Chapter One: Blood and Silence

I stripped off the torn dress, stuffed it deep into a plastic bag, and threw it away like it might take the memory with it. Then I scrubbed—hard. Over and over. My skin turned red, my knuckles raw, but nothing could remove what had already been done.

But then I saw the blood.

And it wouldn't stop.

Panic clawed its way up my throat. I reached for one of the few sanitary pads I had left and placed it carefully, hoping it would do the job. But within minutes, it was soaked through. My breath grew shallow, my hands trembling as I scrambled to find another. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. I was bleeding, and no matter how hard I tried to contain it, it kept pouring like some twisted proof of what had been taken from me.

I rushed out to the nearest pharmacy, praying no one would ask questions. I grabbed a pack of pads with shaky hands and returned home, locking myself back in the bathroom.

There, in that small, cold room, something inside me died.

I sat on the toilet seat, bleeding, crying, breaking. I tried to muffle my sobs, pressing a towel against my mouth. I didn’t want my parents to hear. I didn’t want the world to know. I wanted to disappear.

But I couldn’t. I had to keep going.

I had to clean up, cook dinner, and play the part.

When they got home, I served food, smiled weakly, cleaned the dishes like always. I thought I had fooled them.

But my mother watched me closely—too closely. Her eyes narrowed the way they always did when something didn’t add up. After dinner, she asked with quiet sharpness:

“Did you lose your virginity?”

The words struck like lightning. I froze.

I lied.

“No,” I said quickly, too quickly.

She raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“I saw you hiding those pads,” she said. “Changing them every hour. What happened?”

Panic surged in my chest. I felt cornered.

“I told you, my period is heavier this time,” I said. “You’ve forgotten I sometimes get like this.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then slowly nodded. Maybe she wanted to believe me. Maybe she didn’t want to face the possibility that her daughter had returned home shattered.

And so, she gave me the benefit of doubt.

Weeks Later

The world didn’t stop. It kept spinning, cruelly unaware of what I had lost.

I went to school like nothing happened. I smiled when people spoke to me. I laughed when it was expected. But inside, I was drowning in silence.

He walked past me in the hallways with that same cocky grin, like he hadn’t destroyed a part of me. Sometimes his friends smirked when they saw me.

They called me “quiet queen” behind my back.

I wanted to disappear.

At home, I was praised for being so "focused" lately.

“You’ve been so calm,” my mother said once.

If only she knew, I thought.

I avoided mirrors. I avoided questions. I avoided myself.

I felt like an impostor in my own skin.

At night, I cried into my pillow—silently, always silently. I clutched it like it was the only thing left that could hold me together. Sometimes I prayed for healing. Other times I just prayed not to wake up.

But I did wake up.

And every morning, I put on the mask and played the role of the girl who was fine.

But the truth doesn’t stay buried for long.

A few weeks later, everything changed.

And the fragile world I was trying to hold together came crashing down