The hallway had never looked this magical before.
It wasn't the dim, flickering lights above her head, nor the soft shuffle of her boots on the polished floor. No. It was the way her heart felt too big for her chest. Like it had grown wings. Like it had suddenly remembered how to fly.
Aurora stopped just before her door, hand resting on the handle, and let out a squeal.
Not a scream. Not a laugh. A tiny, muffled, giddy squeak.
"Oh my God!" she whispered to herself, pressing her palm over her flushed face, barely able to hold in the smile stretching across her cheeks.
The interaction she'd just had with Leo—light, teasing, the way he had brushed past her shoulder so casually, yet intentionally—kept playing on loop in her head like a warm, sun-drenched song. He had leaned-in too close. Said her name too softly. His voice—husky, amused, knowing—had wrapped itself around her like velvet.
And she hadn't hated it.
She hadn't known what to do with it, either.
Her knees gave a tiny, ridiculous wobble, and she caught herself by lightly bouncing on the balls of her feet—like her joy had to be released somehow, through her legs, through her fingertips, through the giggle she bit down just in time. Her reflection in the narrow hallway mirror caught her grinning like someone drunk on cotton candy.
Was this really happening?
Someone… someone like him… was giving her attention?
Not in a passive, generic, 'hey you're kinda cute' way.
But with curiosity.
With intention.
With care?
She didn't want to assume.
And yet.
And yet, wasn't it his voice that lingered in her ears? Wasn't it his smirk that played behind her closed eyelids? His words that stitched little butterflies into her ribcage?
She had always imagined love—or even just infatuation—would feel like a firework. Loud. Explosive. Fiery. But this… this was something different. It was feather light. Electric. Like a warm breeze teasing the back of her neck.
She was twirling, she felt. Silly. Free.
"I'm losing it," she whispered to Mochii as she spined around now having him in her arms, laughing under her breath. "I'm actually losing it—"
But joy was a fragile thing for her… or not meant to be for her, she had always convinced herself that.
Drawn by some gentle force, she shuffled toward her battered bookshelf. There, in a chipped ivory frame, stood a photograph of herself as a small child—barefoot in summer grass, ice cream cone melting down her hand—standing next to Miss Hazzel, who smiled as if time itself had paused for their happiness. Aurora's pulse stuttered. That moment, captured forever, felt luminous compared to the dim years that followed.
And then, without warning, it came.
The memory.
A cold hand sliding in through the warmth.
Like ink in water.
The old familiar ache.
The way she'd once been left outside in the rain, as a punishment for something she never did. The countless nights spent pretending she's asleep, but she couldn't as her heart and body felt sore too sore, still no one notice it. The time she'd buy cookies on her birthday, just in case anyone remembered—but no one did.
She remembered the tight-lipped smiles she gave herself in the mirror to feel better. The way she used to talk to her stuffed bunny in middle school because he was the only one who "listened." The echoing silence of being cared for only when it was convenient. When she was needed. Not when she needed.
She stopped twirling.
Her smile faltered.
The joy she had held like sunlight in her palms slipped slightly, like sand.
Why now? Why him?
Why her?
The main door was click shut behind her, she sank against it, knees folding beneath her like water seeking to its lowest point. The corridor's golden light slanted in through the peephole, painting her sunset amber eyes in warm fire tones. Mochii stirred slightly on the floor at her feet, sensing her stillness.
For a moment, she simply stared at the soft glow, her heart thundering with confusion.
"I'm okay," she whispered, more likely to herself. Not to convince anybody. Just to ground.
Why would he—even for a moment—care about me? The question churned in her mind as she sank to sit on the edge of her shifting emotions. She stared down at Mochii, whose furry face peered back at her with infinite compassion. He's just being polite… right? It's just idle banter. And yet… and yet her stomach knotted in longing. She realized with startling clarity how starved she'd been—for kindness, for attention, for someone to look at her and see more than the awkward girl who barely scraped by the entrance exam.
Her chest tightened as desire and self doubt tangled in a fierce dance. Was it really Leo's arms she craved, or simply the promise that she, Aurora Stevens, could matter so profoundly to another human being? The shame of admitting it fluttered through her like a fragile moth. But beneath the blush, beneath the longing, lay a current of hope—hope that she, wounded and wary, could taste sweetness again.
Tears sprung unbidden, although they were warm but still felt like a soothing balm for her burning crimson red, sorrowful eyes. Mochii hopped into her lap, pressing his little head into her trembling hands. The softest of nuzzles followed, then a gentle lick beneath her eye, as though he understood every hurt she carried. Aurora buried her face in his warm fur, letting his unconditional love wash over her. In that moment, her swirling confusion stilled. Maybe, she thought, this small rabbit and that teasing boy with the hazel eyes were both part of a new beginning—one where she could learn to trust the kindness of others… and, perhaps, the kindness growing within herself.
She finally submitted to her raining eyes and broke down, sinking to the edge of her pain.
She further tucked Mochii into her worm like curl, and whispered softly, "Do you know, Mochii?" Her voice cracked like old paint. "I grew up at St. Evelyne's Orphanage…" She took a brief pause like she was choosing the correct words to voice her feelings. "Everyone hated me… all except Sister Elira and Miss Hazzel."
Her throat tightened as the memories bubbled up: the sharp sting of the other nuns' scorn, how they'd forced her to scrub floors on her knees for the smallest mistake, how laughter in the hallway would die when she walked by.
"At eighteen, I ran away— worked shifts and rented this apartment, borrowed textbooks, my lifeline—determined to prove I was worthy of something more than their contempt." She continued even though, she knew, she sounded like one of those evil witches.
A sudden ache bloomed in her chest and tears sprang unbidden. She buried her face against Mochii's soft fur, trembling as she remembered the worst of it: the cruel whispers, the day they stripped her of her last doll and tossed it in the trash, telling her.
"No one would ever want you."
"How can they be so-so grateful towards me? Rhee, Van- I don't know about Leo but Why are they being so nice…I don't deserve any bit of it." As soon as they last words left her mouth the dam blew away, her tears came flooded in hot, silent streams, and Aurora fell like an ocean tide pressing her forehead to her knees, unable to stop the sorrow.
Mochii stirred, lifting his small head to nuzzle her cheek, then gently licked away the tears. His whiskers tickled her chin, and for the first time that evening, Aurora felt a spark of warmth spread through her brokenness. She wrapped her arms around him, inhaling the comfort of his soft warmth. In his quiet love, she found a promise: maybe, just maybe, she was deserving of attention—and affection—after all.
Aurora remained there for a long moment, curled on the floor as if the mattress were too distant a refuge for her tangled thoughts. The soft carpet pressed cool against her back, and Mochii sat quietly in her lap, his small, weighty presence a gentle anchor in the sea of her sorrow.
She let the minutes drift by in silence, the only sound the steady hum of the streetlight outside her window and the faint thump of her own heartbeat. Gradually, her breath found an even rhythm, the taut tension around her ribcage loosening as she leaned her forehead against Mochii's warm fur.
Time felt suspended, but slowly Aurora's fingers untangled from her hair. She uncrossed her legs and tucked them beneath her, pressing Mochii closer until he nuzzled against her chin in a soft, understanding gesture. In that small contact, she felt something shift—a tiny spark of comfort flickering to life.
When at last her tears dwindled to a single, trembling breath, Aurora looked down at the rabbit whose quiet loyalty had carried her through the storm of her own emotions. Mochii blinked up at her with his gentle blue glinting eyes as though asking, Are you okay now?
She swallowed the lump in her throat and whispered, "Thank you, Mochii."
Her voice was husky, but earnest. She stroked his velvety ears, marvelling at how his little heart had kept pace with hers through the ache. "You seem to know always just what I need," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.
Mochii thumped once against her leg—as if saying, I'm here.
Aurora closed her eyes, clutching him a little tighter, and in the warmth of that simple reassurance found the first gentle stirrings of hope.
Because she was okay, now.
But she also knew better than to believe this was some fairy-tale.
Still…
A small part of her—the reckless, still-healing part—whispered, but what if it is?
And suddenly, even with the ache of memory still lingering at the edge of her thoughts, a soft smile returned to her lips. Not because she was sure of anything.
But because—for the first time in forever—she was seen.
Wanted.
Noticed.
And tonight, that was enough.
Aurora's stomach rumbled—a low, insistent reminder that she'd nearly skipped dinner entirely. She glanced at the small clock on her kitchenette shelf: 8:17 PM.
"Oh, no," she whispered, leaping to her feet. Mochii hopped from her lap, twitching his whiskers as if scolding her for the oversight.
She hurried over to the single burner, flipping on the flame. Cold noodles and a pack of mixed veggies waited at the back of the counter; remnants of her rushed grocery run yesterday.
"Hold on, buddy," she murmured, scooping Mochii into the crook of her arm. She set him gently into his little travel bowl—his favourite: a handful of finely chopped lettuce, a small carrot coin, and a sprinkle of rabbit pellets. Mochii sniffed appreciatively before beginning to nibble.
Aurora set to work on her own dinner, sliding shrimp flavoured noodles into boiling water, tossing in the bright vegetables until they steamed in a riot of colour. A dash of soy sauce, a twist of cracked pepper, and her meal was ready in minutes.
She plated it on her smallest dish—just enough to fill her, not enough to waste—and settled at the tiny table by the window. Mochii, now contently munching, kept one eye on her.
As she forked her first bite, Aurora exhaled, relief washing through her. "Dinner—finally." She smiled at Mochii, who paused mid munch to look up at her with those wise, blue glinting eyes.
"Thanks for reminding me," she whispered, reaching out to gently scratch the fur behind his ear. "You're the best roommate."
Mochii thumped once in agreement, and Aurora leaned back, savouring the simple comfort of warm food and loyal company. Tonight, at least, she wouldn't go hungry.
Aurora slipped into her soft lilac night suit—the cotton kind that still smelled faintly of the lavender sachets Miss Hazzel used to tuck into her drawers. The soft cotton clung to her like a familiar hug, after a long day.
She clicked off the main light, leaving only the small star-shaped lamp glowing on her bedside shelf. The room melted into shades of violet and amber. Mochii had already found his usual spot at the foot of the bed, grooming his snowy little paws in tiny, delicate movements.
With a content sigh, Aurora flopped onto her mattress, arms flung over her face. The events of the day flashed again in fast, disorienting motion—Leo's door-step encounter, which teasing smirk, the strange fluttering sensation still dancing in her stomach... and then the heaviness that followed, the ache of memory, of belonging nowhere.
Just as the blankets warmed around her, a sudden, guilt- laced thought jolted her awake.
Sister Elira.
Aurora shot upright.
"Oh my god," she murmured to the quiet. "It's been months…"
She hadn't spoken to the kind old nun since before her entrance exams. Between her classes, part-time shifts at the library, scholarship paperwork, moving into her apartment… it had all swallowed her time. But that was no excuse. Elira had been the only consistent maternal presence in her life—gentle, firm, and somehow always understanding of Aurora's silent battles.
She reached for her phone, guilt already settling low in her belly. "I should've messaged her on Good Friday, I know she won't mind it she is understanding but still." she whispered, scrolling to their old thread. The last message was a picture of Sister Elira holding a basket of apples, smiling with crinkled eyes.
Aurora's thumb hovered over the keyboard. What could she even say? Sorry for disappearing like a ghost? Sorry for not writing even though you were the only nun who ever made me feel safe in that whole damn orphanage?
She sighed and pulled the blankets tighter.
"I'll message her tomorrow morning," she whispered to herself. "With a proper update. Not half-asleep rambling."
Beside her, Mochii thumped softly in agreement, his little nose twitching as if to say, She'll understand. She always does.
And deep down, Aurora hoped that was true.