The moonlight filters through the glass window, its feeble glow struggling to penetrate the heavy curtains. I lie in bed, enveloped by the suffocating darkness, desperate for its sheltering embrace. The outside world, with its cacophony of sights and sounds, seems foreign and irrelevant. This room, this desolate chamber of shadows and seclusion, has become my sole refuge, my distorted perception of safety.

But even here, within the depths of my self-imposed isolation, the scars of my past linger like haunting specters. The weight of my experiences presses upon me, suffocating any semblance of hope or light. It's as if the walls themselves carry the burden of my anguish, whispering reminders of my pain and suffering.

I catch a faint sound of footsteps drawing near, approaching the door of my room. It's probably my mom, I think to myself. However, the footsteps abruptly cease, fading into the distance until they become barely audible.

And then, just as suddenly, the sound returns, growing louder and more distinct.

As the doorknob turns, a thin beam of light seeps through the crack, piercing the darkness and casting eerie, twisting shadows that dance upon the walls. It serves as a stark reminder of the outside world, a world I often find solace in shutting out. Gradually, the door creaks open, revealing my dad standing there, his gaze distant and vacant. Though there is a tinge of sadness and concern etched upon his face, but we aren't that close that we can cherish them in the words between us. With deliberate steps, he approaches the edge of the bed, his hands clasped together.

I find it rather strange that my dad didn't ask anything about the drama that unfolded last night. It's as if he's intentionally avoiding the topic, yet his concern for me seems to grow with each passing day. Since yesterday, he has been checking on me more frequently, extending his reach to ensure I'm okay.

Breaking the heavy silence that hangs in the air, my dad clears his throat. His voice trembles, revealing a mixture of warmth and genuine concern as he asks, "How are you feeling?"

The room is dimly lit, obscuring his eyes and leaving only the silhouette of his figure visible to me. Strangely enough, this provides a fleeting sense of comfort, making it slightly easier for me to respond.

Summoning the strength within, I prop myself up with my arms and reply in a hushed tone, "I'm okay."

This time, he doesn't respond with a simple "Good" and leave. Instead, he remains standing there, unsure of what to do next. Gradually, he moves and slowly sits on the edge of my bed, with the faint light from the door gently touching his feet. In this moment, he feels like a stranger, unlike my usual dad who would probably tell me to toughen up and move on, leaving the past behind.

"Dev," his voice resonates, hanging in the air between us, and I can hear the nervousness in his voice as he gulps.

When he doesn't say anything further for a moment, I break the silence by asking, "Hmm?"

I notice him wiping his hands on his thighs, a behavior that is out of the ordinary for him. As his eyes meet mine, they quickly avert, and he slowly gets up, walking toward the window to open the curtains. Moonlight finally penetrates the darkness of my room, reconnecting me with the outside world.

"Dev, I grew up in a very conservative family, quite different from ours, you know?" His gaze is fixed on something in the distance beyond these walls as he speaks. "We never had these family meetings or heart-to-heart conversations, so I'm not very good at it. I struggle to express myself. I struggle to comfort someone, to make someone feel better or...safe."

In that moment, flashes of last night run through my mind when my dad tried to comfort me, but I pushed him away, unable to let him touch me.

I want to say something like, "No, it's okay," or "I understand," but the words fail me.

Taking a deep breath, dad lowers his eyes, fixing his gaze on the floor. His voice quivers with vulnerability as he speaks, "I know I've never given you a reason to trust me either. I've always urged you to improve yourself, to behave like a man... without explaining why. Without warning you about the cruelty of this world." Dad looks at me, his vulnerability palpable. "I said those things because I didn't want anyone to hurt you. I didn't want anyone to think you're weak and take advantage of you. I never wanted anything bad to happen to you. I know how schools can be. I didn't want you to be bullied."

He pauses for a moment, exhaling heavily, leaving the air between us trembling with his words. I allow his words to sink in, absorbing their weight. "But you didn't need that. You didn't need to change yourself because of them. Those creatures are predators, and they would prey on you regardless. What you needed was emotional support, the belief that someone out there is looking out for you, that there's someone at home for you... that you're not alone. Your dad has got your back... and I failed to give you that."

The moonlight spills through the window, casting delicate beams that danced across the room, illuminating my father's figure. In that soft, ethereal glow, he appears both familiar and distant, his silhouette swathes in a melancholic aura. His eyes, usually warm and lively, now holds a distant look, as if they are fixed on a haunting memory, a moment frozen in time.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, my father turns away from the window, his gaze unfocused, lost within the depths of his own mind. It is as if he has withdrawn into a realm where past and present intertwines, where the weight of his regrets and struggles bears down upon him.

"You must have wondered why I seem so consumed by work, by money, why I harbor such disdain for music," he begins, his voice laden with a mixture of sorrow and longing. His words quivers with raw emotion, revealing a vulnerability he has long kept hidden. The rise and fall of his Adam's apple betrays the effort it takes for him to swallow the painful memories that threatens to choke him.

"Let me tell you something, Dev. Not to justify my actions or beliefs, for they can never truly be justified, but so that you may truly know your father. So that you may understand why I am the way I am."

As he speaks, a heavy stillness settles between us, suffocating the air, as though the weight of his unspoken emotions hangs palpably in the room. His eyes remains distant, as if peering through a window into the past, while his face bears the marks of a lifetime of battles fought in solitude. In the encompassing darkness, the essence of his life seems to swirl around him, a silent symphony of pain and sorrows.

"It was a time when my first startup crumbled, and we found ourselves teetering on the edge of destitution," he begins, his voice trembling with the weight of his recollections. "I was staying at my father's house, and you and your mother had gone to visit her side of the family. That fateful day, my father suddenly clutched his chest, writhing in pain. Without a second thought, I rushed him to the nearest hospital. But back then, my financial situation was precarious, and we had to rely on a taxi to get there. After admitting my father, I was told that he needed urgent care, and a bed was promised to us. Yet, when I returned with the necessary paperwork, the bed had vanished, snatched away without explanation. I pleaded, begged, and implored, explaining the gravity of my father's condition."

A tremor courses through his voice, his words revealing the agony he has carried within him for far too long. "Later, I overheard snippets of conversation among the hospital staff. They spoke of a renowned singer, a mere celebrity, who had suffered a cardiac arrest and paid a exorbitant sum to secure the last available bed. I beseeched the doctors, trying to convey the imminent threat to my father's life, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. When I tried to fight for his survival, they callously ejected me from the premises, leaving my father abandoned at the hospital gate. Desperation consumed me as I made the split-second decision to transport him to another hospital, far away.

I frantically waved at passing taxis, but on that desolate night, none would halt. My father's breaths grew shallower, his life force slipping away as he lay on the cold pavement. Dev, I witnessed my own father battling for each breath, and it tore me apart. I sat there, in the middle of that forsaken road, my heart breaking as I futilely waved for a taxi, the weight of helplessness crushing my spirit. But before we could reach the sanctuary of the second hospital, my father took his final breath... in my arms. I was powerless, unable to save him, unable to protect him from the cruel hands of fate. He fought valiantly, struggling for every precious gasp of air, and I, his useless son, could do nothing... absolutely nothing."

A torrent of tears cascades down my father's anguished face, his sobs reverberating through the room, as if his very soul is unraveling in the face of his long-held grief. Instinctively, I moves closer, drawn to his pain, my heart aching with a blend of empathy and sorrow. I stand by his side, silently offering my presence because I know, I can never be good with words. What can I even say, "it's okay?" Because it isn't.

As his hiccups subsides, his voice, now weary yet determined, manages to regain its strength amidst the remnants of his cries. "If only I had possessed the means, the resources, he would not have suffered such a fate," my father's words resonates with regret and frustration, his voice tinges with bitter resentment.  "I toiled relentlessly, burning the midnight oil, sacrificing my own dreams, all in pursuit of wealth. I abandoned my secure job to embark on the perilous journey of starting Tanushri Jewels. Every night, when exhaustion cloaks me, threatening to drown me in its suffocating embrace, that wretched night resurfaces, replaying the anguish and desperation. And whenever I hear someone singing, the notes carry a painful reminder of that callous singer who snatched away my father's final breaths."

His voice crackles with a potent mixture of anguish and rage, his eyes burning with an unyielding fire of determination. The room pulsates with the intensity of his emotions, the walls absorbing his fervor, as if bearing witness to his unrelenting quest for vindication.

I stand in the stillness of my room, my father's presence heavy in the air. His words hang between us, laden with regret and remorse. It is a moment unlike any other, the first time my father stays this long in my room, the first time he opens up to me with such vulnerability. His voice quivers with emotion as his sorrow echoing through the space.

My heart aches at the sight of his tears, each droplet a testament to the depths of his pain. I want to offer him comfort, to assure him that he hasn't failed me, but the words catch in my throat. Will he truly believe them? Can I even believe them myself?

Summoning every ounce of courage, I reach out, my hand trembling as it finds its place on his shoulder. As soon as my touch connects with his trembling frame, his hiccups grow louder, filling the room. He turns towards me in an instant, his eyes tightly shut, and pulls me into an embrace.

"I'm sorry, Dev. I'm really sorry," he repeats, his voice muffled by his tears. The room seems to fade away, the walls crumbling into insignificance. In this moment, nothing else matters except the sensation of his arms around me. I close my eyes, press my face into his shoulder, and wrap my arms tightly around him.

The sound of his sobs reverberates through the room, and I instinctively move my hands in a soothing rhythm along his back. Slowly, his breath steadies, and he releases me from his grip. The silence that envelops us feels serene, comforting even.

Dad finally lifts his eyes, meeting mine with a mix of determination and regret. He licks his lips, his voice barely a whisper as he speaks, "Dev, I can't promise that I'll suddenly become the best father in the world. But I promise to put in every effort, to be the father you deserve. I want to be there for you, to know you for who you truly are. I want to be your protector, your support. Can you be patient with me?"

Tears well up in my eyes, a profound ache spreading through my chest. The pain and regret in his voice tear at my heart. I lean in closer, our shoulders touching as we stand by the window, and nod slowly, a soft sob escaping my lips.

I cry, remembering every moment I wanted to share with him—the empty seat next to Mom at every school competition, the countless times I gazed upon our family drawings only to find him present after I had drifted into slumber. I cry, recalling the desperate yearning for my father's presence, tainted by the forceful touch that scarred my soul. I cry, remembering the day I returned home battered and bruised, unnoticed by him the following day due to his trip to Delhi. I cry, as the memories of Dr. Kashyap's inquiries about my relationship with my dad resurface, each one a painful reminder of the fractured bond between us.

He raises his hand, resting it gently on my shoulder, and we stand there, side by side, gazing out into the darkness of the night. I take a few deep breaths, my head resting against the cool glass, trying to steady my emotions.

Amidst the weight of the silence, Dad cleared his throat, his voice barely audible as he spoke, "Are you comfortable enough to tell me what exactly happened to you that night?"

As my eyes fixate on the ceiling, a lump forms in my throat, making it difficult to speak. I gather my courage and finally break the heavy silence that hangs between us.

"What do you think?" I manage to choke out, my voice strained with emotion.

Dad's response is barely audible, his words whispered with a mix of concern and uncertainty. "I thought he bullied you or something, but... there's more, isn't there?"

I let out a heavy sigh, my gaze still averted, as if the weight of the world rests upon my shoulders. Fatigue washes over me, draining my energy, leaving me feeling hollow and empty. I find myself devoid of tears, devoid of any visible emotion.

The reality of this moment is nothing like the imagined scenes that played out in my mind a thousand times before, where tears streamed down my face, where anger and anguish filled the room. No, this reality is different. The words spill out of me with unexpected ease, devoid of the expected emotional turmoil.

"He assaulted me," I finally confess, my voice barely above a whisper. "He tried to touch me, to kiss me... again."

The weight of those words hangs heavy in the air, and the room feels suffocating. I remain still, my body slumped, as if the weight of my experiences has left me devoid of any strength. I can't summon any immediate reaction. I am simply too exhausted to feel anything at all.

I close my eyes, seeking solace in the darkness, and release a shaky breath. My voice quivers as I speak, the words tumbling out, burdened with raw honesty.

"Yeah, your son isn't manly enough to fight him," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like a victim, as defenseless as anyone could be."

Dad's gaze intensifies, and his other hand continues its soothing motion on my shoulder, a feeble attempt to offer comfort amidst the storm of emotions. His voice, laced with regret, murmurs, "I'm sorry."

The silence stretches out like an unending abyss. I swallow hard, my eyes fixated on the ceiling, feeling drained and weary. With a heavy heart, I confess, "I've been going to therapy for months now." The words hang in the air, laden with vulnerability and the weight of my struggle.

Silence settles between us, a palpable tension that seems to stretch on for an eternity. I had anticipated a reaction, a response from him, anything to break the stifling silence. Yet, all that remains is a heavy stillness, pregnant with unspoken emotions. His sigh permeates the space, carrying with it a complex mixture of remorse, understanding, and perhaps even guilt. It reverberates through my being, intensifying the ache in my chest.

A weariness washes over me, my shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. We stand there, side by side. Time stretches on, elongated by the weight of our silence. And then, at last, his voice slices through the dense atmosphere.

"I will learn. I will listen," his voice resolute and unwavering. "I will do whatever it takes to understand you, to support you." His words hang in the air, a promise infused with genuine intent. "I can't change the past, but I can be here for you now and in the future and in every upcoming moment for you. I will try to be there, to be the father you want...you need."

Dear life,
In a world where stories go untold,
Where masks conceal what hearts behold.
Beneath the surface, pain resides,
The battles fought, hidden inside.

The man we know, we hardly see,
A mirage of truth, a mystery.
The faces we observe, a fragile guise,
Concealing the storms within their eyes.

Each person carries a tale untold,
A journey of triumphs and sorrows bold.
Their struggles veiled, their voices hushed,
Yet strength emerges, resilient and flushed.

Let's peel away the layers, with care,
And listen to the whispers they bear.
For in understanding the battles they face,
We forge connections, woven with grace.