It was raining, soft and constant. The kind of rain that didn't rush anything, just soaked everything slowly.
Lian didn't bring an umbrella. He liked the cold tapping on his sleeves, the way it muffled the world. He walked slower than usual, letting the water trace the seams of his jacket, drip from his bangs.
The world felt blurred. Like his sketchbook after a spill.
When he got home, his father was sitting at the kitchen table—not eating, not typing on his laptop. Just... sitting.
Lian paused in the doorway.
"I thought you worked late on Thursdays," he said.
His father looked up. "I came home early."
A long silence.
Then, his father asked, "Do you still have that drawing? The one with the dragon and the bird?"
Lian froze. "What?"
"That picture you made when you were little. You held it up for your mom to see. I remember it." His voice was quieter now. "I always wondered which one I was."
Lian swallowed. "You were the dragon. Obviously."
His father smiled, but not with humor. "And you were the bird?"
"I guess," Lian said. "I think I wanted to be."
Another silence.
"I'm not good at being soft," his father said, looking down. "I push too hard. I confuse control for care."
Lian stood there, his backpack still on, water dripping quietly to the floor.
"Sometimes," he said, "you try so hard to protect something that you end up hurting it instead."
His father's jaw tensed.
Then relaxed.
"I know," he said.
That night, Lian lay in bed and thought about what it meant to be seen—not just through animals, or glances, or instincts.
But really seen.
He remembered something his mother once said when he was younger: "The hardest part about being known is knowing someone might still walk away."
He understood it now.
Because knowing meant responsibility.
Understanding someone didn't guarantee kindness. It only made the betrayal more personal if it came.
Still, he opened his journal.
He didn't draw.
He wrote:
He wants to try. I can see that now.
Maybe so do I.
At school the next day, Ms. Devon handed back their poems with soft notes scribbled in red ink. On Lian's, she'd written:
"You are starting to hear yourself. Keep listening."
He didn't know what she meant.
But it sounded true.
That afternoon, Jamie found him behind the gym, skipping stones on the concrete since the puddles had grown fat and still.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," Lian said. "I think."
Jamie sat beside him.
"I saw the spider again," Lian murmured. "In a dream."
Jamie didn't flinch. "Still scared?"
He shook his head. "Not of the spider. Just of what it's guarding."
She nodded. "You know, when I was little, I used to think my fears were monsters in the closet. But now I think… maybe they were just parts of me I didn't want to meet yet."
Lian stared at the puddle.
His reflection wasn't clear, but it was there.
Not twisted. Not perfect.
Just his.