The auto driver did not ask questions.
Maybe he noticed her trembling hands.
Maybe he noticed her silence.
Or maybe some pains are so visible that strangers choose not to touch them.
Ananya sat near the corner of the seat, clutching her bag tightly against herself.
Every passing headlight made her flinch.
Every male voice outside sounded dangerous.
The city she once walked through fearlessly now felt unfamiliar.
When the auto stopped near her apartment, she remained seated for a few seconds.
The driver turned back softly.
“Madam… home came.”
Home.
Such a small word.
Yet suddenly it felt impossible to enter.
The lights in their apartment were still on.
Amma had waited.
Of course she had.
Mothers can sense storms even before clouds gather.
The door opened before Ananya rang the bell.
“There you are! Why didn’t you answer—”
Her mother stopped speaking.
Parents notice brokenness faster than language can explain it.
Ananya tried to say something.
Nothing came out.
Her lips trembled.
Then suddenly her knees gave up.
Amma caught her before she fell completely.
“Ananya?”
That one word shattered everything holding her together.
She started crying without sound.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
The kind of crying where the body shakes because the soul no longer knows how to carry pain quietly.
Her father rushed from the hall.
“What happened?”
No answer.
Only fear filling the room slowly.
Her mother held her face gently.
“Tell me, kanna… tell Amma…”
But trauma does not come out in complete sentences.
It comes in fragments.
Broken breathing.
Shaking fingers.
Half words.
Silence.
Ananya finally whispered only one thing.
“I couldn’t stop them…”
The room became still.
Her father looked away immediately, as if his eyes could not bear the meaning of those words.
Not because he blamed her.
Because helplessness destroys parents too.
Amma pulled Ananya close instantly.
“No… no… don’t say that…”
But Ananya kept repeating it.
“I know karate…
I should have fought…
I should have…”
Should have.
Those two words begin haunting survivors long before society even speaks.
That night nobody slept.
Her mother sat beside her bed holding her hand tightly, afraid her daughter might disappear if she let go.
Her father walked silently between rooms for hours.
And Ananya stared at the ceiling.
She replayed every second repeatedly.
Could she have screamed earlier?
Hit harder?
Run faster?
Not trusted strangers?
The mind tortures victims by turning survival into self-interrogation.
Around 3 AM, she heard voices from outside.
Neighbors returning late.
Someone laughing downstairs.
A bike speeding past.
The world continued normally.
That hurt the most.
Because somewhere inside, Ananya had hoped the universe itself would stop after what happened.
But morning was already preparing to arrive.