A part of me was relieved, because death was the only escape she had left. But the other part, the larger part, broke into pieces.
While I sat there on my knees, staring at her, Dad appeared in the doorway. I didn't look at his face, but I heard him chuckle. A small, cold chuckle.
That sound lit something inside me. Rage. Pure, blinding rage.
Without thinking, I snatched the mirror piece from Mom's hand and spun around to stab him, but he was already gone.
I searched for him, heart pounding. Then I heard glass breaking from Mom's room.
I ran.
Our family photo frame was shattered on the floor. Dad was standing in the middle of the mess, holding a sharp piece of glass in his hand. Blood dripped steadily from his fist, dotting the floor as if marking his path. He lifted the shard to his throat and sliced it open with a swift motion.
Blood gushed out in a violent stream. He tried to speak, tried so hard, but every attempt only forced out more blood. Yet from his eyes, I understood the words he couldn't say.
"Sorry, Aasia."
Something inside me snapped. Completely.
I didn't understand anything anymore. My body felt drained, empty, yet somehow I walked to the hall. I sank to the floor with my back against the couch, staring down the hallway toward their rooms.
And while staring, question after question screamed through my mind.
What happened?
Why did Mom do it?
Why now?
Why did she leave me?
Why did Dad chuckle when he saw her?
Why break the photo frame?
Why cut his own throat?
Why apologize at the end?
Why did they die in each other's rooms?
Did they hate each other all these years?
Was it because of me?
Was I the reason they fought?
Why did Dad change?
What? Why? How?
Those were the only thoughts echoing in me, over and over, each one heavy enough to crush a heart.
I kept thinking and thinking while Mom and Dad's bodies began to smell, then rot, and then decay into an unbearable stench that filled every inch of the house. Still, I sat there. Days passed and I did not move.
I sensed everything around me, as if my body lived even when my mind had shut down. I felt the warm sunlight on my face each morning, then the cold wind freezing my skin each night. I heard birds chirp outside. I watched white rabbits flee from the house, frightened by the reek of death. I watched buds bloom in the garden, then wither and fall. But I couldn't do anything. I just stared at the dark hallway and stayed exactly where I was.
I had once read that a person could survive a whole week without food or water. I never believed it. Yet there I was, sitting between the corpses of my own parents, my stomach growling, the air suffocating, and still I stayed alive. One week. Then another. Fourteen days without eating or drinking.
I truly thought I would die like that.
On the final night of the second week, when I was certain the end had finally come, the door burst open.
Dravid ran in.
He moved fast, one hand pressed over his nose, eyes scanning the room. He rushed to me, tried to make me speak, but I didn't answer. Maybe he understood. He didn't ask again. He ran inside, searching, and soon he found them.
When he returned, he wore a calm face, but his eyes were trembling with tears that wanted to fall.
He lifted me in his arms as if I weighed nothing, carried me outside, and set me on the steps by the door. Then he went back inside and shut it behind him.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Then the wailing began.
The sound of it pulled me back to life. Even with no strength left, I pushed the door open and walked inside. Dravid was on the floor, sobbing into his hands. Before him… were the remains of Mom and Dad. Barely bodies anymore, almost skeletons, paper-thin skin clinging to bone.
I walked to him and placed my hand on his shoulder. Instantly, he wiped his tears away, turning his face so I wouldn't see he'd been crying. I tried to smile at his stubbornness, at his attempt to stay strong for me.
My body collapsed on him.
Later, he woke me, fed me water and food while the polis took my parents away. There were interrogations, investigations, so many questions, but eventually they let both of us go.
Dravid took me to Granny's house. We stayed there a couple of weeks. It was torture. Everywhere I looked, I saw memories of Mom and Dad. Sweet ones. Warm ones. For a heartbeat I would smile, then suddenly the darker memories would hit like a stone, followed by the final image of them—my last memory. And I would cry. Every time I cried, Grandpa and Grandma would trail after me, their own eyes full of helplessness.
I tried hiding my tears from Dravid, but he always knew. Even without looking at me, he would sigh softly. "You cried again."
Maybe he thought the place was harming me. After a month, he took me to his home. The moment I arrived, he enrolled me in high school, as if he wanted to fill my world with something new, something that might replace the shadows.
But I couldn't focus. I failed every exam.
One evening, just before final exams, he looked at me and suddenly asked, "Do you want to act?" His eyes looked hopeful, like he had wanted to ask that for a long time. I couldn't bring myself to say no. So I said yes.
He immediately enrolled me in an acting school.
At first, I was just trying it. But the more I acted with the other students, the more I began to enjoy it. And strangely, while I was acting, my mind stopped drifting to Mom and Dad. I could breathe. I could feel something again.
Soon I realized I was good at it.
Very good.
Acting became the one thing I loved, and slowly I let myself build a new life with Dravid.
As I said earlier, Dravid was my first crush. But he wasn't just my first crush. He was the only man I ever loved. Living with him, I was happy in a way I never admitted out loud. I clung to him, followed him everywhere he went. Whenever another girl tried to get close to him, I picked fights with them. Sometimes I introduced myself as his girlfriend, half serious, half teasing. He never confirmed it, never denied it. He just treated me the way he always had, since I was a child.
But no matter what, he was always kind to me. He cared for me, worried about me, made me laugh. He was cool, mature, composed. Every day, I'd show him what I learned at acting school. He always gave honest feedback. If there was even a tiny flaw, he pointed it out and scolded me for it. He was the only one who ever criticized my acting.
And each time he did, I practiced harder. I went back to him again. And again he criticized me. Rarely, he praised me. Only a little. But that little praise made me feel like I was standing on top of the world.
The more my feelings for him grew, the harder it became to handle them. It hurt to be near him, and it hurt to be away from him. Whenever he touched me or looked into my eyes, I would blush uncontrollably. I knew that no matter how hard I tried, he would continue treating me like a child.
So I tried to give up on my feelings.
I buried them by drowning myself in acting.
And somehow, it worked. It made me better. I trained harder than anyone. I improved faster than anyone.
By some miracle, even before I turned eighteen, I got my first lead role in a major film.
During the shooting, Dravid came to the set every single day. If he had nothing important to do, he stayed with me from morning until the last shot, watching, waiting, smiling whenever our eyes met.
On the final day of filming, the whole crew gathered for a celebration. Dravid was right beside me, trailing along like a quiet shadow. In the middle of the party, one staff member asked me to perform something for them. One voice became many, and soon the entire hall was cheering and insisting.
I had no reason to refuse.
So I stepped onto the small stage and performed the scene from Twist, the same one Mom used to act out for me when I was a child. It was also the scene I had secretly rehearsed over and over, hoping to show it to Dravid someday because he loved that book.
When I finished, applause filled the hall. People praised me nonstop. But all of their words felt meaningless. I scanned the room for one face.
He wasn't there.
Just not seeing him for a few moments was enough to break me. I slipped into the ladies' restroom and cried inside one of the cubicles.
Then the door slammed open. Dravid rushed in, knelt before me, and gently brushed away my tears.
"You can cry in front of the camera," he said softly, "but in real life, you can't and you shouldn't."
And before I could fully understand what he meant, he proposed to me.
It wasn't the perfect confession I had imagined for years. Not a dreamy fairy-tale setting, not a romantic garden under a moonlit sky. Just a cramped restroom stall. But it didn't matter. I was so happy I wanted to scream, but the tears wouldn't come.
He noticed that too. He laughed, ran out for a moment, then returned carrying a camera. He set it in front of me, switched it on, and said, "You can cry now."
So I cried for a while as he locked the door and stayed by my side.