The first rays of sunlight filtered through the faded curtains of my room, painting the walls in soft gold. I lay there for a moment longer than I should have, staring at the ceiling cracks I had memorized over the years. Twenty-six. Still here. Still breathing the same air, walking the same tiled floors, carrying the same weight in my chest.

I finally sat up, smoothed my hair, and slipped out of bed quietly. The house was still asleep. Or at least, most of it was. I could already hear the faint clink of utensils from the kitchen—Mom must have woken up early today.

Downstairs, the familiar smell of boiling milk and cardamom greeted me. Mom stood near the stove in her simple cotton saree, her hair tied back loosely.

“Diya, you’re up already?” she said without turning around. Her voice was soft this morning. The sweet version.

“Yes, Maa. Should I make the tea?” I asked, reaching for the kettle.

She nodded. “Arjun likes it strong today. And don’t forget less sugar for Roop. She’s been complaining about her skin.”

I measured the tea leaves carefully, my hands moving on their own. “Roop’s skin always looks perfect anyway,” I murmured, almost to myself.

Mom let out a small laugh. “She is blessed, what can I say? God has been kind to her.”

I swallowed the familiar ache and kept stirring.

Dad’s heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. He entered the kitchen, newspaper in hand, his face set in its usual serious lines. “Is the tea ready?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Almost, Papa,” I replied quietly, pouring the first cup.

He sat at the dining table and opened the paper with a sharp snap. “Diya, did you speak to the landlord about the water issue yesterday?”

“I… I tried, but he said he’ll send someone this week.”

“Tried?” Dad’s voice sharpened just a little. “Next time, make sure it’s done. We can’t keep depending on half-hearted efforts.”

I nodded, eyes fixed on the steaming cups. “Yes, Papa.”

Roop came down a few minutes later, yawning gracefully, her hair falling in perfect waves even after sleep. She looked fresh, glowing, like the morning itself belonged to her.

“Good morning, everyone!” she sang, hugging Mom from behind.

Mom’s face lit up instantly. “Good morning, meri jaan. Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby, Maa.” Roop turned to me with a bright smile. “Diya di, can you pass me my tea? The one with honey, please.”

I handed it to her without a word, watching how easily she fit into the moment.

Ajay bounded down the stairs next, still in his night t-shirt. “Roop! Did you see the new dance cover I sent you last night? You have to try those steps.”

Roop laughed, that musical laugh that filled the room. “Bhai, I already watched it twice. You’re getting so good!”

Arjun bhaiya entered last, adjusting his shirt cuffs, looking every bit the responsible elder son. He ruffled Roop’s hair affectionately. “Princess is awake. Dad, Roop has an audition next week. We should all go support her.”

Dad actually smiled—a rare, small curve of his lips. “Of course. Our Roop will shine.”

I stood there by the stove, the heat warming my face but not reaching inside. I wanted to say something. Maybe tell them about the small promotion I had been working towards at my office, or how I had finally finished that online course after months of trying. But the words stayed stuck in my throat. I had learned long ago what happened when I tried.

The memory came uninvited, slow and heavy, like old film reels.

I was ten years old, bursting through the front door after the annual sports day. My knees were scraped, my uniform dirty, but my heart was flying. In my small hands was a shiny plastic trophy for the 100-meter race.

“Maa! Papa! Look!” I had shouted, running straight into the living room. “I came first! Teacher said I was the fastest in the whole school!”

Mom had been folding clothes. She glanced up for a second. “That’s nice, beta. Now go change before you dirty the sofa.”

Papa didn’t even look up from his files. “Good. Now focus on your studies. Running won’t get you anywhere.”

I stood there, the trophy suddenly feeling heavy and cheap. I waited for more. For a hug. For even a pat on the back. Nothing came.

That night, I hid the trophy under my bed. After that, I stopped showing them things. The drawings. The certificates. The small wins that once meant the world to me.

Back in the present, I placed Dad’s tea in front of him. My fingers brushed the edge of the table a little too hard, and the cup wobbled.

“Careful, Diya!” Mom said, her tone shifting toward strict. “Why are you always so clumsy these days?”

“Sorry, Maa.”

Roop looked at me with those big, innocent eyes. “Di, you’ve been so quiet lately. Everything okay?”

I forced a small smile. “Yes, Roop. Just tired.”

Arjun bhaiya glanced at me briefly, then turned back to his phone. “She’s always like this. Doesn’t talk much. Sometimes I wonder if she even has emotions.”

The words landed softly, but they cut deep. I turned away quickly, pretending to wipe the counter. No one saw the sting in my eyes. Or maybe they did and chose not to notice.

I wasn’t rude. I wasn’t heartless. I was just… tired of not being heard. Tired of trying so hard only to remain average in their eyes. My honey-colored skin, my ordinary face, my average marks despite all those sleepless nights with textbooks—I carried them all silently.

As the family chatted around the table—laughing at Ajay’s jokes, praising Roop’s latest achievement—I stood a little apart, washing the extra utensils. The water was cold against my hands.

This was my place in the family tree.

Between the golden eldest son and the shining younger sister.

Between expectations and indifference.

And yet, deep inside, a quiet voice whispered that maybe, one day, things could be different.

But today was not that day.

I dried my hands and went back to my room, closing the door softly behind me.