother’s hands stilled.

Adhira swallowed. "He wouldn’t even look at me."

Her mother sighed, smoothing out a dupatta on her lap. "I know."

"You knew?" Adhira’s voice was sharp. "You knew he wouldn’t—" She stopped, shaking her head. "Then why didn’t you say anything?"

Her mother met her gaze, and for the first time, Adhira saw something in her eyes she hadn’t noticed before.

Pain.

Not just sadness—but deep, quiet, unspoken pain.

"Because it’s not my place to stop you," Amma said. "This is something you had to see for yourself."

Adhira exhaled shakily. "I thought—" Her voice cracked. "I thought maybe he just needed time."

Her mother reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Maybe he does."

Adhira scoffed. "Or maybe he never will."

Her mother didn’t deny it.

And somehow, that hurt more.

That night, Adhira couldn’t sleep.

She kept thinking about her father, about the way he had turned away. About how much easier it would have been if he had just yelled.

At least anger meant something.

At least anger wasn’t emptiness.

She turned over, staring at the ceiling.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

Her mother stood at the door, holding a cup of warm milk.

Adhira sat up. "I don’t want—"

"Just drink it," her mother said gently, sitting beside her.

Adhira hesitated, then took a sip.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, her mother said, "Do you know what my name means?"

Adhira blinked. "What?"

"My name," Amma repeated. "Nalini. Do you know what it means?"

Adhira shook her head.

Her mother smiled faintly. "It means lotus."

Adhira frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because a lotus grows in the mud," Amma said softly. "It survives in the dirtiest water, but it still rises, clean and beautiful."

Adhira stared at her, the words settling in her chest.

Her mother reached for her hand. "I know this hurts. I know you feel alone. But, beta, you are stronger than you think."

Adhira looked down at their joined hands.

"Do you know what your name means?" Amma asked.

Adhira swallowed. "Strong. Lightning."

Her mother nodded. "You are."

Adhira’s throat tightened. She wasn’t sure if she believed it.

But maybe—just maybe—one day, she would.

That night, she slept without tears.

And in the morning, when she looked in the mirror, she saw not just a girl lost in pain—

But a girl still standing.

A girl still rising.

Like a lotus.

Like lightning.

Like herself.