Aarohi was nineteen years old and in her second year of college. She lived in a quiet neighborhood where houses stood close together, yet lives remained distant and silent. To outsiders, her home looked ordinary—cream-colored walls, a small balcony, and a father who went to work every morning like everyone else.
Inside, it was not ordinary at all.
Her father, Raghav, worked a competitive private job that demanded long hours. On most days, he returned home late, tired, and irritable. On some nights, he returned drunk. Aarohi had learned to recognize the sound of his footsteps—unsteady, careless, dangerous.
One night, as she sat at her desk preparing for an exam, she heard the door open much later than usual. The house smelled of alcohol. Her body stiffened. She hoped he would go straight to his room.
He didn't.
What happened that night shattered Aarohi's understanding of safety forever. She cried out, but the walls absorbed her voice. The neighbors heard nothing. The house remained silent.
The next morning, she went to college as if nothing had happened. She sat in class, wrote notes, and nodded when spoken to. Inside, something had broken. She didn't tell anyone—not her friends, not her teachers, not even her mother. Fear wrapped around her throat and refused to let her speak.
That night, it happened again.
And again.