Chapter 1: The Quiet
The alarm went off at exactly six.
I stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before moving, tracing the cracks along the plaster like they were constellations.
Another day. Another routine.
I pushed myself out of bed, brushed my hair, and got dressed in the half-light slipping through the curtains. The house was cold — not the kind you feel on your skin, but the kind that sits in the air when no one talks anymore.
Downstairs, the table was already set. One plate. One cup. One fork.
Mom hadn’t come down yet. She probably wouldn’t until I left. Her “bad days” started early and ended late. Dad was gone, too — he left before sunrise for work, or maybe just because it was easier that way.
Breakfast was quiet, just the sound of a spoon tapping ceramic. I scrolled through my phone, pretending I didn’t notice the emptiness sitting across from me. The walls carried traces of voices that used to fill the house, but lately they were just echoes of old conversations — small talk and arguments that ended mid-sentence.
Sometimes I wondered if this was what people meant by peace.
It didn’t feel peaceful. Just… hollow.
I rinsed my cup, grabbed my bag, and slipped out before Mom could come downstairs. It was easier that way.
The walk to school was always the same. Same cracked sidewalk. Same neighborhood dogs barking at shadows. Same people who looked half-awake but tried to smile anyway.
When I reached the school gates, the world shifted.
From silence — to noise.
Students clustered in groups, voices overlapping in a blur of laughter, gossip, and the sound of sneakers on concrete. The kind of chaos that looked alive from the outside, but up close felt too rehearsed.
I nodded at familiar faces, smiled when someone called my name, and made my way to class.
Inside, I took my usual seat — front row, second from the window. I liked the view there. You could look outside and pretend the world was bigger than these four white walls.
The bell rang, and the room quieted. The teacher started asking questions, and before I knew it, everyone was turning toward me.
I recited the answers automatically. Theories, formulas, definitions — things I’d memorized weeks ago. I could feel their eyes on me, a mix of admiration and calculation.
“Thanks! You saved me again,” someone whispered after class.
“Hey, can I borrow your notes? Just for a day.”
“You’re honestly the smartest person I know.”
It never stopped. Compliments that sounded like kindness, but felt like transactions.
I smiled, nodded, and handed over my answers.
Friends were easy to find when you were useful.
Harder to keep when you weren’t.
After a while, I learned to keep my distance — not enough to seem cold, but just enough to stay untouched.
So I stayed quiet, focused, polite. The “ideal student.”
It was easier to play a role than to admit you felt empty between scenes.
During lunch, I sat with the same group of people I always did. They talked about outfits, dates, and weekend plans. I laughed when they laughed, spoke when spoken to, and let my mind drift somewhere else.
Outside, the sun was bright — too bright — and I thought about how strange it was that light could exist in a place that felt so dull.
By the end of the day, my smile had started to ache.
I packed my things and left as soon as the bell rang, walking past the crowded gates and the blur of voices fading behind me.
At home, the lights were still off.
Dinner sat untouched on the counter — another meal for one.
I sat down, opened my notebook, and stared at the blank page for a while before writing anything.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have things to say.
It was that no one was really listening.
