Still here.

Bomi traced the edge of her diary’s worn leather cover. She’d found it in a rainy alley last spring, half‑buried under a torn plastic bag. Its pages were already filling with ink smudges, dried tears, and the faint press of wilted daisies. At 17, the diary felt like the only place she could be honest. People were loud, complicated, unpredictable. But inside these pages, Daisy lived. Daisy, the version of herself who could say the things Bomi never dared to speak out loud.

School hummed with a kind of energy that never reached her. The classroom buzzed like a shaken hive, laughter bouncing off the walls in sharp, careless bursts. Bomi sat by the window, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain, watching dust motes spiral in the slanted afternoon light. She noticed things no one else seemed to: the way Min‑jae’s pencil tapped a nervous rhythm against his desk, or how the girl two rows ahead chewed her lip until it glistened red. She overthought every glance, every murmur, every accidental bump in the hallway. What if they’re laughing at me? What if they see right through me? Her chest tightened, that familiar ache of being both invisible and too exposed.

But home was worse than any crowded classroom.

Her parents were still together under the same roof, but they were miles apart in every way that mattered. Dad argued with everything—his phone, the TV, random strangers on the street—and the fights always ended with raised voices that made her jaw clench. At first, Mom had tried to stand up to him, but after one especially loud evening, something inside her snapped. She stopped talking to him. Not out of anger, exactly, but out of tiredness, like a wall had slowly risen between them. Now they moved around each other in silence, like ghosts sharing the same apartment. They never sat together for dinner. Bomi’s meals were passed wordlessly, or eaten alone on the balcony with her headphones on. No one asked about her day. No one asked if she was okay. It felt less like a home and more like a waiting room where the only thing being waited for was the next argument.

That was the world that taught her she wasn’t enough.

She’d tried to reach out once, to a girl who’d seemed kind at first. They’d shared songs, late‑night texts, little jokes. Then one day, that girl repeated Bomi’s secrets in front of everyone, like they were nothing more than gossip to be traded. After that, Bomi stopped opening herself up. She built walls quieter but sturdier than the ones at home. She craved connection the way she craved air, but every time she reached out, it felt like inviting another storm into her life.

Her diary, and music, were the only safe places left.

That evening, rain tapped against her window like impatient fingers. Bomi curled onto her bed, the diary open in front of her, the pencil scratching faster than her thoughts.

Dear Daisy,

Today, the world felt like a crowded room with no door. I saw a boy on the bus, headphones on, his eyes closed, completely lost in the music. He looked… free. Like he had seven boys in his ears, singing away all the noise and the empty. I want that. I want to drown out the silence that lives in my chest.

But what if I reach out and they pull me under again?

I keep going, Daisy. Even when I feel hollow. Even when it feels like I’m just pretending to be here. Tell me I’m stronger than I think.

**Your shadow,Bomi**

She closed the book carefully, sliding a fresh daisy petal between the pages. It came from the small pot on the sill, the one she’d bought last week with part of her lunch money. The petals were already starting to brown at the edges, but to her they were still beautiful.

Music came next, as always. She plugged in her old earbuds and scrolled to her secret playlist. Not just any songs—the ones from that group, the seven boys whose voices wove through her silence like threads of light. She’d discovered them by accident one night, searching for any sound that could fill the quiet. Their harmonies filled the hollows she didn’t know how to name.Serendipityplayed first, soft and aching, like someone understanding the things she’d never said out loud. She closed her eyes and let it pull her into a world where trust wasn’t a risk, just a choice.

The next day cracked her fragile peace.

In the hallway, the boy from the bus—the one with the headphones—bumped into her shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, his voice warm and quick. His smile was short but real, the kind that didn’t feel like it was hiding anything. Up close, she noticed the faint scar along his knuckle, the way his eyes crinkled like he’d laughed a lot recently. Her heart stuttered, a strange kind of hope rising in her chest. Talk to him,Daisy whispered. Say something. Anything.

But the words stuck in her throat like thorns. Her usual script took over: nod, look down, keep walking. She didn’t trust herself not to say the wrong thing, not to show too much. She tightened her grip on her bag and hurried away, leaving him behind in the noise.

Later, on the rooftop, the wind tugged at her hair and her thoughts. She pulled out her diary again, the pages marked with yesterday’s words and the soft impression of flowers.

People hurt, Daisy.

But what if they don’t?

What if the seven boys in my ears become real voices, not just songs in the dark?

The conflict tore at her, louder than any argument at home. She wanted them. She wanted someone to see the things she noticed, the weight she carried. Yet every time she moved toward connection, the memory of that girl’s laughter echoed behind her.

She was stronger than she thought. She kept going even when she felt empty, even when the world felt like it was built on quicksand. Maybe tomorrow she’d say more than “sorry.” Maybe she’d share a song. Maybe she’d let someone hear her hum along.

As the sun dipped, painting the sky in bruised purples, Bomi pressed a fresh daisy between the pages. Its petals trembled in the breeze, fragile but still blooming. Silence wrapped around her, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like a cage. It felt like a bridge—not back to the people who hurt her, but forward, toward the ones who might not.

And maybe, just maybe, toward the girl who could finally trust the answer.