The hospital room felt too quiet, like the world had paused to hold its breath. I lay there, the bandage on my wrist an uncomfortable reminder of where the day had begun—and how it had unraveled into this moment. My mother sat by my side, her hand holding mine as if she were afraid I'd slip away again. My father stood nearby, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes, tired and red-rimmed, refused to meet mine for long.

"Divya," my mother said softly, her voice laced with worry. "Sweetheart, what happened? Why did you..." Her voice faltered, and she squeezed my hand, her words trailing off as if afraid to finish the thought.

The weight of their concern pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. My father's silence was heavy, his face a storm of emotions barely contained. I knew they deserved the truth—even if it shattered them.

"I..." My throat tightened, and the words scraped painfully as they made their way out. "Something happened yesterday morning."

My mother's hand stilled. My father's arms unfolded as he shifted, his gaze sharp and intent.

"On the train to work," I continued, my voice trembling. "Krishna Kumar was there."

At the mention of his name, my mother's grip tightened around my hand, and my father stiffened, his jaw clenching.

"What about him?" my father asked, his voice carefully even but laced with tension.

I turned my eyes to the ceiling, tears slipping silently down the sides of my face. "He... he hurt me," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "He assaulted me."

The air seemed to leave the room.

My mother gasped, her free hand flying to her mouth. My father froze, his knuckles whitening as his fists clenched by his sides.

"No," my mother whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. "Not Krishna Kumar. He... he's our friend. Your father's colleague."

"He's not our friend," I said, the words tumbling out like shards of glass. "He's a monster. I trusted him. I thought of him like a second father. But he..." My voice broke, and I covered my face with my free hand, trying to block out the memory.

My father's breathing turned ragged, and then his fist slammed against the wall with a sound that echoed through the small room. "I will kill him," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Appa, no!" I cried, sitting up as much as I could. Pain flared in my wrist, but I didn't care. "Please. Don't."

"Don't?" His voice cracked as he turned to me, his face a mix of anguish and fury. "Divya, he hurt you! How can I stand by and—"

"Because I don't want you to do anything," I said firmly, my voice shaking but resolute. "I don't want revenge. I don't want justice. I just want to forget. I want to heal."

He stared at me, his chest rising and falling as if he were holding back a storm. "How can I forget, knowing what he did to you? Knowing I trusted him? Brought him into our lives?"

"It's not your fault, Appa," I said, tears streaming down my face. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known."

"But I should have," he said, his voice breaking. "I should have protected you."

"You couldn't have," I said softly, my heart aching at the pain in his voice. "No one could have known what he was capable of. This is on him—not you."

My mother leaned closer, cupping my face with trembling hands. "Divya, my baby," she whispered, her tears falling freely. "Why didn't you come to us first?"

I hesitated, the silence between us thick and suffocating.

"I was scared," I admitted, my voice barely audible. "I didn't know how to face you. I felt... like I'd failed you somehow. Like I'd brought shame on myself—on our family." My voice cracked as the words tumbled out, jagged and raw.

"John was there," I added, hesitating as I felt their eyes on me. "And I... I just knew he wouldn't judge me. He wouldn't look at me like I was broken. I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing you both. John was the only person I could face."

"John?" my mother whispered, her voice carrying a mix of surprise and hesitation. His name hung in the air, her expression flickering between hurt and understanding.

I braced myself for the worst, but she surprised me. "We're not angry, Divya," she said, her voice trembling but kind. "We just want to be here for you. You don't have to carry this alone."

"She's right," my father said, his voice quieter now, though his grief and anger were still evident. "We're your parents. We love you. No matter what."

Their words cracked something open inside me, and I broke into sobs, the weight of the day finally overwhelming me. My mother leaned over, pulling me into a gentle embrace, and my father placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I choked out between sobs. "I'm so sorry for not telling you sooner."

"You don't need to apologize, sweetheart," my mother said, stroking my hair. "This isn't your fault. None of it."

My father sat on the edge of the bed, his voice quiet but firm. "You are not to blame, Divya. He is. And no matter what you want, we will stand by your side. Always."

I looked at them, their love and pain etched into every line of their faces. They believed me. They didn't blame me. And they were here.

For the first time that day, I felt a flicker of something I thought I had lost: hope. Maybe, just maybe, I could heal.