The days passed like shadows on a wall. Quiet. Cold. Long. I no longer knew what hour it was, or even what day. Time, once so vivid with pings and laughter in the server, had dulled into the silence of my room. No voices. No friends. No Pakhi. Just the hum of a ceiling fan and the ache of betrayal.
My mother knocked often. But I said little. I feared her eyes would see the truth-the blood-stained tissues, the weight I'd lost, the way my body had begun to wilt like a flower starved of sun. What began as heartbreak had turned into sickness. I was coughing up blood. Constantly.
The doctor said stress. He mentioned "emotional collapse." He said something about my lungs, about how my body was shutting down because my mind refused to cope. I didn't care. Let it shut down, I thought. Let it end.
But it didn't.
Because one day, between coughs and sobs, I opened my Discord account again.
Not to message anyone.
Just to look.
I saw my server-abandoned. Empty. Ghost town.
Then I saw something that stopped my breath.
A message. From someone I didn't know.
> "Hey... I joined your server a while ago. Never talked. But I used to read your chats. You were kind. I hope you're okay."
My fingers shook.
A stranger remembered my kindness.
In that moment, something sparked in my chest.
A question: What if I'm still needed?
---
I opened a Word document.
I titled it: Fake Friends: Mission Rudro.
And I began to write.
Everything. The betrayal. The love. The hurt. The breakdown. The blood. The silence.
Each paragraph felt like bleeding through my fingertips. But also like breathing for the first time.
I wrote for hours. Days. Weeks.
And with every sentence, I felt lighter.
---
Writing became my therapy.
But I needed more. I needed to fight back against the feeling that my pain had no purpose.
So I started researching. Catfishing. Online abuse. Mental health in digital spaces. I found stories worse than mine. Some kids ended their lives. Others lost their identity.
I realized: I wasn't alone.
And if I wasn't alone, maybe I could speak up.
---
I created a new server.
This time, it wasn't for friends.
It was for survivors.
I called it Digital Phoenix.
People joined slowly. Some lurked. Others posted their stories. Some cried. Some screamed. Some healed.
I made a rule: no bullying. No fake names. Just truth.
We weren't perfect.
But we were real.
---
My story reached a blogger.
They messaged me asking if they could share it.
I said yes.
A week later, the blog went viral.
"Teen Catfished By Best Friend Builds Support Group for Online Betrayal Victims."
Comments poured in.
> "I thought I was the only one." "This gave me the courage to talk to my mom." "I'm proud of you."
I cried reading them.
Not from sadness.
From something I hadn't felt in months:
Pride.
---
My old classmates began reaching out.
One girl from class 8 messaged: "I remember how quiet you were. I had no idea you were so strong."
Another said: "I shared your blog with my cousin. She went through something like this too."
Even teachers started asking me to speak at school mental health events.
---
The sickness faded.
Slowly. But it did.
The coughing stopped. The tissues stayed clean.
I ate more.
I walked outside.
I looked at the sun without flinching.
---
And one night, I stood in front of my mirror and said aloud:
> "They tried to destroy me."
> "But I'm still here."
> "I am the glitch they couldn't delete."
---
That was the night I knew:
This wasn't just survival.
It was revival.
And I was just getting started.
(To be continued)