Two weeks passed too fast.
Or too slow.
I couldn't decide which one was more accurate.
What I did know was this: today was Sopia's last day at school before she left for America.
We sat in the same garden. The same bench. The same sakura tree, although most of its petals were gone, leaving only bare branches swaying in the wind.
Sopia didn't bring a book today.
She just sat there, staring at the sky that was slowly turning cloudy.
"My flight leaves tomorrow morning," she said without looking at me. "Six a.m."
I nodded. There was nothing I needed to say to that.
"Dad said the school there is good. Lots of people from different countries. Maybe I can learn another language too."
"That's good."
"Yeah." Her voice was flat. Like she was reading a shopping list, not talking about something that would change her life.
The wind blew, carrying dry leaves that fell between us.
"Ziyan," Sopia finally turned to me, her expression impossible to decipher. "You… you'll remember me, right?"
A strange question.
My visual memory is perfect. I never forget anything.
"I'll remember," I answered.
"Not just 'remember' like you remember math lessons or people's names." She shook her head. "I mean… you'll remember me as… me. Not just data."
I fell silent.
I didn't know how to distinguish remembering something as data from remembering it as something else.
But I looked into her eyes. Warm brown eyes that once smiled at me when everyone else only saw something broken.
"I'll remember you," I repeated, softer this time. "As Sopia who sits here. Who gave me chocolate. Who laughed when I mispronounced 'through.' Who said I was unique, not weird."
Sopia smiled. But tears gathered in her eyes.
"Good," she whispered. "Because I'll remember you too. Ziyan who's always honest. Who never pretends. Who makes me feel like… I'm not alone either."
She wiped her eyes quickly before the tears could fall.
"Eh, I'm not crying. Just… dust. Yeah, dust."
I knew it wasn't dust. But I didn't correct her.
Sometimes… little lies are necessary.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
Sopia stood, her backpack shifting on her shoulder.
"I have to go home. Still need to pack."
I stood up with her.
We stood facing each other, unmoving.
"Ziyan…" Sopia stepped forward and suddenly hugged me.
My body went stiff. I didn't know what to do. My arms hung awkwardly at my sides.
"You can hug me back, you know," she whispered in my ear.
Slowly, I lifted my arms. Wrapped them around her back, hesitant, like I was holding something fragile.
Sopia hugged me tighter.
"Take care of yourself, okay? Don't skip meals. Don't overthink things alone. And…" her voice trembled a little, "don't forget… you matter. To me, you matter."
The word matter echoed in my head.
I didn't fully understand what it meant.
But something small and faint inside my chest… wavered when she said it.
Sopia released me, stepping back.
"See you again, Ziyan. Three years. I promise I'll come back."
"See you again," I echoed.
She smiled once more, a smile that felt like the sun before it sets, then turned and walked away.
I stood there, watching her shrinking figure until she disappeared around the corner.
The wind blew harder.
Something wet touched my cheek.
I touched it.
Water.
Not rain.
Tears.
I stared at my wet fingers, confused.
'I… am crying?'
But I didn't feel sad.
I didn't feel anything.
Just water coming out of my eyes for no reason I could understand.
Robots don't cry.
But I cried.
Maybe… I wasn't entirely a robot.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
That night, I sat on my bed with the Rubik's cube in my hands.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I began to twist it.
But this time, I didn't finish it.
I left it scrambled.
Because maybe… not everything needs to be fixed now.
Maybe some things can stay messy for a while.
Until it's time to repair them.
I looked at the ceiling.
The small crack in the upper left corner was still there.
But now, it didn't look like damage.
More like… a gap.
A gap where light could come in.
"Three years," I whispered into the dark.
"1095 days."
I would wait.
Because for the first time in my life…
there was something I wanted to wait for.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
Three years passed.
Sopia didn't return.
No calls. No letters. No messages sent through anyone.
Loss comes quietly, like someone stepping backward away from you every day, until you suddenly realize they're no longer visible.
I wasn't angry. I didn't have that feature.
But the empty space that once stirred whenever Sopia spoke… froze completely.
Like a light that flickered on briefly just to make sure I knew what brightness felt like, then went out again.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
Nine years had passed since Dad died.
Six years since Sopia left.
That evening, the house felt strange.
Its silence was too neat, as if every sound had been intentionally removed.
The gate was half open.
The kitchen curtain swayed.
And the air felt… heavy. Not obvious, but enough to make me pause at the doorway longer than usual.
I walked in.
No smell of cooking.
No clattering pots.
No voice asking why I was home early or late.
Only one sound: breath that stuttered.
Mom sat on the kitchen floor, her back against the cabinet. Her head hung low, hair messy, partly covering her swollen face. Her hand gripped a crumpled paper like it was the only thing holding her together.
I stopped at the doorway.
Six years ago, I would've just stood there.
Now… somehow my feet moved on their own.
"Mom."
Soft, but not because I tried to be gentle. More because my voice couldn't find any other shape.
She turned slowly.
The exhaustion in her eyes looked like something that had been waiting a long time to break.
"Ziyan… you're home."
The paper in her hand trembled. I didn't have to ask. I already knew: the termination letter.
"Mom… lost her job."
She said it like someone who had just lost a piece of herself.
She smiled then. Forced, fragile, worn just so I wouldn't worry.
"I understand," I said.
Honest.
Not comforting, but honest.
I crouched down.
Not too close; not too far.
Just enough.
This time I reached out my hand.
The movement was stiff, as if my body wasn't sure if touch was the right action.
My fingertip brushed the back of her hand.
Brief.
But something in her face fell apart.
She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking, not because I touched her… but because she wasn't ready for it.
"Thank you, son…" her voice nearly vanished.
I didn't know what she was grateful for.
But I didn't pull my hand back.
And that was enough to make the air in the kitchen slightly less heavy.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
That night, Mom went to bed early.
When I saw her close her eyes, something tugged faintly in my chest. Not emotion, just a strange signal like a weak alarm.
I sat at the dining table. Cold bread in front of me.
The old clock ticked loudly.
Night sky reflected in the window.
Dad's chair was empty.
It had been empty for a long time.
But tonight, the emptiness felt more solid.
I stood.
Walked to Mom's room.
The door was slightly open; her face visible in the dim light.
She slept restlessly.
I would've gone straight to my own room before.
Now I waited.
Just a few seconds.
Until her breathing steadied.
Then I left.
The crack in my ceiling was visible when I closed my bedroom door. It used to be just a crack.
Now it looked like a line that was starting to break… but hadn't given up.
I closed my eyes.
The light inside me remained off.
But the crack was still there.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
The next day, Mom got sick.
Not badly, but enough to keep her bedridden. I made her tea with what we had. It wasn't great, but she still drank it with a faint smile, thinner than usual.
I didn't know why I stayed longer at her bedside.
I only knew my body refused to leave yet.
She held my hand for a moment.
No words.
Just a weak grip.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
Two days passed.
Her illness didn't improve.
She spoke less and less.
And I found myself checking her breathing more often, without knowing why.
Uncle Malik eventually took Mom to the hospital.
I went too. Silent.
Not knowing what to say.
In the waiting room, the ticking clock sounded like a hammer.
Each minute felt like another crack forming inside me.
Evening came, the room dimming.
Then a nurse arrived.
Touched Uncle Malik's arm.
Whispered something.
And I knew before anyone said anything.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
Mom died on a Thursday.
I only remembered the way the afternoon light shifted across the window, as if the sun wanted to go home early too.
Uncle Malik stood in the corner, talking on the phone with the doctor.
His voice was flat.
He hung up without looking at me.
I just folded Mom's clothes.
Neatly. One by one. With calm movements I didn't understand myself.
Dad's chair was empty.
And now, Mom's was too.
Loss didn't arrive suddenly.
It simply drew the final curtain over something that had long been fading.
—–• ☽ ✦ ☾ •–—
Three weeks later, I was living in Uncle Malik's house.
The small storage room had become my bedroom, filled with a thin mattress and old boxes.
Malik's heavy voice thundered from the doorway.
"Hey, orphan!"
I turned. His shadow swallowed the hallway light.
"What is it?" I asked.
"You're not asleep? Save electricity! This is my house!"
His words slid right past me.
Not painful.
Not meaningful.
"I can't sleep."
"Excuses!"
He snorted. "You're freeloading and still causing trouble!"
The door slammed shut.
I sat on the mattress, holding the Rubik's cube Sopia gave me.
Its colors had faded. Stickers peeling.
But it was the only thing that still felt… like mine.
The only proof that someone once saw me as human.
TO BE CONTINUED…