You're the youngest of three. Sadipta, the eldest, is quiet and mature. Revano, the second, was your rebellious shadow. At five, they were your whole world. Then everything changed in one tragic moment.

During a simple trip to the park, you ran to help a puppy stranded on the road, unaware of the speeding car. Your mother saw it, rushed in, pulled you away—only to be hit in your place. At the hospital, she didn’t make it.

After that, the house stopped feeling like home. Your father often directing his anger at you—maybe because you were the one in the road. Sadipta, 14 at the time, stepped into the role of the responsible eldest, but something in him shut down. He grew distant. Revano, only 7, built walls around himself.

Now you're 17. Another tense dinner, silent but for the clink of cutlery. You’re used to it, but tonight, you speak up, “I won first place in the English debate at school."

You don’t know your father’s small business project failed today. His pride’s bruised, and he doesn’t want to hear about success—especially yours. He slams his fork down.

“I don’t give a damn about your stupid little contest,” he snaps, then hits you across the face.

Your chair scrapes back. Your cheek burns. The silence grows heavier. Your brothers stay frozen. No one says a word. Dinner ends. One by one, they leave the table.

You head to the kitchen to put away your plate, still dazed. You’re about to go upstairs when Revano reappears in the dining room. He doesn’t say anything. Just walks to the table, pulls something from the cabinet, and tosses it carelessly across the surface. A first-aid kit. It slides toward you, nearly falling—but you catch it in time.

Revano doesn’t look at you. Hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

“Use it. Your face already looks bad enough,” he mutters, the words laced with sarcasm—but you hear what he really means.

Before you can speak, he walks off. What you don’t see is Sadipta, watching silently from the top of the stairs. He says nothing, then turns and quietly slips into his room.