Nire Pov
The envelope sat on the dining table, mocking me.
The golden seal of Seoul Arts and Media University shimmered under the kitchen light, looking so… innocent. As if it didn't hold the power to change my entire life. My fingers hovered over it, my pulse hammering against my skin.
Sankalpa leaned against the counter, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. "Are you gonna open it, or should I do it for you?"
I swallowed hard. My father's voice rang in my head.
"You think the world will be kind to you, Nire? Dreams don't feed you. They chew you up and spit you out."
I inhaled sharply and ripped the envelope open. My eyes darted across the words—heart pounding, breath hitching—until they blurred together.
"Congratulations! You have been awarded a 50% scholarship..."
I exhaled shakily, my knees nearly giving out beneath me.
"Sankalpa…" My voice barely rose above a whisper.
Before I could say another word, he snatched the letter from my hands. I watched his eyes scan the text. His face twisted in anticipation before breaking into a wild grin.
"Holy shit! We did it!" He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. "We're going to Korea!"
For a fleeting moment, I let myself imagine it. The neon lights of Hongdae, the bustling subway stations, the sound of music echoing from street performers. The place where I could finally be more than just a boy with a dream.
But then the reality of it hit.
50% scholarship.
Not enough.
Not enough to leave this place.
Sankalpa must have realized it at the same time, because his grip on my shoulders loosened. "We'll figure it out," he said quickly. "Part-time jobs, loans—"
But I was already staring down the hallway. The study door was closed, but I could feel my father's presence behind it.
Money wasn't the real battle.
It was him.
Dinner was tense.
The only sound was my mother's bangles clinking as she placed a bowl of dal in front of me. The scent of ghee and cardamom filled the air, warm and familiar, but my appetite was gone.
I cleared my throat. "Papa."
He didn't look up from his newspaper. "Eat your food."
"I got in."
Silence.
The paper rustled as he folded it neatly and set it aside. His fingers steepled together, his face unreadable.
"Where?"
I wet my lips. "Seoul Arts and Media University."
My mother stiffened beside me. My father's grip on his glass tightened.
"Korea?" His voice was eerily calm.
I nodded, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.
The pause stretched unbearably. Then—
"No."
It landed like a slap.
"No?" My voice cracked.
"You are not going."
The words hit harder than I expected. My fingers curled into fists under the table. "Why not?"
My father leaned back in his chair, his gaze heavy. "You think Korea is your heaven?" His voice was quiet, but razor-sharp. "You think they'll see you as one of them?"
Something cold settled in my stomach.
"They accepted me," I argued, forcing confidence into my voice.
"They accepted your grades, Nire. Not you." His tone sharpened. "You are brown-skinned. You are not their people. They will see your face before they see your talent."
My breath came faster, shallower. "You don't know that."
"I do." His voice cut through the air like steel. "The world will remind you of what you are, and it won't be kind about it."
I wanted to scream. Wanted to tell him he was wrong. Wanted to tell him that this—this fear—was why I had to go.
Instead, I shoved my chair back, the legs screeching against the floor.
And I walked out.
The night air was thick with the scent of wet earth as I wandered aimlessly.
My phone buzzed.
Sankalpa: Meet me at the park. Urgent.
A bad feeling curled in my stomach, but I changed direction anyway.
When I reached the park, Sankalpa was pacing near the old fountain, his jaw tight.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
He hesitated before handing me his phone. "Read this."
The screen glowed in the darkness.
Echam: Did you really think you had a chance?
Echam: You're pathetic, Nire.
Echam: I only kept you around because you were fun to mock behind your back.
Echam: You're disgusting. Do yourself a favor—stay in India where you belong.
The words blurred.
My stomach lurched.
My fingers went numb.
Echam
The boy I had admired. The boy I had liked. He belonged to the Manipur and was much like Korean guys but all of admiration
It was all a joke to him.
I couldn't breathe.
Sankalpa must have noticed because he grabbed my wrist, his grip firm. "Nire, look at me."
I stared at the ground, my pulse roaring in my ears. "Maybe my dad's right," I whispered. "Maybe I don't belong in Korea."
Sankalpa's hold tightened. "No. No, you don't get to say that." His voice burned with anger—at Echam, at my father, at everything. "Screw them. Screw anyone who made you feel like this. You worked hard for this. If you give up now, you're proving them right."
I let his words sink in. Maybe I was just tired.
Or maybe I was just scared.
The next morning, I stood in the dining room doorway.
My father's tea sat untouched.
He didn't look up. "You're still thinking about Korea."
It wasn't a question.
"I'm going."
His shoulders stiffened. "And how will you pay for it?"
"I'll find a way."
A long silence. Then—
"You'll find the remaining money yourself." His voice was calm, and measured. "Not a single rupee from me."
My heart pounded.
"And if you fail," he continued, finally meeting my gaze, "you come back. And you follow the path I set for you."
The challenge was clear.
I hesitated. Then I lifted my chin.
"I won't fail."
My father studied me for a long moment. Then—
A small, almost imperceptible nod.
And just like that, the battle was won.
But the war had only begun.
The next few days passed in a haze of paperwork, last-minute packing, and phone calls. My mother barely spoke to me. Every time I walked into the room, her eyes would dart away, her lips pressed into a thin line.
The night before my flight, I found her sitting in the dimly lit kitchen, turning her wedding ring absentmindedly around her finger. The faint smell of chai and incense clung to the air.
She didn't look up when she spoke. "You always loved music more than anything."
I hesitated in the doorway. "...Yes."
She exhaled, finally meeting my gaze. There was something in her eyes—worry, exhaustion… love.
"Be careful," she whispered. "The greener a forest looks the dense it is from the inside "
Her words clutched at my chest.
Before I could say anything, she stood up, placed a tiffin box on the counter, and walked away.
I didn't open it until I was in my room. Inside was a neatly packed meal—aloo paratha, achar, and a small note in her familiar handwriting.
"Don't forget your home."
The airport was a whirlwind of security checks, fast food smells, and the distant hum of announcements. My father stood stiffly beside me, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
"Take care of yourself," he said.
A pause.
Then, almost as an afterthought—
"And don't call me if you run out of money."
It should've stung, but it didn't. I nodded, tightening my grip on my backpack. "I won't."
Sankalpa appeared from check-in, waving his boarding pass. "Nire, hurry up! We need to go!"
I turned to my father one last time, searching for something—anything—in his expression. But there was nothing.
So I walked away.
As I handed over my passport, stepping past the gate, I realized something.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't just leaving home.
I was stepping into the unknown.