It was early morning, before breakfast. As was my daily habit, I reached for my English books to review them before heading to my course and the teacher’s lesson.

Because of the snowfall, I prepared to leave a little earlier than usual. That morning, a heavy sense of anxiety wrapped itself around me. Each time it returned, I tried to push it away. I do not know how many times I did that. Excited by the snow, I changed my clothes, had breakfast, and stepped outside.

The cold winter wind struck my face sharply. Snowflakes fell like tiny, lifeless pieces drifting from the sky. The streets and alleys were quieter than on previous days. At that moment, I wondered why others did not enjoy walking on snow.

When I reached the corner near my friend’s house, I began shaping a snowball. By the time she arrived, it had slowly turned into the head of a large snowman. My fingers had turned red from the cold. With trembling hands, I broke dry branches from a tree and used them to make the snowman’s eyes and mouth. When my friend arrived, we walked toward the course together.

I always loved the atmosphere of the course center. The blue walls and the motivational English quotes filled me with energy and hope. Before we even entered the hall, I greeted the manager and one of the teachers loudly.

The manager’s response froze me in place.

He approached us with worry on his face and, without mercy, refused to let us enter the classroom.

For a moment, my heart stopped beating. Something inside me screamed that all the rumors I had heard were true. With a trembling voice and a lump in my throat, I asked, “Why?”

He replied harshly, “No more questions. All girls’ courses have been closed. You are not allowed to enter the classroom. Leave immediately. If the morality patrol arrives, it could cause trouble.”

Inside me, it felt as if thousands of clouds were colliding. I tried to keep them from crashing, tried not to let my anger explode or my tears fall, but I failed. My tears began to pour like large snowflakes.

When I turned my gaze from the manager’s face to the window, I felt as if the snow was silently pounding against it. As the snowfall grew heavier, it seemed to cry out against injustice. The snow on the ground had turned dark and wet, just like my eyes. It was as if even the snow was full of unshed tears.

I no longer cared where I was or who could see me crying. I stared only at the closed classroom door and allowed my tears to fall freely. My heart was exhausted by the world. Where was the justice in this? My male classmates could enter the classroom without restriction, yet we were forced to stay home simply for being girls.

“Girls, please leave immediately,” the man said again.

I gathered myself and walked away with my friend. I said goodbye to all the dreams and hopes I had grown in that place. Because I was a girl, and in that space, that alone was considered a crime. Not only there, but across my entire homeland.

I cried silently as I walked, trying to comfort myself. The joy I had felt that morning was gone. I was trembling from within, as if my body, too, had frozen under the snow. My legs felt weak, barely able to move.

Only one sentence echoed in my ears again and again:“All girls’ courses have been closed.”

I felt myself collapse under those words. For the first time, I truly understood the weight of my crime. The crime of being a girl.

Even walking on the snow began to feel unbearable. With every step, I imagined the snow breaking beneath my feet, the sound like something being crushed. When I reached the main road, my eyes searched instinctively for the girls who, in previous days, walked toward the course smiling, books in their hands, sharing stories.

That day, only a few girls could be seen. Instead of smiles, sorrow covered their faces. When I passed near them, I saw that they were crying silently. There was no pride, no shame. We had simply given ourselves permission to fall apart.

The tree branches bent under the weight of the snow, just like our shoulders under the burden of being girls.