The day was gray and heavy, the kind of overcast sky that made everything feel muted and distant. Lian sat alone on the cracked concrete edge of the basketball court, his legs dangling over the side, eyes tracing the erratic bounce of a ball as kids shouted and laughed around him. The playground was alive — full of noise and movement — but he felt removed, like he was watching from behind a fogged window.
For so long, he had clung to the animals his mother taught him about — the panda, the monkey, the spider — as if they were maps to understand the people around him. But lately, those images seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a shadow of confusion. Who was he really, if not just the sum of these labels? Was he only the flicker of light beside the darkness?
Jamie approached quietly, stepping through the scattered leaves. She carried two bottles of water, one for herself, one for him. She didn't say anything at first — just sat down beside him and handed him the bottle. Their hands brushed, and for a moment, the world felt less heavy.
"Hey," Jamie said softly.
Lian shrugged, the weight in his chest pressing down. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore. All the animals, the stories… maybe it was just a way to keep things simple. But people aren't simple. And I'm not simple."
Jamie smiled gently, her eyes bright even under the dull sky. "Maybe that's okay. Maybe you don't have to have it all figured out yet. Maybe it's about finding who you want to be — not what other people expect."
He looked at her, gratitude welling inside. "I'm scared. Of losing myself… or never really knowing who I am."
Jamie nudged him playfully. "You're not lost. You're just growing."
Lian let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. For the first time in a while, he didn't have to pretend.
That evening, the house was quiet but thick with unspoken tension. His father sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cold cup of tea. The air between them was heavy with things left unsaid, walls built up from years of misunderstanding.
Lian took a slow step toward him, unsure if he was ready but knowing he needed to try.
"Dad," he began, voice tentative.
His father looked up, eyes tired but attentive. "Yeah?"
"I'm sorry too," Lian said, the words trembling. "For not understanding you. For feeling angry. I guess… we've both been trying, just in different ways."
His father nodded slowly, the hard edges of his face softening. "I don't always know how to show it. But I want to try better. For you. For your mother."
They sat together in a fragile silence that felt more like a bridge than a barrier.
Later that night, Lian sat by his desk, the low glow of a lamp casting long shadows on the walls. He opened his sketchbook to a blank page and paused. The animals — once so vivid — felt distant now, replaced by a different kind of image.
He drew a shadow. Not the kind that scared or trapped, but one that stretched and reached, breaking apart into shards of light. It wasn't perfect. It was jagged and uneven, but it was real.
Underneath, he wrote in careful letters: Growth isn't easy. But it's necessary.
Lian closed the book slowly, letting the quiet settle around him like a warm blanket.
For the first time in a long while, he felt ready to keep moving forward — even if the path was unclear.