The night air felt colder than usual as I stood in the middle of Shahdara Police Station, the oppressive weight of shame pressing down on me. The room was filled with murmurs, the clatter of phones, and the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, yet none of that mattered to me. All that mattered was the burning question at the back of my mind: why me? Why had they chosen me?


    It all started hours ago, back in school, in the crowded hallways where voices were louder than the sense of decency. A group of boys from my class, some of the usual suspects, had been whispering and laughing in the corner. I didn’t think much of it at first. That was a mistake. They were planning something, and in the twisted, cruel game that kids often play, my name had been thrown into the mix. I was the scapegoat, the one who would take the fall for whatever crime they were dreaming up.


    The laughter had turned into a joke that wasn’t funny, a joke that spiraled out of control. They’d told the authorities that I was involved in something I had no part in. It didn’t matter that I had nothing to do with it. They thought it was funny, thought it would amuse them to watch my life crumble, to see me dragged down into the mud.


    Now, here I was, standing in front of the Inspector, my head low and my heart heavy, the weight of the false accusations sinking deeper with every passing second. I could feel the sting of his words, even if I couldn’t quite understand why it was all happening. All I could do was take the verbal lashings, my body frozen, rooted to the spot, trying not to break. My father was with me, standing silent, his face grim as the Inspector continued.


    “You’re lucky you’re not facing more serious charges,” the officer had said, his voice cold. “People like you should be more careful. What’s your excuse, huh? Think before you get mixed up in these things. You’re just as guilty for letting this happen. You understand that?”


    I nodded. But there was no understanding, no comprehension of how I ended up here. I hadn’t done anything. The words bounced off me like stones skipping over water, their meaning barely making sense in the chaotic mess of my mind.


    The only thing that kept me from crumbling in front of the Inspector was my father’s presence. His silence was worse than any accusation, worse than the Officer’s scorn. I had never seen him so still, so… disappointed. I wanted to scream at the officer, tell him that I didn’t deserve this, that they were making a mistake, but the words got caught in my throat.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    After what felt like hours, the interrogation finally ended. The Inspector’s scorn was replaced by something far worse—indifference. The case had been dismissed. I was free to go. But the damage had been done. I could feel the heavy stare of the officer as we left the room, the quiet whispers from the staff, and the lingering judgment in the air. We walked out, and the weight of my father’s silence was more deafening than any lecture he could have given me.


    It wasn’t until we reached the stairs that I spoke, my voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry.”


    I could barely bring myself to say it, but I knew I had to. In some twisted way, it felt like the only thing I could do to make things better. To undo the mistake I didn’t even make. To beg for forgiveness for something I was never responsible for.


    My father stopped walking, his footsteps pausing for a brief moment before he turned toward me. His eyes, though tired, still held a trace of warmth. “Why are you saying sorry?” His voice was soft, yet there was a hint of something else, something I couldn’t quite place. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”


    “I know…” I stammered, the words catching in my throat, my voice faltering with each syllable. “I… I just feel like I have to. You had to come all the way here because of me. I just feel like… like I’m the reason this happened. I’m so sorry, Papa.”


    I could feel the tears gathering in my eyes, hot and relentless, but I forced them down, pushing them back with all the strength I could muster. I didn’t want to break, not in front of him. Not when I knew it was my fault in some way.


    My father didn’t say anything at first, just took a step toward me and pulled me into a tight embrace. I didn’t resist. I didn’t know what to do anymore. I just let him hold me.


    “It’s okay,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a softness I hadn’t heard in years. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, Diyansh. You’re my son, and I know you didn’t do anything to deserve this. Don’t carry this guilt. It’s not yours to bear.”


    I clung to him, my body shaking in his arms, the tears that I had held back now spilling over. I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know how to make things right. All I knew was that I had failed him somehow.


    After a long moment, we pulled away from the hug, and my father looked at me, his expression softening. “Let’s go home. We’ll get something to eat. I know you’ve had a tough day.”


    And so, we left. We walked in silence, the city around us bustling and unaware of the storm that had passed through my life. I didn’t know what to feel, what to think. All I could do was walk beside my father, my head lowered, my heart heavy.


    We made our way to the small stall on the corner where they sold the best vegetable biryani. I could smell the spices, the earthy scent of cumin and cardamom mingling with the fragrant steam rising from the pot. My father, always the one to brighten things up when I felt low, bought us each a plate. As I ate, I could almost convince myself that the world was okay. That things would be fine again.


    But the thought didn’t last long. The pain, the shame, the humiliation—they didn’t go away with a plate of food. The world wasn’t okay. I wasn’t okay. And no matter how much I wanted to believe it, nothing would change that.


    We went back to our modest home after that, the shadows of the evening stretching across the narrow lanes.


    That night, when I lay in bed, I stared at the ceiling, the silence of the room deafening. I tried to convince myself that things would get better, but deep down, I knew they wouldn’t. Not for me.


    The world outside was quiet, but inside my head, everything was loud. And no matter how much I tried to bury it, the guilt kept gnawing at me.