Chapter 5: Echoes of Trust
Even though I was healing, I found that some wounds echoed long after they were closed. Some mornings I would wake up with an ache in my chest and a question in my mind: "Will I ever trust again?"
The server I once built still existed, but I hadn't logged into Discord in months. It felt haunted, filled with memories—some sweet, some venomous. One day, I hesitated for over an hour before finally opening the app.
It was quiet. The server, once buzzing with notifications, now stood still like a forgotten room. I scrolled through old chats. There were messages from Pakhi, full of emojis and fake love. There were voice clips from Light, dumb jokes from Sae, and old commands from Innocent.
I froze when I saw the archived channel:
#mission-rudro
They hadn't deleted it. They had left it there like a trophy.
I clicked it. What I read made my hands tremble.
> "Let's see how long till he breaks."
"He actually believed she was real lmao."
"Keep dragging it. It's working."
The pain returned like a punch to the chest. But this time, I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I took a screenshot, closed the app, and deleted Discord from my phone.
I walked out into the daylight. Real sunlight. Not the glow of a screen. I reminded myself that those messages didn't define me anymore.
But the question still lingered: could I ever make new friends? Could I ever risk that kind of betrayal again?
I started small. In group therapy, I talked more. I shared parts of my story, and others shared theirs. There was a boy named Rahat who was once catfished by someone he thought was a mentor. A girl named Misha had been bullied online until she changed schools.
We were broken in different ways—but we understood each other.
One day, after group, Rahat asked, "Wanna grab coffee?"
I hesitated. Then I said yes.
We didn't talk much, but it felt good. It felt normal. Like maybe the world wasn't just full of fake friends.
I joined an art club. I made a new online profile—but this time, I didn't hide behind usernames. I used my real name. Real face. Real story.
A follower messaged me: "I read your blog. It's brave what you shared."
I thanked them. They weren't trying to flirt. They weren't pretending. They just… understood.
And slowly, like rain falling on dry soil, trust began to grow again.
I still had nightmares sometimes. But now, I wrote them down and turned them into poems. I made music. I created a short animation called Shattered Avatar about an online identity that crumbles and rebuilds itself. It got over 50,000 views on YouTube.
People cared. People saw me. Not the broken Rudro—but the artist, the survivor, the storyteller.
I still didn't forgive Yaku, or Light, or any of them. But I forgave myself. For falling. For trusting. For breaking. And for taking time to heal.
One evening, I visited a park I used to walk with Pakhi—or who I thought was Pakhi. I sat on the same bench where I had once dreamed of meeting her in real life.
This time, I wasn't waiting for anyone.
I looked at the sky. The clouds drifted slowly, like time forgiving itself.
My phone buzzed.
It was a message. From HopeWalker.
> "You made it through Chapter 5."
I smiled. Maybe I had.
But the story wasn't over yet.
(To be continued in Chapter 6...)