*Love. Some say it is a feeling unlike any other. A remedy for wounds that medicine cannot heal. To some, it brings joy and color into an otherwise grey existence—a profound, indescribable happiness that lifts the soul.*
*They say love opens a gateway to another dimension. A world not bound by pain or loneliness, but one lit by the warmth of belonging. In this world, you're never truly alone. You're seen. You're understood. You're needed.*
*For some, love is the reason their heart beats stronger. For others, it's the reason their heart shatters into pieces they can't glue back together.*
*Yet, despite all the contradictions, one truth remains untouched: love gives us a reason to live. It is the silent promise that someone out there is waiting for us. That we matter. That we are not just floating in this world as afterthoughts—but as someone's "special."*
"Hey, Mark. What are you reading?"
The voice cut into the silence, light and familiar.
Mark slowly closed the book in his lap, his movements sluggish, as if every action cost him energy. He looked up through tired eyes, their dullness emphasized by the heavy dark circles underneath. His dark blue hair was uncombed, falling over his forehead in a messy, unbothered style. His school uniform was wrinkled and loose-fitting, his blazer half-buttoned and his tie slightly crooked. He looked like someone who hadn't really been present in his own life for a while—just passing through it.
In front of him stood Olivia, his childhood friend. Her brown hair was neatly tied back, though a few strands had fallen loose, softening her face. Her dark blue eyes sparkled with a mix of concern and curiosity as she studied him.
She wore the same school uniform, its design more fitted to the girls' version—blue long-sleeved blazer, light blue skirt, and a crisp red tie. The bright colors of her outfit contrasted starkly with the grey aura that seemed to surround Mark.
"You look like you haven't slept in days," Olivia said with a small frown. "And don't even try saying it's nothing. What were you reading?"
Mark's voice was low, almost emotionless. "Just something I picked up. I was bored."
But Olivia had already caught sight of the book in his hands. Before he could pull it away, she snatched it with a quick grin and flipped to the cover.
"'What Is Love?'" she read aloud, raising an eyebrow. Then, her expression turned playful. "Don't tell me—has our Mark finally turned into a hopeless romantic?"
"It's not like that," Mark muttered, leaning back against the bench, his gaze drifting toward the window.
"Really?" Olivia teased, holding the book just out of his reach. "Come on, who is she?"
Mark didn't respond. He didn't smile, didn't flinch. He just stared at the floor, letting her words fall away like leaves in the wind.
Olivia's smile slowly faded as she watched him, a quiet weight settling between them.
Olivia's smile disappeared entirely now, replaced by a storm of frustration and helplessness. Her voice trembled slightly as she stepped closer, her hands clenching the edge of the book she still held.
"Mark…" she said, her tone rising with emotion. "How long are you going to stay like this?!"
He didn't look at her.
Her voice cracked, louder this time. "Please… just get over it already! I want the old you back—the one who used to laugh, who used to live. It wasn't your fault. No one blames you. No one ever did!"
The library echoed with her voice before falling silent again.
Then, as if on cue, the school bell rang—the shrill, mechanical sound signaling the start of the next class.
Mark straightened up slowly. He adjusted his wrinkled uniform with mechanical motions, ran a hand through his messy dark blue hair, smoothing it just enough to look presentable. But his eyes never met hers.
"I'm sorry, Olivia…" he said softly, voice hollow and empty. "I can't."
His gaze dropped to the floor, and without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out of the library, each step heavy and reluctant, like he was dragging his very soul behind him.
Olivia stood frozen in place, her throat tight.
Her eyes shimmered as tears welled at the corners, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. She watched his back as he disappeared down the hallway, shoulders slumped, footsteps echoing against the marble floor.
"Oh, Mark…" she whispered, voice breaking. "I wish I could do something for you."
As she stood there, a memory surged forward—vivid and sudden.
A younger Mark, no more than eight years old, flashed across her mind. His face was bright, his smile wide, his laughter echoing through the park as he sprinted ahead.
"Let's go, Olivia!" the little boy laughed, glancing over his shoulder.
"Mark, what are you doing? Don't run off like that! Wait for me!" young Olivia shouted, chasing after him with clumsy urgency.
"Don't be a turtle, Olivia!" he called out, laughing harder, legs carrying him faster. "Catch up to me!"
Her memory shimmered like a mirage—and then vanished.
She blinked again, returning to the present. Mark was already out of sight, somewhere down the corridor, walking toward class with that same lifeless stride.
She stared at the space he had left behind, her chest tightening.
*Since that day… the world lost its color for you, didn't it, Mark?* she thought, her heart aching. *You've been like an empty husk… a ghost of yourself. Half-alive. Half-dead.*
*I wish I could bring you back… I really do.*
With a quiet sigh, she hugged the book to her chest and turned toward her own class, her footsteps slower now, as if burdened by the weight of memories that didn't belong to her—but still hurt all the same.
The classroom buzzed with chatter the moment Mark stepped through the door.
"There he is again," someone muttered.
"He looks scary, like always."
A boy near the window leaned over his desk with a smirk. "Hey! Zombie boy's back again!"
Mark kept his head down and walked toward his seat at the back. He didn't react. He never did.
A girl with platinum-blonde hair suddenly called out, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Ugh, look at him. Creepy as ever."
Before Mark could sit, something flew across the room—a geometry box.
"Watch out!" someone said mockingly.
Mark moved to dodge, but his foot caught on a desk leg. He stumbled—and the box hit him square in the face just before he hit the floor.
The class erupted in laughter.
"That's what you get for scaring off my girlfriend, you idiot zombie boy!" the boy who threw it shouted, grinning.
*"Enough!"*
The command came like a thunderclap.
Silence fell instantly. The teacher had entered.
A tall man with graying hair and a sharp gaze stood at the doorway, arms crossed.
Mark pushed himself up without a word.
"Mark. To your seat," the teacher said firmly.
Mark nodded and walked quietly to his bench, the sting from the hit still fresh across his cheek.
The teacher's eyes locked on the boy who had thrown the box. "You. Stay after class."
The boy slouched back into his seat, glaring with a frustrated scowl.
"David," the teacher called. "Start reading. Page forty-three."
David stood. "Yes, sir. The Harappan Civilization was one of the earliest urban cultures. It had advanced city planning, drainage systems, and used baked bricks."
The teacher gave a nod. "Continue."
As David read on, the class slowly fell into a dull rhythm. The hours dragged by.
Mark sat in silence the entire time, his eyes drifting to the window, his mind far from the lesson—far from the room—sinking into a place even the sunlight couldn't reach.
Eventually, the final bell rang.
"That's it for today," the teacher said, gathering his things. "You—come with me," he added, gesturing toward the boy who had thrown the box.
The boy stood up, irritated, and followed him out without a word.
Mark remained in his seat, unmoving.
Still silent.
Still distant.
The final bell had long since rung, but Mark didn't move until the last footsteps faded down the hall. Quietly, he stood, straightened his blazer, and slipped out of the classroom.
The corridors were nearly empty now, quiet except for the echo of his shoes against the polished floor. He walked with his head down, hands in his pockets, his shadow stretching ahead of him as he exited the school building.
Outside, the winter sun hung low over the playground, painting the field in hues of amber and blue. Across the open ground, students gathered in small clusters. Some kicked balls around; others just loitered, enjoying the fading light of day.
And then, from the far end of the field, someone noticed him.
A tall boy with slightly tanned skin and short black hair, dressed in the standard winter uniform—blue blazer, red tie, and dark blue pants—broke from a group and jogged toward him, lively as ever.
"Hey, dude!" he called out with a broad grin. "How've you been lately?"
Mark looked up, then down again. "All right," he replied quietly.
Kevin sighed, brushing a hand through his hair in mock frustration. "Still gloomy as ever, huh?"
Mark offered a noncommittal shrug. "How's your prep for the finals? I heard the football team's been working hard."
"Don't even get me started," Kevin groaned, stretching his arms with a dramatic sigh. "It's so damn tiring. Everyone's counting on me now, and I can't afford to screw up. The team's morale is riding on my shoulders."
Mark said nothing, just nodded slowly.
Kevin tilted his head toward him, a serious look crossing his usually cheerful face. "You know\... it's still hard to believe. Back in middle school, *you* were the child prodigy, man. Top of every class, winning every tournament. Everyone used to talk about you like you were some kind of legend."
Mark didn't look up.
Kevin continued, softer now. "But then... after that day, everything changed. You quit every club, stopped coming to events. You started fading out like you didn't care anymore. Even your grades—"
Mark let out a quiet sigh, his voice bitter and tired. "What's the point? What's the use of being a prodigy if the reason behind it is gone?"
Kevin frowned. "You were way cooler back then."
"That was a different me," Mark said, eyes still cast to the ground. "You've got to accept it. I can't do that anymore, Kevin. There's no meaning in it. Why should I care about being 'cool' when the one reason I ever cared… isn't here anymore?"
Kevin took a breath, then suddenly stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.
"Don't be like this," he said, voice low. "You need to move on. I want you to come back to us… and so does Olivia. You have no idea how much she wants to see the real you again—the one from before."
Mark didn't return the hug. He stood still.
"I'll try," he murmured, his tone making it obvious that he wouldn't.
Then, a familiar voice echoed from behind them.
"Sorry, guys! I'm late!"
They turned to see Olivia running across the yard, her brown hair bouncing with every step, her dark blue eyes full of warmth.
"Kevin! Mark!"
Mark looked at her, managing the faintest smile.
"Well… hello, Olivia."
As the three stood beneath the soft orange light of the evening sun, Olivia's gaze suddenly sharpened.
"What's that wound on your face, Mark?" she snapped, stepping closer.
Mark instinctively touched his cheek, fingers grazing the still-fresh bruise.
"Oh... this?" he muttered, now remembering the geometry box that had slammed into him earlier. "It's nothing. I just tripped and fell, I think."
"You careless, spoiled brat!" Olivia shouted—and before he could react, she landed a solid punch to his other cheek.
"Aw—Olivia!" Mark winced, stumbling back slightly. "What was that for?!"
Kevin burst into laughter, watching the scene unfold with amusement as he stepped beside them.
"You two are too much," he said, smirking. "Mark must be really close to you, huh, Olivia?"
Olivia turned and smiled with a small laugh. "Yeah, he is. He's stupid, dull, and totally gloomy now\... but still, he's like a handful little brother to have."
Mark rubbed his cheek. "Who punches their little brother like that?"
"Shut up or you'll get another one," Olivia warned, raising her fist.
"All right, all right—fine!" Mark raised both hands in surrender.
Olivia turned to Kevin. "We've got to go. Come on, Mark."
Kevin nodded. "See you tomorrow, zombie boy," he teased with a grin.
As Mark and Olivia walked side by side, their school blazers catching the gold of the setting sun, the familiar path toward their neighborhood stretched ahead.
They said nothing for a while, just walked in silence.
Then Olivia spoke, her voice quiet. "Looks like... you still blame yourself for the death of your mother and sister."
Mark's expression tightened. His steps slowed for a brief second.
Seeing the change in his face, Olivia instantly regretted bringing it up.
"Anyway," she quickly added, forcing a smile, "are you making any new friends lately?"
Mark kept his eyes on the ground. "Why would I need more friends when I have you and Kevin?"
Olivia looked over at him, her tone softening. "You're still a good person, Mark. Forget what everyone says. Sure, you're not in perfect shape right now… but I believe your eyes will shine again. Someday, they'll find that same spark they used to have."
Mark turned his head, looking directly into her eyes. There was a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe, or a hint of warmth.
"I don't really get what you mean…" he said quietly. "But there's one thing I can say for sure. I see some kind of sparkle in your eyes, Olivia."
She looked away, hiding the pink creeping into her cheeks with a simple shrug. "Idiot."
They walked on, the light growing dimmer with every step as the sun dipped lower behind the houses.
Inside Olivia's mind, thoughts stirred like dust in a quiet room.
*I don't know the full story of what happened to Mark's family... only that he lost both his mother and little sister in one night. His father's always away—somewhere abroad on business. Mark never talks about it. And truthfully... I don't dare ask. I don't have the courage to hear the pain behind his silence.*
*But one thing is painfully clear...*
*Since that day, Mark has lost color from his world. His smiles, his laughter, even his eyes—everything about him has turned pale and hollow. Like a sketch left unfinished. Like someone slowly fading from the frame.*
*He lives... but he no longer shines.*