The air in the studio apartment is thin and smells faintly of stale coffee and the radiator's dry heat. Outside the frosted window, the Montreal winter is in full swing a grey, bone-chilling Tuesday morning in early January.
Anaf wakes up at 6:30 AM, before his alarm. He lies still for a moment, listening to the muffled rumble of a snowplow clearing the street below. He feels heavy, not from lack of sleep, but from the familiar weight of being invisible. To the world, he is just a silhouette in a window; to himself, he is a ghost in a city that hasn't learned his name yet.
He gets ready in silence. He avoids the mirror while brushing his teeth, tired of seeing the uneven skin and the eyes that always look slightly downcast. He dresses in layers—a thick sweater, a worn parka—and steps out into the biting wind to catch the 165 bus toward the language school downtown.
Day 1: The Weight of Silence
The classroom is overheated and smells of damp wool. Anaf sits in the back corner, near the window. He keeps his head down, focused on his textbook. His French is improving, but his voice usually catches in his throat when he has to speak. He's afraid of the sound of his own accent, afraid of the way people squint when they try to understand him.
"Anaf? C'est à toi. Your turn," says Madame Tremblay.
He reads the sentence about "hopes for the future." His voice is a low murmur. Behind him, two girls whisper and giggle. He doesn't look back; he assumes they are laughing at the way he stumbled over the word réussir.
During the break at 10:30 AM, he goes to the small student lounge. He sits at a tiny round table, staring at a lukewarm espresso.
"Is this seat taken?"
He looks up. It's Clara, a woman from his class. She's older—maybe twenty-four—with sharp, intelligent eyes and a messy scarf. She's been in the city for three years and speaks with a confident, musical flow. Anaf has noticed her before; she's the kind of person people actually listen to.
"No," Anaf says, pulling his bag off the chair. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," she smiles, sitting down. She leans in a little, her shoulder almost touching his. "You're very quiet, Anaf. I see you writing these incredible long essays in class, but you never say a word. I've been wanting to ask you what you think of that book Madame Tremblay assigned."
Anaf freezes. There's a flutter in his chest—not of excitement, but of suspicion. Why is she talking to me? Is she bored? Is this a dare? He looks at her hand on the table; her nails are bitten down, a small sign of human imperfection that makes his heart ache.
"I... I don't think I understood it well," he lies, his eyes darting to the door.
"I think you understood it better than anyone," she says softly. Her gaze is steady, not pitying, but curious. "You look like someone who feels things very deeply. That's rare here."
The bell rings, signaling the end of the break. As they stand up, the hallway is crowded. In the crush of students, Clara's arm brushes firmly against his. She doesn't pull away immediately. She looks at him for one lingering second before turning toward the classroom.
The Evening
By 1:35 PM, Anaf is back on the street. The sun is already starting to dip, casting long, blue shadows across the snow. He walks home through the Plateau, the cold air stinging his lungs. He stops at a small grocery store to buy pasta and a single tomato.
Back in his apartment, the silence is deafening. He eats standing up by the heater. He thinks about Clara's arm against his. He thinks about her eyes. He tells himself she was just being polite—that she probably wants help with her homework, or she's just a "nice person" practicing her kindness on the easiest target.
He lies on his bed, the city lights reflecting off the ceiling. He is eighteen, and he feels a hundred years old. He wants to be touched, but he's terrified of what would happen if he actually let someone close enough to see him.
How does Anaf spend his evening?
The cold is different at night. It's sharper, more honest. Anaf pulls on his heavy boots and wraps his scarf twice around his face until only his eyes are visible. He leaves the apartment, the door clicking shut with a hollow sound that echoes through the empty hallway.
He walks toward the mountain. The streets of the Plateau are quieter now, the orange glow of the streetlamps reflecting off the icy sidewalks. He likes it like this. When the streets are empty, he doesn't have to worry about his posture or whether he looks "off" to passersby. In the dark, he is just another shape moving through the frost.
The Ascent
The climb up the stairs of Mont-Royal is grueling. His lungs burn with the intake of freezing air, but the physical pain is a relief—it's a distraction from the mental loop of Clara's voice.
"You look like someone who feels things very deeply."
He reaches a small lookout point away from the main chalet. Below him, Montreal spreads out in a grid of shimmering lights—gold, white, and red. It's beautiful, but it feels like a postcard he's looking at, not a place where he actually lives. He leans against the wooden railing, his gloved hands gripping the frozen timber.
He actually enjoys this. The isolation. There is a certain power in being the only one out here. Nobody can reject him if he is the one who walked away. He feels a strange sense of superiority over the people in the glowing windows below, huddled together in their heated rooms, needing each other. He doesn't need anyone.
Or so he tells himself until the wind dies down, and the silence becomes so heavy it feels like it's pressing into his chest.
The Morning After-
The next morning, the "high" of his lonely mountain walk has faded into a dull, physical exhaustion. He arrives at school at 7:55 AM, his face raw from the windburn.
As he walks into the classroom, he sees Clara. She's sitting on a desk, swinging her legs and talking to a group of people. When she sees Anaf walk in, she stops mid-sentence and smiles. It's not a polite, customer-service smile; it's a look of genuine recognition.
"Anaf! You look like you went to battle with the North Pole," she calls out. The other students turn to look at him. Anaf feels a flush of heat creep up his neck. He quickly moves to his corner seat.
During the lecture, he feels a folded piece of paper land on his desk. He looks at it, then looks at Clara. She is staring at the teacher, but the corner of her mouth is twitching.
He unfolds it. Inside, in messy, hurried cursive, it says:
You forgot your scarf in the lounge yesterday. I have it in my bag. Meet me at the café across the street after class so I can give it back? My treat for the 'rescue mission.'
Anaf stares at the note. He looks at his neck he is wearing his scarf. He realizes he has two scarves. He must have left his old, grey one on the chair, and he wore his backup one last night.
His first instinct is to panic. She's trapped me, he thinks. She's using the scarf as an excuse. Is she doing this to be nice to the "lonely kid"? Or is there something else? He feels a surge of desire to go, followed immediately by a wave of nausea. If he goes, he has to talk. He has to be himself.
Class ends at 1:00 PM. The snow is starting to fall again, thick and heavy flakes. Anaf stands at the exit of the school, watching Clara wait by the door, her eyes searching the crowd for him.
What does Anaf do?