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VIHAAN SURYAWANSHI

Aavya sat curled on the edge of the bed, hugging her knees to her chest like she was trying to hold herself together with just her arms. Her face was pale, her lips trembling, and her eyes — God, her eyes — they were swollen red, carrying more pain than anyone should ever have to hold.

I sat beside her in silence, the diary open in my lap. There’s a pen drive too, in which her grandfather is talking about everything, but this is not enough to get her mom locked up, we'll have to make her confess. The words etched inside were enough to break anyone. But knowing they were her story — her scars — made every line feel heavier in my hands. Her father was alive. And she’d been lied to for years. Left in the dark. Betrayed by the very people meant to protect her.

And while I knew I could never fully understand what she was feeling, the least I could do was sit here. Beside her. With her. Not speaking unless she wanted me to. Not moving unless she needed me to, just being hers — in whatever way she needed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and small, “if I’m troubling you.”