The nights were always the hardest.
Ela lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city outside her window. The world kept moving, but inside her room, time felt suspended, heavy, and endless. Some mornings, she woke with her pillow damp from tears she hadn't meant to cry. The sadness wasn't always loud—it often hid in small moments: the quiet ache in her chest, the way her arms felt empty, the heaviness of breathing as if each inhale carried a little more pain.
She thought of everyone she had lost. Her dad, her sister, her grandparents, her friends… gone, and the void they left behind was impossible to fill. Her mother was the only constant, but even she could be sharp, impatient. "You're weak. You'll never survive out there," she had said once. Ela had laughed at the time, the words bouncing off her like meaningless echoes. But when the room fell silent and her reflection stared back at her in the mirror, she traced her fingers over her thin arms and wondered if maybe her mother was right.
At times, she found herself dreaming of life differently. She watched dramas, read books—K-dramas, C-dramas, stories full of quiet moments and soft glances, of someone who truly cared. She longed for it, wished for it—but she also whispered to herself that maybe it would never come.
And yet, deep inside, a small spark remained. A stubborn flicker that refused to die, no matter how much darkness pressed down.
She whispered into the shadows of her room, quiet enough that only the walls could hear:
"Will I ever meet someone who stays?"
No one answered. And yet, in the silence, Ela felt a strange sort of companionship—a reminder that even in the emptiness, she was still here, still alive, still waiting.
---