Alaya Rahman

I watched Sana wrap her new headscarf neatly in front of the bathroom mirror at school today. It was light pink, matching the soft blush on her cheeks. She smiled when she caught me looking, but I could tell it wasn't a full smile. Not the kind she used to have when we chased each other during recess. I wonder if she feels different now—if she feels older or heavier.

At home in Islamabad, Pakistan, the discussions about the hijab are getting louder. Ammi says it's time I start thinking about it seriously. "You're growing up," she says, her voice gentle but firm. Abbu doesn't say much, but the way he clears his throat when the topic comes up feels like pressure too. My older sisters, Aisha and Noor, roll their eyes when Ammi brings it up. They don't want to wear it either, but I know it's harder for them to say no now. The older we get, the more the walls seem to close in.

I stare at myself in the mirror sometimes, pulling a scarf over my head just to see. It feels like I'm pretending to be someone else. I don't hate it, but I don't love it either. It's not about the cloth; it's about what comes with it—the expectations, the rules, the quiet stares from neighbors who notice every little thing. Ammi says it's for modesty, for respect. But wasn't I respectable yesterday without it?

Last night, I overheard Abbu telling Ammi, "Let her decide when she's ready." But Ammi sighed and said, "Girls shouldn't wait too long. People talk."

People talk. People always talk. But it's my head, isn't it? My thoughts, my feelings. I wish that counted for more.

Sometimes, I think about Sana again. I wonder if she misses running freely, her hair flying behind her. I wonder if she ever wanted to say no. Or if she just didn't think she could.

I'm only 12, but it feels like everyone is waiting for me to grow up faster, to shrink myself into this idea of who I should be. I wish I could stay like this a little longer—bareheaded, unbothered, and free.