The next day, I was discharged.
But going home wasn’t as simple as it should have been.
Because I had told my parents I was staying at a friend’s house, I couldn’t explain where I had actually been or what had happened. I walked into my house carrying something heavy—something I wasn’t ready to talk about. I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t tell anyone in my family. And so, I stayed quiet.
That silence followed me for a long time.
It wasn’t just about what had happened physically—it was about everything I didn’t understand, everything I hadn’t been prepared for, and everything I felt like I should have known but didn’t. I kept replaying it in my head, trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out where things had gone wrong.
Later, when I started talking to friends, I realized something important.
