● The Weight of Silence
The ride home was quiet.
Jisan dropped me off near the alley where our small house stood, the street dim and silent under the weak glow of a streetlamp.
"Text me when you reach inside," he said, his voice warm, his smile easy.
I nodded, forcing one in return. "Goodnight, Jisan."
But the moment I stepped through the front gate, the warmth faded.
The sound of the television filled the cramped living room. My sister-in-law sat on the couch, arms crossed, her expression already sharp enough to cut.
"So," she began, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "the princess finally decided to come home."
I froze near the doorway. "It was a college event—"
"Oh, of course," she said, rising slowly. "A college event in a hotel full of rich men and expensive wine. Don't lie to me, Anya. I saw your photos online. You think I don't know how these girls behave?"
Her words hit like small, stinging slaps.
"I didn't do anything wrong," I whispered.
"Then why come home this late? You have no shame walking in at midnight while my children sleep? Do you want people to talk about us?"
Her voice grew louder, sharper, each word slicing deeper.
My brother sat on the other couch, shoulders tense, eyes downcast. He didn't say a word.
Not one.
"Say something!" she snapped at him. "Your sister's out there making a fool of herself, and you're just sitting—"
"Enough," he muttered softly. "She's back now. Let it go."
"Let it go?" She laughed bitterly. "You feed her, clothe her, let her live here rent-free, and she thinks she can walk around like she's some queen—"
"Please," I said quietly. "I'll go to my room."
Her voice followed me like poison.
"Ungrateful girl! If your parents were alive, they'd be ashamed of what you've become."
The words hit the one wound I never managed to heal.
I ran to my small room and shut the door before she could see the tears.
---
The house was quiet again.
Outside, rain started to fall — soft, steady, relentless.
I sat on the edge of my bed, hugging my knees, trying not to sob too loud.
It wasn't just tonight. It was everything.
Every time I smiled when I wanted to scream.
Every time I swallowed pain just to keep peace.
Every time I tried to be enough, and still somehow failed.
Tears slid down my face, warm against the cold that lived inside me.
"Why?" I whispered into the dark. "What did I do wrong?"
No answer. Only the rain against the window.
"Why am I never enough? Why can't someone just… love me?"
The silence felt heavier than ever, pressing against my chest until it hurt to breathe.
Maybe I really didn't belong anywhere — not at that gala, not in this house, not even in my own skin.
I pressed my face into my pillow, letting the tears fall freely.
No one heard. No one ever did.
And somewhere, beyond the city and the rain, a man with gray eyes poured another glass of wine — unaware that the girl he'd dismissed hours ago was crying beneath the same storm.
---
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Chapter Six — A Quiet Kind of Peace
Morning came too soon.
The house was still when I left — my sister-in-law asleep, my brother getting ready for work.
No one noticed that I slipped out without breakfast.
The sky was overcast, the air heavy after the rain. I walked fast, my shoes splashing through shallow puddles. Maybe if I moved quickly enough, the emptiness in my chest wouldn't feel so loud.
By the time I reached campus, I was tired — but Jisan's message blinked on my phone.
Library. Usual corner.
The college library was quiet, the kind of silence I loved — soft pages turning, distant whispers, the faint scent of old books and coffee.
Jisan was already there, sitting by the window, sunlight glinting off his watch.
When he looked up and smiled, something in me eased a little.
"You look tired," he said softly.
"I didn't sleep well."
He pushed a small chocolate bar across the table. "Breakfast substitute. Don't argue."
I smiled weakly. "Thank you."
We sat in easy silence for a while — he scrolling through notes, me pretending to read.
But my thoughts kept circling, restless.
Finally, I asked the question that had been lingering in my heart for a long time.
"Jisan… can I ask you something?"
He looked up immediately. "Of course."
"Why me?"
He blinked. "Why you… what?"
"Why are we even friends?" I said quietly, fingers tracing the edge of my notebook. "You could have anyone. Everyone wants to talk to you. Be around you. You're…"
I hesitated, searching for the right word.
"…you're the kind of person people notice. And I'm… not."
His smile faded a little, replaced by something softer — something real.
"Because you don't treat me like that," he said simply.
I frowned. "Like what?"
"Like a name. Like a wallet. Like I'm some kind of ticket to a better life." He leaned back, gaze thoughtful. "Everyone wants something. Fame, money, connections. But you… you just listen. You don't expect anything from me. You don't try to change yourself to fit in."
He paused, a small, wistful smile touching his lips.
"With you, I can breathe. That's rare."
I didn't know what to say. No one had ever said something like that to me.
My throat felt tight.
He looked down, tapping his pen against the table. "You think you're boring, Anya. But peace isn't boring. It's… something people like me crave."
I lowered my gaze, my heart strangely full and aching at the same time.
I wanted to tell him how much his words meant, how his friendship was the only bright thing in my life — but the words stuck.
Instead, I just whispered, "You're kind, Jisan."
He laughed quietly. "No, just lucky."
Outside, the sky darkened again, clouds gathering — as if rain was never far from me.
But this time, sitting across from him, it didn't feel as lonely.
For a while, we read in silence.
And for that small, fragile hour in the library, I almost forgot how much the world hurt.