The Worst Part Was the Floor

The worst part was not the blood. It was how quickly everyone decided I was something to step around. For several seconds I made myself smaller, as if that might convince the station that I was not worth stopping for. I am skilled at becoming smaller in other people’s homes. At Churchgate, with strangers’ shoes cutting close to my torn knee, that skill felt filthier than the injury.

I keep replaying the moment his hand moved inside his jacket. My body knew before my mind did. I stepped back and fell, and some frightened little part of me is still furious that he made the entire scene look like my fault.

The messages on my phone made the room feel very small. Mediation cancelled. Mr. Kapoor withdrawn. Pulkit’s family choosing open war now that the mediation is dead. I read them in the order that hurt least, which was none of them.

I called no one. That is the confession I cannot soften. I wanted my mother, a friend, anyone, but I could not bear to hear my own voice admit that I was frightened. So I sat with Dettol stinging my palm and pretended silence was dignity.

Divya Menon’s article on Monday frightens me, but tonight the article feels less immediate than the possibility that Pulkit will reach my parents before I can decide what version of the truth they deserve. My mother would hear the accusation and still ask whether I had eaten. I hate how much that would undo me.