Mehria Sadat

The earth was blanketed in white. Above, where the moon and stars should have been, only a heavy, shifting darkness hung. The cold pressed against her frail body, its embrace sharp and merciless. This night—chilled, mist-filled—was no different from the life she carried inside her: dim, quiet, and unbearably heavy.

Tears slid down her cheeks without permission. Her pearl-like eyes shimmered with a sorrow too old for her years. With weak legs and torn hands, she folded herself into a corner, whispering her grief to God. He was the only one left, the only ear that had not turned away. She spoke of fate, of cruelty, of the people around her who had never shown kindness.

To her, life was nothing more than a game staged for others’ amusement. And her role—the tragic one—felt like a punishment she never chose. Even her tears, once her small comfort, could no longer soothe her. The wounds of her heart lay too deep for any healing. At last, her eyes grew dry; no more tears would come. The frost settled into her body, and her half-closed gaze fixed on the snow-covered ground.

In that stillness, she saw herself elsewhere: in a bright palace, dressed in white, seated upon a queen’s throne. No chains. No barriers. No one dictating who she could be. She was free. No longer forced to play the role that had been written for her. No longer marked by endless tears, no longer hiding her face behind masks. In this dream she let her hair fall into the wind, loose and untamed.

That night, she colored her sorrow with dreams—dreams that, for others, might be simple fragments of life. But for her, they were impossible desires, growing heavier in her small heart each day, destined never to come true.

By morning, those who had inflicted their cruelty found her. What they saw stopped them in silence: the girl, lips curved in a faint, dazzling smile, eyes still open, had left the world behind...

Sometimes, without meaning to, we break the hearts of the ones closest to us. It isn’t malice that drives us—it is love, perhaps too much of it, shaping our fears and making us overly careful. But that carefulness becomes distance. We lose the very people we meant to protect. And by the time we realize it, the chance to hold on to them is already gone.

About the Author:
Mehria Sadat is a fiction writer from Afghanistan who has been writing for seven years, inspired by the hardships of her people and her own inner struggles. Her stories, written in Dari, focus on the pain and strength of Afghan girls, aiming to bring their voices to the world.