I didn't sleep that night.
I lay awake in bed, my eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling, tracing their shape like a broken map. Maybe it was symbolic—like my life had cracked in the same silent, jagged way. Not with an explosion, not with screams or storms. Just slow damage. Bit by bit. Word by unspoken word.
When I finally sat up, dawn had already arrived. The sun touched my windows, but it didn't feel warm. It never really did anymore.
I got dressed like I always did. School uniform, tied hair, the jacket that smelled faintly of old perfume—my mother's. She hadn't come home until 2 a.m. I'd heard her stumble in, cursing softly, dragging her feet across the tiles. She never even checked my room.
I was invisible. Again.
The bus ride to school felt longer than usual. Everyone was talking, laughing, sharing phone screens, gossiping about some new couple that broke up over Instagram drama. I sat alone, in the second last row, earphones in, music playing with no volume. It was easier that way. Pretend I was busy, unreachable.
But I wasn't.
I was more reachable than I wanted to be.
Especially by him.
Aariz.
I saw him again near the front gates. He was leaning against the brick wall, same hoodie, same stormy look. He didn't smile. He didn't blink. He just looked straight at me—like I was some puzzle he was trying to solve.
I hated it.
But I didn't look away.
Inside class, the teacher droned on about colonial history. Pages flipped. Pens scratched. But my mind wasn't here.
My notebook stayed blank.
No notes. Just one line in the corner of the page I kept tracing with my pen:
"If I disappear, would anyone notice?"
It wasn't poetry. It wasn't drama. It was just a thought. A quiet one. One of the many I kept locked inside my skull like birds that forgot how to fly.
"Lina," the teacher called suddenly. "What was the main cause of the rebellion?"
I blinked. People turned. Heads lifted.
I opened my mouth.
No words came out.
The class snickered. Not cruelly. Just habitually. Because silence makes people uncomfortable—and uncomfortable people use laughter as shields.
"Next time, pay attention," the teacher said, turning away.
I didn't nod. I didn't apologize. I just… sat there.
Aariz was watching me again. I felt it from across the room.
And for a moment, I wanted to disappear for real.
At lunch, Maya found me behind the art block. That was our unofficial hideout. She had a half-eaten chocolate bar in one hand and a million questions in her eyes.
"Okay, I let you lie yesterday, but not today," she said, tossing the wrapper into her bag. "Something's wrong. I can feel it."
I looked at her. I wanted to tell her. So badly. I wanted to scream and say, He tried to touch me. My own father. And I'm scared to go home.
But I couldn't.
Because if I said it, and she didn't believe me, I would shatter.
So I smiled instead. My usual fake smile. The one that didn't reach my eyes.
"I'm just tired," I whispered.
Her face fell. But she didn't push. That's the thing about Maya—she never pushed. She just sat beside me, chewing her chocolate, sharing her silence.
For a while, that was enough.
After school, I walked alone.
I didn't wait for the bus. I didn't want to sit among the noise. I needed the quiet.
But halfway down the alley behind the football field, I heard footsteps.
Steady. Unhurried.
I turned slightly, and there he was.
Aariz.
Walking behind me.
Panic rose instantly. Not because it was him, but because it was someone. Anyone. I wasn't ready for closeness. Not now. Not yet.
I stopped.
He stopped too.
"What do you want?" I asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.
He shrugged. "You looked like you were about to disappear."
I stared at him. "What does that even mean?"
"It means you walk like someone who's tired of being seen by people who don't really see you."
I didn't respond.
He came a little closer, but not too close. Just enough for his voice to soften.
"Look," he said. "I don't know what your story is. But I know pain when I see it. I carry mine too."
My heart stuttered.
What was this? Sympathy? Attention? A trap?
"You don't know me," I said coldly.
"Maybe," he replied. "But I know that silence like yours doesn't come from nothing."
He walked past me then, without another word. No smirk. No name-drop. No social media handle asked.
Just... walked away.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like someone saw the cracks—but didn't try to step over them. He didn't offer help. He didn't promise to fix me. He just… noticed.
And sometimes, that's louder than love.
That evening, my mother was home when I arrived. She looked tired, her eyes rimmed with fatigue, hair tied up in a loose bun. She was sitting at the table, going through bills.
She didn't look up when I entered.
"There's leftover rice," she said flatly.
I didn't answer. Just nodded and walked to my room.
But just as I closed the door, she said something strange.
"Your father said you've been acting strange lately."
I froze.
My throat dried instantly.
I turned slowly. "When did he say that?"
"Last night. He called while I was at work. Said you're locking your door too much. Said you're being rude."
I stared at her. My heartbeat was in my ears.
She didn't meet my eyes. She never did anymore.
"Be careful how you act, Lina," she added. "He's still your father."
No, he isn't.
Not anymore.
Not since that night.
Not since I saw what he was capable of.
I didn't say any of that. I just turned away and locked the door again.
But this time, I slid my desk in front of it too.
That night, I pulled out my notebook again.
I didn't write poetry.
I wrote facts.
March 4: He tried to touch me.
March 5: I locked the door again.
March 6: Aariz said my silence looked heavy.
I underlined that last one.
Maybe it was.
Maybe that's why my back always ached, even when I hadn't moved all day.
Before sleeping, I got another message from an unknown number.
"Silence can be golden, but sometimes it strangles."
No name. No clue. Just that.
Was it him again? Aariz?
It couldn't be.
He didn't seem like the type to play games.
But someone was watching me.
And this time, I wasn't sure if being seen was a blessing or a warning.