By Mairaa Dhawan
They never see the nights of hardwork, the mornings before the world wakes up, where the hands are raw and the mind is in a battle against doubt.
There are no rewards for the ones, who rise just to fall, again and again.
The hours of hardwork bled into silence, the sweat soaked into the floor as if it will never matter.
The vigorous grind isnt pretty. The bruises no one asks about, the quiet fights with the mirror and the promises made only to yourself.
No one notices the one who was almost there or the silent tears that fall when no one is looking, the whispers of, "maybe this time" that never quite sound convincing.
But still- she keeps going. The sweat, the tears, the long nights of hardwork- all for almost.
They only talk about the win, the crown, the stage, the moment but you know it was always about the work that never ends, the persistence in the face of silent dreams.
The glory never belonged to anyone else. It lived in every drop of effort that no one ever saw.
In the hands of the girl in sliver.