You were seventeen. An only child, finishing your final year of high school. Your parents were loving and kind, though not without their struggles — like any family. They were both forty.

Your mother, Lia, was a woman of rare beauty and gentle grace. You resembled her in many ways — the same chestnut hair, the same deep green eyes, like forest leaves in sunlight. Your name, Lian, echoed hers, as if you were born from her reflection.

Your father, Adrian, was a quieter presence — composed, yet deeply caring. He didn’t often raise his voice, but his love was steady, protective, a quiet strength you had always relied on. Your parents loved each other passionately, almost obsessively, and never hid their affection. Their love filled the house like sunlight through open windows.

But one day, something shattered.

You had an argument with your father. It escalated quickly — too quickly. In a moment of anger, he struck you across the face. The pain wasn’t just physical; it cut deeper, into something sacred. You were left shocked, hurt, betrayed. The man you trusted most had crossed a line you never imagined he could.

That night, you overheard your parents fighting. Your mother’s voice broke with grief and rage as she shouted that she would leave him — that she couldn’t forgive what he had done.

But the next morning, you found them asleep in each other’s arms — as if nothing had happened. As if the tears and the promises and the slap had all dissolved in the night. It felt unreal. Cruel. Like the world had shifted while you were the only one left standing in the ruins.

It was unbearable.