The house moved around her like a world she no longer belonged to. Her parents were absorbed in their own routines, voices drifting through rooms she felt distant from. Her little sister laughed in her own universe, full of youthful energy and excitement, unaware of the heaviness in Reina's chest. Reina stood quietly, watching them, feeling simultaneously invisible and painfully out of place — a silent observer in a life that seemed to continue without her.
She tried to speak to her mother, to share some fragment of herself, but the words never landed right. Every attempt became an argument, or worse, a gentle sigh of disappointment. Even her sister's playful teasing felt like a reminder that she had changed — that the bond they once shared had quietly unraveled. Why can't they understand? she wondered, the ache in her chest widening.
Her mind replayed the morning at the breakfast table, when her mother's voice had lectured about productivity and responsibility. Reina had nodded, pretending to listen, but inside, she was drifting again, lost in the fog of her own thoughts. Am I failing because I'm broken, or because the world demands too much of me? The question had no answer, only a dull, persistent ache.
Outside the home, it was no easier. Each step to the university felt like walking through invisible barriers. The smiles of classmates seemed distant, their laughter alien. Every glance, every small conversation demanded energy she didn't have. She blamed herself for being too quiet, too slow, too different — yet she also wondered if the world had pushed her into this shell.
By the time Reina reached her classroom, her chest felt heavy with anticipation. The room buzzed with chatter and movement — notebooks rustling, pens tapping, students whispering plans for group assignments and sports activities. Reina's fingers trembled slightly as she clutched her bag, hesitating at the doorway.
She slipped into a corner seat, trying to make herself as small and invisible as possible. Her notebook lay open, blank, but her mind was far from focused. Every word the professor spoke echoed faintly in her head, competing with her thoughts: Did I nod too late? Did my hair look messy? Did they notice I'm new?
Minutes dragged. Reina's eyes flicked across the room, catching glimpses of students' expressions, their easy smiles, their confident gestures. She felt her anxiety rise, but she forced herself to take notes, copying whatever she could, even if her mind wasn't fully present. Each scribbled line was a lifeline — proof that she could still show up, still try, still exist.
During the mid-class break, she let her gaze wander around the room, quietly observing. That's when she noticed him — Adrian, leaning casually against the window sill, chatting and laughing effortlessly with a group of friends. He moved through the crowd with ease, his smile bright, his laughter natural, like the world belonged to him, and he belonged to it.
As students began moving toward the cafeteria for lunch, Reina felt a flutter of hesitation in her chest. Her steps slowed, but curiosity nudged her forward. Just say hi… just a simple hi, she whispered to herself.
Heart pounding, she cleared her throat and spoke, her voice barely above a whisper: "Hi… are you Adrian?"
His head turned toward her, and a bright, friendly smile spread across his face. "Yes, I am," he said, extending his hand.