A picture, a memory, a world I wish I could be part of… but instead, I wait for "next time."
People always think I have the perfect life.
They see the big house, the expensive cars, the designer clothes, and assume I must be happy. But the truth is… none of it can fill the emptiness I carry inside.
My name is Hana Grace Collins. I live with my parents in a house that always feels too quiet, no matter how many people are in it.
My mother, Lee Soo-jin, is Korean. Even after years in America, she still speaks with a soft Korean accent that makes her voice warm and gentle. She has a gift for music. When she's home, the sound of her piano fills the halls and makes the house feel alive.
My father, Daniel Collins, is American — tall, serious, and always busy with work. Behind his strict, reserved nature hides a surprising talent for painting. He rarely has the time, but when he does, his study smells faintly of paint, and his canvases tell quiet stories only he understands. They were an unlikely pair, but somehow, they made it work… at least for a while.
We also have Mrs. Thompson, our maid. She's been with us for as long as I can remember. My parents are both successful — maybe too successful. My father runs several companies, and my mother travels constantly for work.
Even when they're home, they're often too busy to notice the small details — like how quiet I've become, or how much time I spend in my room. It's not that they don't love me. I know they do. But love feels different when it's always squeezed in between business calls and flight schedules.
Every morning, Mrs. Thompson makes me breakfast before I'm driven to school in one of my father's sleek black cars. The driver is polite, but we barely speak. At school, I'm not the popular type. I'm quiet — too quiet — and that makes me an easy target for careless remarks.
Some girls whisper about my accent when I speak. Others laugh at the way I dress, even though my clothes probably cost more than their entire wardrobes. It's not bullying — not really — but it's enough to keep my head down.
At lunch, I sit alone by the window, tracing patterns on my juice carton while everyone else laughs with their friends. I tell myself I don't care, but sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to belong somewhere.
When school ends, the driver is waiting. I slide into the backseat, pull out my phone, and scroll aimlessly until we reach the house.
Home is… quiet. Too quiet. The walls are high, the ceilings higher, and every footstep echoes. Mrs. Thompson greets me at the door with a smile, asking how school was. My answer never changes. "It was fine." She knows it's not.
That evening, I walk into the dining room to find my father already there, phone in hand. My mother is gone again — another work trip, another hotel in another city.
"Dad, can we… talk?" I ask, sliding into a chair.
He looks up briefly. "Sure, honey. How was school?"
"It was okay," I say. "I was thinking maybe we could do something together this weekend… like go out, just the two of us."
He pauses, guilt flickering in his eyes before he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Hana. I have meetings. Maybe next time."
I force a smile. "Yeah. Next time."
We eat in silence, the clinking of silverware louder than the words we don't say.
Later that night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzes with a text from Mom. She's in Paris this time, sending me a picture of the Eiffel Tower glowing against the night sky. Wish you were here, she writes.
I close my eyes and try to imagine being there with her — walking under the lights, hearing her laugh, feeling her arm around my shoulders. But instead, I'm here. In this big, quiet house. Waiting for "next time."
I can almost feel the past pulling at me, whispering that my life was never as simple as it seemed."