If the Sun Has Faded Away (UNDER REWRITING)

Chapter 35: The Space Between Us

I traced the scar on my wrist, a thin pink line where John's razor had sliced through my skin. It would heal soon—just a few more days, the nurse had assured me. But nothing felt healed inside. Beneath the surface lay a deeper wound, one that no one else could see, no matter how hard I tried to hide it.

I hadn't been thinking clearly then. It had happened in his bathroom at Aunt Mimi's house. I just needed everything to stop—the pain, the shame, the disgust that had taken root inside me. The razor had been so close, so easy to reach. But I never meant for John to bear the weight of it. I thought of him as I pressed the blade to my skin, convinced he'd be better off without me. Someone like him deserved better than someone like me—damaged, broken.

But everything changed when Krishna Kumar assaulted me. In that dark, terrifying moment, John's warnings crashed into my mind, but it was too late. I had trusted Krishna Kumar, thought of him as a father figure. But I was wrong. When his hands gripped me, I fought back, a sudden realization jolting through me: he didn't own me. My heart, my body, my soul—they didn't belong to him. They belonged to someone else. To John.

In my desperation, I shouted it out, as if voicing it could make it true. John was the one. I had denied it for so long, but in the midst of that nightmare, it was his voice urging me to fight. His voice was my anchor, pulling me out of the chaos and back to his Wonderland, the safe place he had created for us.

But now? Now that I was back in the real world, all I felt was guilt. I had burdened John with my pain, leaving him to clean up my blood in his aunt's bathroom. He shouldn't have to deal with that.

I ran my fingers over the bandage on my wrist again, trying to block out the memory of John's visit earlier. His attempts at light conversation, the way his kiss lingered on my forehead—those moments should have brought comfort, but instead, they felt hollow, like a fragile bubble floating above the heaviness between us. It was as if neither of us could say what we were really thinking.

A wall had risen between us, built from everything I couldn't bring myself to tell him. The weight of my silence pressed heavily on my chest, suffocating in its intensity.

And then there was the nagging thought that maybe he was disgusted. Maybe when he looked at me, all he saw was the girl who had slashed her wrist in his aunt's bathroom. The girl who had been assaulted and now felt too damaged to be worth loving. I knew it wasn't my fault; I repeated that mantra to myself. But when I looked at John, I wondered if he thought the same thing I had been thinking all along: that I was broken. That I had ruined myself.

I loved him. I realized that now, completely. But how could I tell him when all I had brought into his life was pain? He deserved better. Better than someone who had let herself be torn apart. Better than someone who couldn't be whole again.

"You're my blessing, Lucy. But I'm your curse," John's pained words flashed in my mind.
He had asked me to stay away from him. Maybe it would be better if I obliged him.

Not because he was my curse. No. He was my blessing. But I was his curse.

The door creaked open, startling me from my thoughts. Crowther stepped into the room, his sharp eyes softening when he saw me. His usual sternness eased as he sat beside the bed, his presence oddly reassuring.

"Divya," he said, his voice steady yet warm.

For a long moment, he simply looked at me, then sighed. "You've been through hell, I know. But you need to talk to John."

I understood Crowther was referring to the need to open up to John about my feelings for him.

I shook my head, my throat tight. "I can't, Crowther. Not after what I did. I don't want to drag him into this. I can't."

His gaze hardened slightly, though it wasn't unkind. "He's already in it, Divya. He cares about you more than you realize. You don't have to carry this alone. You're not as broken as you think."

I closed my eyes, trying to keep his words from hitting too deep. But they pressed against the walls I had built, relentless.

"You've survived, Divya. You're stronger than you know."

The door creaked again, and this time, my mother stepped in, closely followed by my father. He must have come straight from work—his face looked tired, his shirt slightly rumpled, but his eyes were full of worry and love.

"Hi, Appa," I whispered, attempting a smile, though it felt weak.

"Divya, sweetheart," he said, his voice gentle, almost breaking. He came closer, resting his hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his touch sent a wave of emotion crashing over me.

My mother walked to the other side of the bed, her face lined with a fragility I had never seen before. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for mine, fingers wrapping around mine with a mix of strength and desperation. "We're here for you," she whispered, her voice thick. "We always have been."

I wanted to believe them. I wanted to believe they saw something in me that I couldn't—still saw their daughter, the one they raised, the one they loved—whole, not broken.

Crowther, sensing the moment, stood up. He nodded at my parents, a silent signal of understanding. "I'll give you some space," he murmured, slipping out of the room and leaving me with my parents.

For a long moment, the room filled with silence. My mother squeezed my hand, and I felt my father's presence beside me, grounding me, giving me the strength to speak.

"Appa," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Amma... there's something I need to tell you."

They didn't say anything, but the look on their faces was enough—concern, patience, love. They were ready, waiting to hear whatever it was I needed to say.

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of my words pressing down on me. My heart raced, pounding in my chest as the tears I had been holding back began to well up, blurring my vision. I was on the edge of something, and I could feel it. This was the moment.

But the words were stuck in my throat, too heavy, too painful to speak aloud.

"Take your time, sweetheart," my father said softly, his hand never leaving my shoulder.

And in that moment, I knew that no matter how long it took, they would be there. They wouldn't leave. They wouldn't judge. They would just listen.