Chapter 4: The Healing Begins
The days after my diagnosis weren't easy, but they were different. Pain still lingered, like a ghost haunting every thought, every breath. But there was something else now—something I hadn't felt in months: the tiniest flicker of hope.
I still cried. I still woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, remembering Pakhi's voice—Yaku's voice. But now, when I cried, it wasn't in silence. My mom sat beside me sometimes. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Her presence was enough.
I started going to therapy, though it took everything in me just to walk through the door. The therapist was kind, not pushy. She let me talk at my own pace. At first, I just stared at the wall. But little by little, the words came out. I told her everything: about the server, the friends, the betrayal, the smoking, the cancer.
"You've survived something incredibly traumatic," she said. "And yet, you're still here. That means something."
At night, I continued writing in my blog. Each post was raw, real, and painful. But it was honest. People started commenting. Strangers said things like:
"I thought I was the only one."
"This happened to me too."
"You gave words to pain I never knew how to explain."
I wasn't alone anymore. And that changed everything.
One day, I got another DM. It was from "HopeWalker" again.
They wrote: "Pain doesn't define you. Survival does."
This time, I replied: "But what if I don't feel like I've survived anything?"
HopeWalker sent back: "You're still here. That means you won the first battle."
I didn't know who they were. I didn't care. Their messages became a lighthouse in my darkest moments.
At the hospital, I met other patients my age. Some were worse off than me. One boy named Imran had been fighting cancer for years. He always wore a beanie and had the brightest smile.
"Don't let the sadness make you forget to laugh," he told me one afternoon.
I laughed for the first time in months.
Bit by bit, I rebuilt my life. Not the old life—the new one. A stronger one.
I started drawing again. I created digital art, mostly of broken hearts stitched back together. I posted them online. They went viral. People resonated with the pain in the lines and the healing in the colors.
One piece titled Mission: Rebirth became especially popular. It showed a shattered heart being reforged like steel. Someone in the comments wrote: "This made me cry. Thank you."
I smiled. It wasn't revenge, but it was power. My pain had become someone else's strength.
Months passed. My treatment continued. The smoking damage was severe, but I was healing. Slowly. One cigarette at a time. One therapy session at a time.
I received one final message from Yaku. It was short:
"Was it really that deep?"
I didn't reply. I didn't need to.
I'd already said everything I needed to say.
One year later, I gave a speech at a mental health awareness event. My mom sat in the front row, tears in her eyes. I stood on stage, not as the broken boy from the server, but as someone who had faced his storm and come out alive.
"My name is Rudro," I said. "And once, a group of people created a mission to break me. But in the end, they created something else: strength."
The audience clapped. Some cried.
Afterward, a girl came up to me. She was shy, holding a notebook.
"Your story… saved me," she whispered. "Can I tell you mine?"
I nodded.
That's when I knew—I wasn't just healing. I was helping others heal too.
And for the first time in forever, I believed in something again.
Not in love.
Not in friends.
But in myself.
(To be continued in Chapter 5...)