Board exams were knocking at the door. The air around her was thick with tension, textbooks, and silent prayers. Siya was juggling it all—study schedules, late-night revisions, and her blooming relationship with Ruhan, who had become her constant light in a life full of dark corners.
Ruhan was preparing for his own boards too, but even amidst formulas and deadlines, they found time for each other. Their calls were quick but filled with affection. She would update him about her revision progress, and he'd tease her with silly mnemonics. They laughed, encouraged, and leaned on each other—until January turned cold in more ways than one.
The study leave had just begun, and with it, something she had hoped was left behind forever: her father started drinking again.
Every evening turned into a rehearsal of hell. Bottles clinked. Slurred screams echoed through the walls. Her mother's silence returned, and Siya's chest burned with the helplessness she knew too well. Still, every night she texted Ruhan everything. "Papa shouted again today... threw a chair... Maa cried again... I stayed quiet." He always replied with comforting words, but Siya could feel his growing helplessness too.
Then came the night that changed everything.
She had gone to sleep early, hoping to get in at least six hours of rest before another full day of studying. But screams woke her—again.
She opened her eyes to the sound of her mother's voice trembling with fear and her father yelling something too vulgar to register. Siya rushed outside her room, heart pounding, only to witness her father raising his hand toward her mother.
Not this time.
"STOP!" she shouted, stepping between them.
Her father turned toward her, bloodshot eyes glaring. Without warning, he grabbed Siya's right wrist. His grip was brutal—his nails pierced her skin like claws, digging deeper and deeper.
"Let me go!" she cried, trying to pull away, but the pain shot up her arm. She could feel her skin tearing. Her hand was turning purple under his crushing grip.
Then instinct took over. With her left hand, she grabbed the nearest object—a thick glass bottle—and smashed it hard against his head.
A thud. Silence. Then a gasp.
He let go.
Her hand was dripping with blood, skin torn, a deep gash where his nails had gone in. She collapsed on the floor, holding her wrist, eyes wide with pain and horror. Her chest heaved, and tears rolled down silently.
Her father staggered, then walked away, muttering curses.
That night, the house fell into an eerie silence. No more screams. No more sounds. Just Siya, sobbing into her bloodied hand, wondering why love always had to hurt.
The next morning was like waking up from a nightmare you couldn't escape. The pain in her hand hadn't lessened. The skin was swollen, wrapped in a hurried bandage her grandmother helped her apply. Her mother didn't speak a word about the incident. Just served breakfast, eyes lowered. Everyone pretended like nothing happened.
But Siya couldn't.
She texted Ruhan:
"He hurt me last night. He grabbed my hand so tight it bled. I smashed a bottle to get free. I didn't know I could do that... I was scared, Ruhan."
Within seconds, his reply came:
"What the hell? Are you okay?? Did you go to the hospital? Show me your hand! Siya, I'm coming over!"
But she stopped him.
"No... exams are in two days. I have to focus. I'll be okay."
He called. The moment she heard his voice, she broke down. "Ruhan, my hand… it hurts so much. And I have to write with it. How will I give my pre-boards?"
There was silence on the other end.
Then, softly, but firmly, he said,
"Siya... that wound may be deep, but it's the mark of your strength. You stood up. For yourself. For your mother. That's bravery, love—not weakness. You're a fighter, and I'm proud of you. Don't worry about anything else. Just write. I'm with you—always."
Those words stitched something inside her.
On the day of her exam, Siya walked into the exam hall with a bandaged right hand and a fire in her eyes. Her friends gasped, asked questions—but she just smiled faintly and said, "I slipped."
But she knew the truth. She hadn't slipped.
She rose.
She gripped her pen, pain shooting up her wrist with every word—but she didn't stop. Every answer she wrote was more than just a response—it was proof.
Proof that even with blood, scars, and tears, she could never be broken.