That morning, the air felt colder than usual.
I sat at the edge of my bed, staring at the window that was slightly open. The curtain swayed gently, letting in a thin line of light that painted stripes on the floor. I counted how many lines there were—a habit too old to break.
Seven.
Same as yesterday. Same as three years ago when Father died and I counted the colors of the rainbow in Mother's tears.
The wall clock in my room ticked unevenly—it had been broken for a long time, but Mother never fixed it. Maybe because the wrong ticking sounded more honest than the right one. Time hadn't moved the way it should since Father left.
"I'm leaving first, Yan."
Mother's voice came from the kitchen—soft, softer than usual. Today was her first day back at work after a week of leave. Last night her face looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes like shadows refusing to leave.
She didn't come into my room. Maybe she was afraid of seeing something on my face that should be there but never was.
"Be careful," I answered.
The front door closed quietly. A small click echoed for a moment, then fell into the silence of the house.
I went down to the dining table. An empty plate sat before me. Father's chair beside mine—empty, as always. The window's light fell exactly on its backrest, casting a shadow that looked like someone sitting there.
My stomach didn't send any hunger signal. Nothing pushed me to eat. This body was like a machine that forgot it needed fuel.
I stood up, straightened my uniform, grabbed my bag.
When I stepped outside, the morning wind brushed my cheek. Cold. I knew it was cold because my skin reacted—not because I felt it as "cold." Just data received by the body, like reading a thermometer.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
On the way to school, I observed people.
A little girl ran while laughing. Her voice loud, her breath uneven, her eyes squinting, the corners of her mouth raised. I knew that was called "joy." I'd read about it.
Two boys yelled at each other. Red faces, rough voices, chests raised. Probably "anger." Or "dominance."
A mother hugged her child before he entered the school gate. A tight hug, her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes closing briefly. I'd been told this was called "affection."
I noted everything. Stored them in my visual memory. Like collecting photographs of scenes I'd never truly feel myself.
But I didn't understand why they did those things.
What made laughing so enjoyable?
What made anger necessary?
What made a hug so important?
The questions were always there, never answered.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
Class started as usual.
I sat near the window, second row from the back. Not too front, not too back. A position that didn't draw attention.
Morning light fell onto my desk. The teacher entered, beginning a lesson on fractions. My classmates occasionally laughed, complained, whispered to each other.
I wrote. Listened. Stored all the information in my mind.
Until something made me stop.
From the side, someone touched my shoulder—lightly, quickly, like an unsure tap.
"Ziyan… you're alone again?"
That voice.
I recognized it.
I turned, and at the classroom door, she stood with the same smile she had the first time we met. Warm brown eyes, honey-colored hair shifting slightly in the breeze from the hallway.
Sopia.
She stepped in, carrying a green folder, and for a moment the room that had been ordinary changed. As if a color I couldn't count appeared, but I could see it.
"I'm waiting for tutoring class," she said, sitting in the empty seat next to me without asking—though the teacher didn't notice. "Can I stay here for a bit?"
I nodded.
"Did you eat breakfast?" she asked.
I shook my head.
Sopia let out a tiny sigh—the kind I recognized as "worry" from the psychology book I'd read. She pulled out a filled bun from her bag.
"Eat half of this. I'm not leaving until you do."
Her tone playful, but her eyes serious. Something in her gaze made the room feel less cold.
I took the bun. Bit a little. The texture was soft, the filling sweet. I knew the flavor. I could define "sweet." But was it tasty?
I still didn't know.
"I'm fine," I said.
"You say that every time," she replied. Not angry. Not forcing. Just… honest.
I looked at the window. Morning light fell onto her hair, reflecting that familiar honey color—the color that made something in my chest shift slightly. Not a feeling, but… a pull. A pull to stay close to that light.
The bell rang.
Sopia stood up, grabbing her folder.
"I'll come again during break, okay? I want to teach you some new words."
I nodded. "Okay."
She smiled a little, then ran out before the teacher noticed her.
I stared at the closed door.
In my chest—not a feeling—but something moved a little. Not big. Not clear. Like a seed learning to grow.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
PE class started that noon.
The sun was right overhead. The heat made the kids' shadows on the dusty ground move like living creatures.
I stood at the edge of the field, waiting for instructions.
"Ziyan, come here!"
I turned.
Rino stood with three friends—Rio, Rian, and another whose name I didn't know. They always stuck together. Like a bundled package that couldn't be separated.
Rino was the one who most often looked at me like I wasn't human. There was something in his eyes that I couldn't identify—a kind of emptiness different from mine.
If I was empty because I felt nothing, he was empty because he needed to crush others to fill himself.
But I could only define that logically. Not emotionally.
"What is it?" I asked.
He patted the pink rubber ball in his hand. His smile tilted—the left corner higher than the right, an expression I read as "superiority."
"We're playing catch and throw. You're the target!"
His friends laughed—loud, harsh, like empty cans being hit from the inside.
The PE teacher was busy with another group far away. No one was watching us.
Rino threw the ball at me.
Fast.
It hit my shoulder.
I didn't dodge—because I didn't know how to react. My body received the impact. The ball bounced to the ground, rolling slowly.
Not pain. Just physical pressure received by nerves, sent to the brain as data. Not "hurt" the way others felt it.
"Seriously? That's it? Why aren't you reacting?" Rino snapped.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," I answered.
They laughed again—louder this time. There was relief in that laughter, like they needed a target to confirm they were above someone.
"Pick up the ball!"
Rino pointed toward it.
I looked at the ball. Its red color stood out on the ground, shifting slightly in the wind.
"Why should I pick it up?" I asked.
A simple question.
But to them, it was the wrong answer.
"Weirdo."
One of his friends—Rio—pushed my shoulder. My body staggered slightly. Not pain. Just movement data.
I kept looking at Rino, trying to read his expression. Searching for something I could understand.
All I saw was a demand for obedience.
"Pick it up," he said again. Louder.
I shook my head. "No."
Some kids nearby started whispering. Not defending me—just watching. Like observing an experiment whose results were predictable.
Rino stepped closer. His breathing quick—like he was holding something in. Anger, maybe. Or wounded ego.
I wasn't sure.
"I said pick it up."
"Yes. And I said no."
A small silence.
The kind that feels like the breath before glass shatters.
Suddenly—
The ball in Rino's hand slammed into my left chest, hard.
My body stumbled back, half-falling to the ground. I looked up at him from below.
And for the first time, I noticed something:
His eyes weren't just angry. There was a little… fear. The kind found in someone desperate to prove he wasn't the weakest.
"You're such a freak. Robot."
The word hung in the air.
Robot.
I'd heard it before—from classmates' whispers, from parents' stares, from teachers' strained smiles who didn't know how to treat me.
But this time it felt different.
This time it was a verdict.
I stood up. Brushed the dust off my uniform.
"Robots don't bleed," I said.
Rino froze for a moment. Some kids held their breath.
I didn't say it to mock him. I was just stating a fact.
The PE teacher finally turned. "Rino! Ziyan! Back to your groups!"
The kids scattered instantly.
Rino glared at me before leaving—as if carving my face into his memory for later.
I picked up the rubber ball, placed it in the equipment basket, then returned to the line.
There was no pain in my chest. No anger. No fear.
But there was something emerging very slowly—not emotion, but a small crack in a clear glass.
A crack that made no sound… but definitely existed.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
After school, I walked alone down the small path toward home.
Wet leaves stuck to the sidewalk. The ground still damp from last night's rain. The sound of cars in the distance seemed faint, as if coming from a place that didn't particularly care.
I stopped near the park fence—the place I first met Sopia.
My feet brought me here again for some reason. No clear purpose. No particular feeling pushing me. Just a faint pull, a vibration from nowhere.
The bench was still the same. Its color faded, its coldness lingering in the air, but it still felt like something waiting.
I touched its surface. The small scratch I saw years ago was still there—a short line half a centimeter long, like an old wound that never healed.
"I wasn't alone that day," I muttered softly.
The wind passed, carrying a single petal from the tree near the fence. It drifted along the breeze without direction.
My gaze followed it—and stopped at the old building at the end of the park.
The building people called haunted. The one kids wouldn't even go near.
But today, something was different.
The second-floor window… was glowing.
A dim red light, blinking slowly inside a room that should've been empty. There was no electricity in that building. No one inside.
I stared at it for a long time. That second felt like it held its breath.
Then, in an instant, the light vanished. Not fading. Just gone.
I stared a little longer, making sure I hadn't imagined it.
When I lowered my gaze, the drifting petal finally fell softly near my foot.
Something in my chest moved again. Not a feeling. Maybe a memory rising on its own. But the memory was warm, and the warmth refused to leave.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel entirely like a foreign creature.
There was someone who once sat beside me, leaving a trace that couldn't fade easily.
And in the distance, the old building felt like it was still watching.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
That night, as Mother prepared dinner, she asked:
"Ziyan… are you okay?"
I thought about my answer.
I wanted to say "I'm fine."
But the memory of the rubber ball was still there. The memory of the park bench too.
Neither left a feeling. But both left a mark.
"Something was different today," I finally said.
Mother stopped cutting vegetables. She looked at me gently—a gaze that didn't demand an explanation, only waiting if I wished to give one.
"What was different?"
I didn't know how to explain.
"I… saw something crack," I said. "Inside my head. Or maybe somewhere that isn't my head."
I was still searching for the right words.
"Like… something starting to open."
Mother approached, stroking my hair with slow, careful movements—as if touching something fragile.
"Ziyan… does it hurt you?"
I shook my head. "No. But… I don't know what it is."
Mother smiled faintly—not a smile of understanding, but a smile of wanting to stay beside me even if she didn't understand yet.
"That's alright," she said. "You don't have to understand it now."
I nodded.
Outside the window, the night sky looked clear. One star shone brightest among the rest.
I looked at it for a long time.
My mind was calm. Quiet. Full of familiar empty space.
But this time, in the middle of that emptiness, I saw something:
A small crack reflecting light.
And for some reason, I wasn't afraid of it.
Maybe—just maybe—that crack was where something new could enter.
TO BE CONTINUED…