They Don’t Like Me Because I’m a Poor Girl

I walk through the hallways of my school, head down, books clutched tightly against my chest. I can feel the stares burning into my back, the whispers floating just loud enough for me to hear—“Look at her clothes,” “She’s always alone,” “She must live in the slums.”

They don’t like me. Not because I’m rude, not because I’ve ever hurt anyone, but simply because I’m poor.


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Chapter 1: A World of Shadows

My name is Zoya. I’m 16 years old, and I live in a small, crumbling house with my mother and little brother. My father passed away five years ago, and since then, life has been a series of sacrifices. My mother works as a cleaner at a hospital and barely earns enough to feed us twice a day. We never ask for more than what we have because we know life doesn’t give us that luxury.

Every morning, I wear the same faded blue uniform, neatly washed but patched at the elbows. My shoes are second-hand, with soles that let in water when it rains. Yet I carry my dreams like treasures—untouched, sacred, and alive in a world that sees my worth only through the lens of money.


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Chapter 2: The Cruel Classroom

At school, I’m invisible until someone wants to make a joke.

“Zoya, did your dress come from a garbage bin?”
“She probably eats leftovers from the trash.”
“I bet she doesn’t even have a phone.”

They laugh. Loud. Careless. Cruel.

I pretend not to hear, but their words sting more than they’ll ever know. The teachers don’t step in. They look the other way. Maybe because I’m not someone important, or maybe because poverty makes people uncomfortable.

There’s a girl named Aanya—beautiful, rich, popular. She’s the queen bee of the class, and I’m the dirt under her shoes. Once, when I topped the math test, she walked up to me and said, “You may be smart, but smart doesn’t buy respect.” And everyone laughed.

I went home and cried. My mom held me close, her rough hands wiping my tears. She whispered, “Let them laugh, Zoya. One day, your mind will shine brighter than all their money.”


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Chapter 3: A Heart That Hopes

I study under a dim bulb every night. I tutor neighborhood kids for a few rupees and help my brother with his homework. Sometimes, when I pass by big homes with lights and laughter, I wonder what it feels like to have more—new clothes, hot meals, people who admire you.

But I also know that wealth doesn’t define kindness. I’ve met people with everything who had nothing in their hearts, and people with nothing who gave everything they could. My friend Mariam, another poor girl from the street, shares her lunch with me every day. We laugh together under the banyan tree behind the school, away from the cruel stares. That’s where I feel safe.


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Chapter 4: A Letter That Changed Everything

One day, our English teacher gave us an assignment: “Write a letter to your future self.”

I poured my soul into it. I wrote about my dreams—to become a lawyer, to fight for those who have no voice, to stand in courtrooms and speak the truth loud and clear. I wrote about the struggles, the shame, the strength, and the silence that poverty forces upon girls like me.

A week later, the teacher read my letter aloud in class.

The room fell silent.

No one laughed. Not even Aanya.

For once, they saw me—not the torn shoes, not the plain bag, not the quiet girl in the back row—but me, the girl with a fire inside.


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Chapter 5: The Turn

After that day, something shifted. Some classmates started talking to me kindly. Others avoided me, but the laughter stopped. One boy, Aarav, asked if I could help him study math. He smiled—not out of pity, but out of respect.

It wasn’t a miracle. I was still poor. I still walked home on dusty roads and shared a blanket with my brother on cold nights. But for the first time, I felt like I was more than just “the poor girl.”


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Chapter 6: The Scholarship

Three months later, the school announced a national scholarship for underprivileged students. The competition was tough. I stayed up for nights preparing, reading borrowed books, solving mock tests on torn papers.

When the result came, my heart nearly stopped.

I won.

A full scholarship to one of the top colleges in the city.

The principal called me to his office. “Zoya,” he said, “your story inspired many. Don’t stop here. Keep rising.”

As I stepped out of his office, I saw Aanya watching me. For the first time, she didn’t look proud or smug—she looked thoughtful.

She walked up to me and said, “You deserve it.”

That’s all. Just four words. But it was enough.


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Chapter 7: I Am Not Ashamed

Now, when I walk, I hold my head high.

Yes, I am a poor girl.
Yes, I wear the same shoes every day.
Yes, I eat simple food and live in a small house.

But I am rich—in dreams, in courage, in strength.

They didn’t like me because I was poor. But now they respect me because I never let poverty steal my spirit.

My name is Zoya.
I’m a girl who rose not because the world helped me, but because I refused to give up—even when the world pushed me down.

And I am not ashamed.


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