It's funny how dreams feel so much larger when you're confined to a small space. Growing up in our one-room flat, I learned early on that life doesn't offer luxury unless you claw your way to it. Every inch of our space was occupied—a rickety bed for my parents, a folding cot for me and my younger brother, and a corner reserved for a gas stove and mismatched utensils. Privacy was a luxury we couldn't afford, and dignity was a fragile thing in such cramped quarters.
Yet even in that chaos, I dreamt. While my mother scrubbed pots and my father came home reeking of grease from the auto repair shop, I would lie on the cot and stare at the ceiling, imagining chandeliers hanging there instead of cobwebs. I imagined silk sheets, sprawling couches, and the kind of life I saw in magazines left behind by our landlord.
But those dreams came with whispers. Whispers that slithered into my thoughts when the lights were off, and my family's snores filled the room. Whispers of desires I didn't fully understand back then but couldn't ignore. A craving to be seen, to be wanted, to wield power in a world that dismissed girls like me.
I'm not beautiful—at least, not in the way society measures beauty. My nose is slightly crooked, my skin is uneven, and my frame is too angular. But I've always known I have something else. A way of looking at people, of holding their gaze just a second too long. A way of making them notice me, even when I'm not the prettiest girl in the room. I don't know if it's confidence or something darker, but I've learned to use it.
When I was seventeen, I tested it for the first time. There was a man who ran a small shop near our flat. He wasn't rich by any means, but he had money—more than us. He would smile at me every time I passed by, his eyes lingering on my hips longer than they should. One day, I smiled back. Just a little. Nothing obvious. But I knew what I was doing.
The next week, he started giving me extra biscuits when I bought groceries. "For you," he'd say, his voice low, his fingers brushing mine as he handed them over. It thrilled me in a way I didn't want to admit. Not because of him—he was twice my age and had a gut that spilled over his belt—but because I had made him do it.
That's when I realized I didn't need beauty to get what I wanted. I just needed to know what people wanted from me.
My mother's voice snapped me back to the present. "Alis, stop daydreaming and help with the dishes!" she barked, her hands red and raw from scrubbing.
I rolled off the cot with a groan, shuffling to the sink where a mountain of plates awaited. As I scrubbed, my thoughts wandered again. I hated this life. The endless grind, the stench of sweat and poverty that clung to everything. I didn't want to end up like my mother, her dreams crushed under the weight of unpaid bills and a husband who barely spoke to her anymore.
No, I wanted more. I wanted silk dresses, fine wine, and men who would fight for a moment of my attention. I wanted to walk into a room and feel it bend to my will.
But wanting wasn't enough. Wanting didn't change the fact that I was scrubbing someone else's leftovers off a plate.
Later that night, as I lay on the cot next to my snoring brother, I stared at the ceiling again. The cobwebs were still there, mocking me. But this time, I didn't imagine chandeliers. I imagined myself somewhere far away, in a bed too big for one person, with satin sheets and a man's hand resting possessively on my thigh. Not because I loved him, but because he could give me everything I wanted.
The thought sent a shiver through me. Shame tried to creep in, but I pushed it away.
In this world, girls like me don't get to play fair. And if I had to break the rules to win, so be it.
That's how it started. Just thoughts, small and innocent enough to ignore during the day but impossible to shake at night. I didn't know then how far those thoughts would take me. Or how much I'd have to lose along the way.
But one thing was certain: I would not end up like my mother. I would not let this one-room flat define my life. No matter what it took.