Problem

Long ago, in the quiet village of Sundargaon, there lived a family of three. Life moved gently for them, marked by shared meals and easy laughter. Nothing seemed out of place—until their son, John, began to change.

He started spending long hours locked inside his room. The curtains were always drawn, the lights dim, clothes scattered across the floor, and the door firmly shut, as if it were a wall between him and the rest of the world. Some evenings, he came home late, his steps uneven, his silence heavier than usual. Dark bruises bloomed on his arms and legs. Once, at dinner, his mother reached for his wrist and flinched when he pulled away, knocking his spoon onto the plate. It clattered loudly, breaking the stillness of the room.

One night, as they sat around the dining table, his father spoke gently, “John, we’ve been noticing you’ve been different lately. You don’t have to carry this alone. Can you tell us what’s been happening?”

John’s fingers tightened around his glass. He stared at the table, his foot tapping nervously. The question made his chest tighten. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Just leave me alone.” The conversation ended there, unfinished and heavy

The weeks passed, and nothing improved.

Then, one night, John did not come home.

His bed was untouched, his room eerily silent. Sleep refused to come. Near midnight, his parents stepped out into the cold, empty streets, calling his name. They searched around Putalisadak, scanning shopfronts and dark alleys, but John was nowhere to be found.

The next morning, a sharp knock echoed through the house.

They rushed to the door. John stood there, his face blank, his eyes hollow. Without a word, he brushed past them and went straight to his room, closing the door behind him.

Later that day, while he was at school, his parents noticed his laptop lying open on the desk. His mother hesitated, then glanced at the screen. Tears welled up instantly. His father leaned closer. There were cruel messages glowing on the screen.

“Hey, Shortie!”

Laughing emojis followed.

Photos of John’s bruised body stared back at them.

Without another word, they drove straight to the school. At the front desk, his father said firmly, “We need to see our son—now.” John looked stunned when he saw them waiting for him. Before he could protest, they took him to the hospital.

The doctor’s report was devastating: two broken ribs, scratches across his abdomen, and a badly bruised lower leg. On the drive home, the truth finally surfaced. After school, Nick had cornered him, mocking his height, calling him “Shortie,” until the insults turned violent.

In the months that followed, John began seeing a therapist. Slowly, he learned to understand his anger and speak about his pain. At home, dinner conversations returned. He talked about school again. Laughter found its way back into the house.

Bullying did not just leave marks on the body,it wounded the mind. And wounds like those, when ignored, could last far longer than bruises.