The room felt smaller than before.
Coyln pushed her chair back and stood, the faint scrape of its legs against the floor sounding too sharp in the quiet. She left her computer on, the screen glowing idly behind her, and unlocked her bedroom door. The click echoed down the hallway as she stepped out, closing the door gently this time.
The bathroom light flicked on with a soft hum.
Coyln stepped up to the sink and lifted her head, meeting her own gaze in the mirror.
There it was.
Her face.
She stared at it longer than she probably should have, taking in every detail she had memorized over the years. The shape of her eyes—too plain. Her nose—unremarkable. Lips that never seemed to curve naturally into the kind of smile people noticed. Her glasses framed her face neatly, but not beautifully.
It was the same face she had always had.
The one she hated.
Her fingers lifted unconsciously, hovering near her cheek, as if she could mold it—press here, smooth there—reshape it like clay beneath her hands. The thought startled her, and she pulled her hand back quickly, curling her fingers into her palm.
What if I could change it? she wondered.
The idea lingered, tempting and dangerous. If she could just adjust a few things, maybe the world would look at her differently. Maybe Milly wouldn't shine so brightly by comparison. Maybe—
Coyln shook her head.
Her eyes drifted to her hair, long and black, falling straight down her back. Another thought crept in, quieter but persistent.
What if it's the hairstyle?
She tilted her head slightly, imagining something different—shorter, lighter, styled with purpose. Something that said confidence instead of caution.
She let out a small, humorless breath.
"Such a change in hairstyle won't change it," she said softly to her reflection.
The mirror didn't argue.
Coyln turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto her face, the shock pulling her back into the present. She washed carefully, methodically, as if cleansing herself of the thoughts she didn't want to acknowledge. Water dripped from her chin as she reached for a towel, patting her skin dry.
When she looked up again, the face staring back at her was calmer. Still the same—but quieter, more guarded.
She turned off the light and headed downstairs.
The house was dim, lit only by a small lamp near the living room. Coyln paused when she reached the kitchen, noticing the absence of familiar sounds. No humming. No clinking dishes. No soft footsteps.
"Mom?" she called, her voice low.
No answer.
On the kitchen counter sat a small folded note. Coyln picked it up, recognizing her mother's handwriting immediately.
Went to the market. Might stay at Grandma's to help her. Don't wait up. Food's in the fridge.
Coyln stared at the note for a moment longer than necessary.
It was already late at night.
She knew what that really meant. The market trip was an excuse—her grandmother probably wasn't feeling well again. Lately, it happened often. Their family situation had been fragile for as long as Coyln could remember, held together by quiet sacrifices and unspoken worries.
She folded the note neatly and placed it back where it had been.
She doesn't have to think about it now, Coyln told herself.
Not tonight.
She opened the fridge, the cool air brushing against her face. Inside were a few containers, neatly stacked. Leftover food from earlier that day. She pulled one out and examined it briefly.
Maybe it's still good.
She placed it in the microwave, set the time, and leaned against the counter as it hummed to life. The sound filled the kitchen, steady and predictable. When it beeped, she took the container out carefully and set it on the counter.
Coyln grabbed a plate, spooned the food out, then added rice from the cooker, arranging everything neatly without thinking. Presentation mattered, even when she was alone.
She carried the plate to the dining table and sat down.
The chair across from her was empty.
Coyln stared at her food before taking the first bite. The taste was familiar, comforting in a dull way. Not bad. Not especially good. Just… there.
She ate slowly.
The house felt different tonight.
Not lonelier—she was used to being alone—but heavier. As if something unseen had shifted, leaving everything slightly off balance. The dining room clock ticked steadily on the wall, each second stretching just a little too long.
Coyln swallowed and rested her elbows lightly on the table.
Why does it feel different?
She replayed the day again, unwillingly. Milly's voice. John's smile. The way she had sat across from them, nodding, smiling when expected, shrinking without meaning to.
Even here, in her own home, that feeling followed her.
Like she had stepped out of a place she once belonged.
Coyln looked down at her hands resting on the table. They were steady. Capable. Hands that typed faster than most, that solved problems others struggled with.
Hands that no one noticed.
She took another bite and chewed thoughtfully.
Maybe this was what growing up felt like. Not dramatic changes or sudden heartbreaks, but quiet realizations—moments when things you thought were permanent began to feel temporary.
When friendships shifted shape.
When fairness became something you questioned instead of assumed.
Coyln finished her meal and sat there for a while longer, not ready to move yet. The emptiness from earlier hadn't disappeared, but it had changed. It wasn't loud. It wasn't sharp.
It was patient.
She stood eventually, washed her plate, and set it on the rack to dry. As she turned off the kitchen light, the room fell into shadow, just like the rest of the house.
Coyln paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked up toward her room.
Tomorrow would come whether she was ready or not.
And whatever this feeling was—this difference, this quiet shift—she knew one thing for certain.
It wasn't going away on its own.