Not Broken, Just Bruised

Crystal Avery Oscar had always been the girl who found joy in the simplest things. Laughter was her language, and life was her playground.

Even though she came from a life of privilege—an expensive, polished city with manicured neighbourhoods and people who spoke in clipped perfection—she was never drawn to the glitz. She could walk past a designer store without blinking but would stop in her tracks for a cheap chocolate bar in a gas station freezer. A hot bag of fries made her eyes light up more than any brand-name bag ever could.

Food calmed her. Chocolate was her secret healer. Her comfort came in the warm rustle of foil wrapping, in the crisp salt of potato chips eaten under soft blankets. The world outside might’ve moved at a hundred miles an hour, but inside her, everything slowed when sweetness touched her tongue.

Even as a child, surrounded by the four walls of their high-rise apartment, she’d made friends with her laughter and kind nature. Her bedroom, though filled with polished furniture and tall windows that overlooked too much concrete, was her space to be exactly who she was—clumsy, silly, emotional, and kind. It was the only world she had known since birth.

Her parents had always spoken of “home” as somewhere far away. A place laced in memories, filled with laughter, trees and worn-down stone paths. But Crystal didn’t understand it. She had grown up amidst elevators, polished lobbies, and too many layers of formality. Her only brothers, Kevin and Koazy, were her chaos and her calm. Kevin, with his confident strides and reckless jokes, and Koazy, a carbon copy of her, always half-lost in books. Their bond was loud, messy, and full of moments that stitched her childhood together.

But then, like a shift in the wind, everything changed.

Her father, once a man of strong shoulders and louder ambitions, had grown quieter. He sat longer at the kitchen table, staring at things that weren’t there. Something had started to eat at him, and though Crystal was still too young to understand depression, she understood distance. He was getting weak.

So, one day, the suitcases came out. Her mother said they were returning home. But to Crystal, it didn’t feel like returning. It felt like leaving.

Her father had made the decision. He wanted the children to grow up “knowing life,” as he put it—to taste hardship, to feel the edges of the world, to understand that comfort was borrowed, not promised. Crystal didn’t understand it then, not fully. All she knew was that her bed would be different, the window outside would no longer open to skyscrapers, and her laughter had to find a new place to echo.

They moved back to their home country, and with it, Crystal’s world was cracked open.

The small, carefree town they now lived in felt like the opposite of everything she had known. The air was warmer, louder somehow. People laughed differently here. Some were kind, some were curious, and some... simply stared. It was in this town, amidst dust trails and sunlight, that Crystal realized beauty wasn’t always just a part of who she was. Here, beauty came with a price.

She had barely stepped foot into her new school before the looks began. The stares were long and lingering. The whispers weren’t hidden. Her smooth hair, her eyes, her skin—everything was dissected like she was a specimen, not a person. The girls narrowed their eyes; the boys leaned in too close. She became hyperaware of her own smile, her own shape, the swing of her walk.

The city had been polished, but it had kept its distance. This place was raw, unfiltered—and it touched everything.

The more she smiled, the more they watched. The more she laughed, the more it felt like a performance. And slowly, slowly, her joy—once so effortless—became something she had to protect. Something she rationed.

What happened to the girl who twirled barefoot in pajamas, who laughed at cartoons until her stomach hurt? That girl felt far away now. Replaced by someone who carried the weight of perception, of judgment, of always needing to be enough but never too much.

She didn’t know how to balance this new life. This place of vivid skies and unspoken rules. Her laughter was now filtered through fear—will they think I’m doing too much? Her silence—will they think I’m cold?

It was in that in-between, between the girl she was and the girl she was becoming, that she started to slip.

Royce Dax Tylor, on the other hand, had mastered slipping between masks.

To the outside world, he was sunshine. The kind of guy whose entrance changed the mood of a room. His jokes were fast, wit and clever. His smile reached his eyes just enough to be believable. People loved Royce—at least, the version of him that showed up for them.

He was the joker. The storyteller. The one who made you forget your heartbreak for five minutes. And he wore that role like a second skin.

But when the parties ended and the lights went out, there was silence. And in that silence, Royce became someone else.

Because before the laughter, before the quick comebacks, before the charm—there was comparison. There was Dilan.

Dilan Tylor. His older brother. His golden shadow.

Dilan was made of excellence. Academically perfect, socially flawless. He wore charisma like it was stitched into his DNA. Teachers adored him. Parents held him up as the example. Girls fell for him like rain. He was the one.

Royce? He was just Dilan’s brother. Always “also.” Never “only.”

In every family photo, Dilan stood tall, smile pristine. Royce, even when smiling, always looked like he was trying to fit into a frame too tight.

He wasn’t dumb. Not even close. His grades were good—but not enough to be praised. He wasn’t invisible—but not enough to be seen. He was just... there. Loud enough to entertain, quiet enough to be overlooked.

And that’s what made it worse. Because he was trying. God, he was trying.

His jokes weren’t just jokes. They were bridges—his way of earning a space in conversations. His laughter wasn’t just habit—it was defense. If people were laughing, they weren’t looking too closely. They weren’t seeing the way his hands fidgeted under the table, the way his shoulders tensed when his dad started comparing them again.

Their father never meant to be cruel. But cruelty doesn’t always come sharp—it comes subtle. In the way he’d say, “Dilan got top marks again. Royce, did you even study this time?” In the way he’d smile proudly at Dilan’s certificates and just pat Royce on the shoulder for being “fun.”

Try to be more like him. The words sat heavy in Royce’s chest.

So he learned to perform.

He became the guy everyone loved but no one really knew. The guy who could make the class laugh, but no one noticed when he skipped meals. The guy who danced at parties, but whose playlist at home was full of sad songs no one ever heard. The guy who could charm any girl—but still felt alone in a room full of people.

He wore his brother’s shadow like a second skin.

And deep down, he feared the same thing over and over:

That without the jokes, without the smiles—he’d just disappear.

Crystal and Royce had never met at this point in time. Not really.

But somewhere, in the quiet parts of their hearts, they were already orbiting toward each other.

Two souls who had been forced to bend themselves into shapes the world could understand. One who learned to shrink her joy. One who learned to dress his pain in punchlines.

They hadn’t collided yet.

But they were on their way.

And when they did—when their worlds finally touched—it wouldn’t be loud or explosive.

It would be soft.

Like a bruise blooming under skin.