I feel it again — that hollow inside me, like someone carved a hole where my chest should be. It hasn't gone away. Months have passed, but it still burns, raw and unrelenting.
My phone vibrates on the desk. I don't want to look, but I do.
Lina: "Can we talk?"
Seeing her name makes my chest tighten. Every memory hits at once — the laughter I wasn't part of, the nights I cried alone, the promises that were never mine. I throw the phone onto the bed, but it doesn't matter. Her name clings to me, relentless.
I let my head fall back, staring at the ceiling. The gray walls of my room feel smaller than ever. The world outside moves on, but I'm stuck. Stuck in memories I don't want, in pain I can't shake.
Then there's Aria.
The new girl. She's bright. Alive. Like sunlight piercing through the darkness I've wrapped myself in. I noticed her the first day she arrived — standing at the back of the classroom, notebook clutched to her chest, eyes darting nervously. Somehow, in these past few weeks, she's been in my thoughts more than I care to admit. She's here, quietly existing, threading herself into the spaces Lina left behind.
A knock on my door makes me jump. My heart hammers.
"Evan? You in there?" Her voice — soft, hesitant, careful — slices through the fog in my mind.
I manage a shaky, "Yeah… come in."
She steps inside, careful and deliberate, yet somehow fills every corner of my room. She doesn't smile yet. She just looks at me, like she sees me — all of me — and doesn't flinch. My chest twists. I want to run, but I can't.
"Hey," she says again. "Can I… sit?"
I nod. She perches on the edge of my bed, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off her, but far enough not to crowd me. Silence settles between us — not awkward, not tense — just understanding.
"I wanted to check on you," she finally says, fiddling with her backpack strap. "You've been… gone."
I want to tell her everything — about Lina, the nights I spent staring at cracks in the ceiling, the emptiness that eats me alive. But I can't. Words fail me. I just nod.
"Don't shut me out," she whispers. "Not me. Not now."
Something in me breaks — not completely, not yet, but a little. That hollow space inside me feels warmer, like it might one day heal.
I want to say something, anything, but no words come. So I just let her presence stay. And for the first time in months, I feel… less alone.
The city hums outside my window. Rain starts to fall, soft and relentless. I watch it slide down the glass. And for the first time, I think: maybe surviving the pain isn't about forgetting. Maybe it's about letting someone in while you're still broken.
Because pain isn't something you escape. It's something you live with. And sometimes, if you're lucky, someone will sit beside you while you do.