When I was seven, the hospital room felt cold, and my mother was crying so softly it barely made a sound. My attention drifted not to her voice, but to the light slipping through the window, catching on her tears, splitting into a tiny prism of seven colors.
I counted them... until my counting stopped at the same moment my father's breathing did.
Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Indigo. Violet.
Seven colors. No more, no less.
The doctor closed the curtain. My mother wrapped her arms around me, but I kept staring at the prism until it faded along with the evening light.
"Ziyan... your father is gone, sweetheart," she whispered.
I nodded. I understood the sentence. But something I was supposed to feel—something that filled the entire room—was nowhere inside me.
Like searching for an eighth color in the rainbow.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
I stood beside the grave, watching people cry. Tears fell onto the dirt. Crumpled tissues were squeezed in shaking hands. Hugs were given to keep one another steady. I studied everything, memorized everything, but understood none of it.
"Mom," I asked when the ceremony ended. "Why are they crying?"
She wiped her eyes. "Because they lost someone they loved."
"What is 'lost'?"
Her gaze lingered on me. Long. Like she was trying to find something she hoped would show on my face, something that never did.
"Losing someone is… when something that should be there isn't anymore. And it hurts. A lot."
I thought about her words. Father was gone. His chair was empty. His shoes were no longer on the rack. His voice didn't greet me when I came home from school.
But why… why didn't my chest hurt?
"Mom, am I broken?" I stared at the tombstone, trying to summon something. "Why can't I cry when Dad is gone?"
She didn't answer. She just pulled me into her arms, her body shaking in silence.
I didn't hug her back. Not because I didn't want to—because I didn't know how.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
Three months later, I sat in a psychology clinic. The room was quiet, the hum of the air conditioner the only sound. Beside me, Mom twisted her fingers anxiously.
"Ziyan," the psychologist said gently, "I'm going to show you some pictures. Tell me what you feel, okay?"
First picture: a smiling child holding a balloon.
"How do you feel when you look at this?"
I studied it. Narrowed eyes, lifted lips.
"The child is happy."
"Good. But I asked what you feel."
I went silent. Stared longer. Searched inside myself.
"…Nothing."
Second picture: a crying child with a scraped knee.
"And this one?"
"The child is hurt and sad."
"What do you feel, Ziyan?"
Silence again. "…Nothing."
The psychologist and my mother exchanged a look. Their voices lowered, as if softness could protect me from their words. But I heard them clearly:
"Maybe… alexithymia… emotional processing…"
Mom's voice cracked. "Will he ever feel anything? Someday?"
"Maybe yes, maybe no. But don't worry, ma'am. He isn't a monster. He just… sees the world differently."
Monster.
That word clung to me long after we got home.
If I wasn't a monster… why did I feel like a stranger among humans?
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
That night, I stared at my bedroom ceiling. A small crack sat in the upper-left corner—four centimeters long, branching like lightning. I had measured it last week.
"Why am I alive?" I whispered into the darkness.
No answer.
I tried to feel something—anything. Sad. Happy. Angry. Afraid.
Nothing.
Like an empty room waiting to be furnished, but nothing ever arrives.
What's the point of living if I can't feel life?
What makes me different from a robot programmed to walk and breathe?
I closed my eyes and pictured my father's face. I remembered everything perfectly—the faint wrinkles, the small scar on his chin. I could reconstruct him from memory alone.
But I didn't miss him.
And somehow… that was the most frightening part.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
Three years after Father's death.
That day, I sat on a park bench near an abandoned building. Its paint was peeling, the windows shattered, and the passing wind carried the smell of old rust. The place felt deserted, as if even the world avoided it.
I sat there watching the grass pushing through cracked bricks. The only sound was the wind slipping through the building's broken walls. Silence like that usually sent my mind drifting, but that day was different.
"Why are you always alone?"
I turned. A girl stood in front of me—around fifteen, short honey-colored hair. She wore a high school uniform from a school near mine. Her backpack was covered in stickers from different countries.
"Because I don't know how not to be alone," I answered.
She let out a small laugh. Her voice was light, like a bell nudged by the breeze. I recorded the sound in my mind. Saved it.
"What's your name?"
"Ziyan."
"I'm Sopia. I tutor English for fun." She plopped down beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world. "What grade are you in?"
"Fourth."
"Wow, still little." She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a chocolate bar—blue wrapper with foreign letters. "Want some?"
"I've never tried chocolate."
"WHAT? Seriously?" Her eyes widened—the expression I recognized as 'surprised.' She shoved the chocolate toward me. "Try it!"
I took a small bite. Sweet. Slightly bitter. Soft texture.
"Tastes good?" she asked, eyes bright.
"…I don't know."
"Huh?" She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"I know the taste. Sweet and bitter. But I don't know if it's 'good.' I don't… feel things like that."
Sopia stared at me. Not with pity or confusion like others—but with genuine curiosity.
"Ziyan… you're really unique, huh?"
"People say I'm strange."
"Unique and strange aren't the same." She smiled—and that smile… had something in it. Something that made it hard to look away.
Sunlight fell on her hair, making the honey glow. Sakura petals drifted around us. Her eyes curved as she smiled, tiny crow's feet forming at the corners—signs of real happiness.
I memorized all of it. Every detail.
Because for the first time in my life… I saw something… beautiful.
Not beautiful in the objective way—flowers, skies, paintings.
Something else.
A human radiating… something.
Emotion.
Warmth.
Life.
Things I didn't have.
"Ziyan?" Sopia waved a hand in front of my face. "You spaced out?"
"I… don't know."
She laughed again. "Want me to teach you English? Free of charge!"
"Why?"
"Because I like talking to interesting people. My life's too boring." She offered her hand. "Deal?"
I looked at her hand—an invitation. Then at her face—warm eyes and an unforced smile.
Something stirred in my chest. Not a feeling. More like a pull.
A pull to stay close to this light.
I took her hand.
"Deal."
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
That night, I stared at the ceiling again.
"What did I just feel?"
No answer.
And for the first time… I didn't mind.
Because that day, I found a reason
to want to feel something.