When the stars align

Embers in the Dark

San lay curled up under her blanket, her face buried in her pillow to muffle the quiet sobs that shook her small frame. She had tried so hard to hold it all in, to stay composed for her family's sake. But the weight of everything—the blame, the rejection, the shame—pressed down on her like an anchor. No matter how much she tried to silence them, the tears kept flowing, breaking past the barriers she had so carefully built.

Outside her room, her parents sat together in the living room. Exhaustion was etched into their faces, their expressions a mix of sorrow and helplessness. The events of the day had drained them. At first, they had been angry—at the situation, at San, at the unfairness of it all. But as the hours passed, their anger softened into something deeper: love and concern for their daughter.

"She needs us," her mother said softly, her voice trembling as she clasped her hands tightly together.

Her father nodded, his usual stoic demeanor crumbling under the weight of his emotions. "We can't let her carry this alone," he said quietly. With that, he stood and walked toward San's room, his wife following close behind.

When they opened the door, they found San huddled under her blanket, her sobs muffled but unmistakable. The sight broke their hearts.

"San," her mother said gently as she walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

San froze at the sound of her mother's voice, her entire body tensing. She didn't want them to see her like this—broken, vulnerable. "I'm fine," she croaked, her voice barely audible. "I'll be fine. Just... please leave me alone."

Her parents didn't budge. Her father sat on the other side of the bed, his large, comforting hand resting on her shoulder. "San," he said softly, his voice steady but filled with emotion, "we know you're not fine. And it's okay not to be."

Those words broke through the fragile dam she'd been holding up. She pulled the blanket away and sat up, her face streaked with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I didn't do anything, but everyone thinks this is my fault. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fix it."

Her mother immediately pulled her into a warm embrace, stroking her hair like she had when San was a child. "Shh," she murmured. "You don't have to apologize. You've done nothing wrong, San. Nothing at all."

"But everyone..." San tried to continue, but the words dissolved into sobs.

Her father leaned closer, his hand rubbing gentle circles on her back. "Let them talk," he said firmly. "People will always find something to say. But we know you. We know the truth. And that's all that matters."

San cried harder, the pain and relief colliding in her chest like a storm. "I tried," she choked out. "I tried to make it work—for you, for us. I would never do anything to hurt you."

Her father's voice softened further. "We know, beta. We know. And we're sorry you have to go through this. But you're not alone. We're here with you."

Her mother's arms tightened around her, her own tears glistening. "We're hurt, yes," she admitted softly. "But not at you. We're hurt for you. You didn't deserve this, San. You deserve so much better, and we'll face whatever comes next together. As a family."

For the first time that day, San allowed herself to let go. She cried openly, her sobs filling the room as her parents held her close. Their presence, their words, were a balm to her wounded heart.

When her tears began to subside, her mother kissed her forehead. "You're stronger than you think," she said gently. "And we'll help you through this."

San nodded, her voice too shaky to speak. Deep down, she felt a faint glimmer of hope. For all the pain and uncertainty ahead, she knew she wouldn't have to face it alone.