The excitement was palpable that night. I was eager to create lasting, beautiful memories with my friends. I had always yearned for a girls-only gathering, a trip, or an outing—a space where we could be just girls, crafting our own special moments. On the surface, being a girl might seem like just two words, but do you know what hopes, what secrets, what dreams, and what ideals lie hidden within them? In my opinion, being a girl, especially in Afghanistan, is one of the world’s toughest tasks. Here, seeing a dream turn into reality can sometimes feel impossible. Because you are a girl, you can’t choose your own path. Because you are a girl, you cannot spend the night away from home alone.

Finally, the clock ticked on, and after an endless wait, the moment was slowly approaching. Every passing second filled me with a mixture of excitement, stress, longing, and fear. To keep myself grounded until the evening, I opened my book. I sat on a plastic chair behind a wobbly wooden desk, hugged my knees, and placed the book on my lap. I reopened The Girl Who Drank the Moon where I had marked my spot and buried myself in the novel. I glanced at the window, which was higher and farther back than my desk. From there, I could see the bare branches of the trees—stripped of their leaves and flowers, ready to plunge into their winter sleep. A gentle breeze blew, swaying the branches and creating a faint rustling sound. Small birds sat in pairs upon the branches, singing songs of love and freedom in the cool air of late summer transitioning into autumn. When the breeze drifted in through the window, I breathed it deep into my lungs, feeling refreshed and more excited for the night ahead. The sky darkened, and the sweet sound of the call to prayer (Azan) reached my ears. My father called out, urging us to pray so we wouldn’t be late for the gathering.

I went to the courtyard. The northern wind was still blowing, playing with the edge of my scarf, pulling the strands of hair that had escaped across my eyes. I walked toward the courtyard gate and pulled the latch. It opened with a soft click. In the street, the wind was stronger than inside the courtyard. The darkness, the dancing branches, and the sound of dogs barking all came together to create a bleak and frightening scene. I looked right—no one, just darkness. I looked left and saw Fowziyeh struggling to close her home’s gate. She wore a black chador and carried something wrapped in cloth and a tray in her hands. Together with the family and Fowziyeh, we set off for the party.

When it was time for dinner, everyone gathered around the tablecloth. The beautiful aroma of traditional home-cooked food filled the house. After we ate, Fowziyeh, Nazdanah, and I went to wash the dishes, sharing jokes and laughter the whole time. Eventually, all the guests began to head home. My father stepped outside to the courtyard to say goodbye to the host. My mother also got ready to leave.

Nazdanah asked me eagerly, “Did your father agree? Please tell me you’re staying tonight!”

I told her, “I haven’t spoken to Father yet, but I asked Mother to get his permission. If I talk to Father myself, he might get angry and refuse.”

I went to my mother and begged her to ask my father. At first, she was hesitant, saying Father might argue or make a fuss. My sister brought my belongings from home and said, “Come, let’s go.”

I took my things but kept looking at my mother. Nazdanah joined me, pleading with my mother as well. Finally, my mother gave in. I prayed my father wouldn’t get angry. He agreed. I was ecstatic, barely containing myself. I said goodbye to my mother, kissed my brother Ehsan, and rushed back to the girls. They had finished the dishes and taken them back to the house. The guest room was empty, and the three of us went inside. Nazdanah turned on the electric heater, and we gathered around it to warm our frozen hands. The faint smell of the heater and the slight crackle of electricity filled the entire room. We spread out our notebooks and worked through some math problems together.

After a little while, we were all tired. I picked up my phone and put my favorite song on. We slowly gathered up our notebooks and started filming silly videos of ourselves. Sometimes Nazdanah filmed, and sometimes I did. Since Nazdanah had makeup, we asked her to bring it out. The three of us stood in front of the mirror, putting on makeup together. I picked up the eyeliner to apply it, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t manage it; I only succeeded in smudging my eyes with black. We tried to film trending videos, but they didn’t work out, so we gave up on that idea.

When I connected to the internet, Zahra, Marziyeh, and Tamanna were on a video call, and we joined their group. We talked and teased each other until the internet connection grew weak, forcing us to hang up. Time was passing quickly, and it was time to sleep. The three of us lay down next to each other, turned off the lamp, and told stories.

Because Fowziyeh was afraid of scary stories, Nazdanah and I kept teasing her. She got annoyed, and her anger only made us laugh harder. Nazdanah said, “It was so good that all three of us were together tonight. It was a truly memorable evening. I’m glad your mother let you stay. I will remember this night forever.”

We all closed our eyes, reviewing our dreams, and were soon lost in the sweet world of sleep, imagining a day when we could all get scholarships, study abroad together, and each pursue a professional career.

Being a girl in Afghanistan is one of the world’s toughest tasks. In a society like this, it’s difficult to have a ‘pink’ world—to act like girls and have girly dreams. Yet, even here, there is beauty. Everything depends on a transformation, a small word, or a simple action to build a feminine world of love, kindness, forgiveness, and grace. Being a “girl” may seem like just two words on the surface, but do you know what hopes, what secrets, what dreams, and what ideals lie hidden within them?"