Srinagar, July 21 -- It was a regular day. I was getting ready for my coaching class, flipping through notes, fixing my attire. My socks, as usual, were mismatched.

One had a tear on the side. I noticed it briefly, shrugged it off. After all, we'd worn worse during winters when snow leaked through shoes and water froze in taps. Torn socks felt ordinary.

Until someone laughed.

It came with a smirk and a comment about "poverty parades." That sentence, tossed like a pebble, struck me like a stone. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. My eyes dropped to the floor. I wanted the earth to open.

I was sixteen, an age when girls in Kashmir juggle schoolbooks and entrance forms, when everything feels fragile, like frost on a window. One word, one...