The front door closed behind Coyln with a soft click that felt far too loud in the stillness of the house.
"Coyln?" her mother's voice called from the kitchen. "You're home early. Where did you go?"
Coyln didn't answer.
She slipped off her shoes carefully, lining them up by the door out of habit, then walked down the hallway without slowing. Her school bag felt heavier than it should have, the strap digging into her shoulder as if it wanted to remind her of everything she had carried with her all afternoon.
"Coyln?" her mother called again, closer this time. "Did something happen?"
Coyln reached her bedroom door and turned the handle. "I'm tired," she said quietly, not turning around. "I'm going to my room."
Before her mother could respond, Coyln stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She locked it—not out of fear, but out of necessity. The small click of the lock settling into place felt final, comforting in a way she couldn't explain.
Her room greeted her with familiar silence.
It was neat, almost too neat. Books lined her shelves in careful order. Notes and sticky reminders were pinned to the board above her desk. Everything had a place. Everything made sense here.
Unlike the rest of the world.
Coyln dropped her bag by the desk and sat down in her chair, staring at the dark screen of her computer for a moment longer than usual. Her reflection stared back faintly—glasses slightly smudged, eyes tired, mouth set in a straight line.
She pressed the power button.
The computer hummed to life, light blooming across the screen and washing her face in pale blue. As it booted up, Coyln stood and walked around the room, closing the curtains and turning off the overhead light. Darkness settled in softly, broken only by the glow of the monitor and the small lamp near her bed.
This was her routine.
This was where she was strongest.
She sat back down, logged in, and clicked open her favorite RPG. The familiar title screen appeared, music swelling gently through her headphones as she slipped them on. The world on the screen was vast and bright—rolling landscapes, towering cities, endless quests waiting to be completed.
Here, Coyln wasn't quiet or forgettable.
Here, she was known.
Her character loaded in: a high-level mage, cloaked in deep blues and silvers, staff glowing faintly with stored power. Top-ranked on the server. Respected. Feared, even. People whispered her username in chat, asked for help with difficult bosses, sent invitations she almost always declined.
Coyln's fingers moved confidently across the keyboard. Muscle memory took over as she navigated menus, accepted a quest, teleported to a distant map.
Enemies appeared.
She defeated them effortlessly.
Spell after spell landed perfectly, timing precise, strategy flawless. Her health barely dipped. The system rewarded her with experience points, rare items, achievements flashing briefly across the screen.
Normally, this would have been enough.
Normally, the satisfaction would settle in her chest, quiet but steady. Proof that she was good at something. That effort mattered. That trying harder led somewhere.
But tonight—
Tonight, something was wrong.
Coyln leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the screen, but her mind drifted elsewhere. The music felt hollow. The victories felt thin, like paper trophies that crumbled the moment she touched them.
She completed the quest and stood her character idle in a bustling city. Other players ran past, chatting, trading, laughing through text bubbles and emotes.
Coyln didn't move.
Why does it feel like nothing? she wondered.
Her chest felt empty in a way that scared her. Not sharp pain. Not sadness she could name. Just a hollow space that echoed when she paid attention to it.
She minimized the game window and opened her browser without thinking. Then she stared at the blank page, unsure what she had meant to search for.
Her reflection stared back at her again in the dark screen edges.
Milly's smile flashed in her mind—bright, effortless. The way she had held John's arm like it belonged there. The way John had looked at Milly like the rest of the world didn't exist.
Coyln closed her eyes.
She told herself she shouldn't feel this way. Milly was her friend. A good friend. She had every right to be happy.
So why did Coyln feel like she'd been quietly replaced?
A notification sound pulled her attention back to the game. Someone had sent her a message.
Can you help with the dungeon run? We're stuck.
Coyln stared at the message. Normally, she would have accepted without hesitation. Helping was easy. Helping was safe.
Instead, she typed back:
Sorry. Not tonight.
She sent it before she could overthink it.
Coyln reopened the game fully and moved her character again, diving into another battle, then another. Her fingers flew, faster than before, as if she could outrun the thoughts crowding her mind.
But no matter how many enemies fell, the emptiness stayed.
She stopped suddenly, hands hovering over the keyboard.
Her room felt too quiet.
Coyln pulled off her headphones and set them aside. Without the game's music, she could hear the faint sounds of the house—the hum of the refrigerator, her mother moving around downstairs, the distant ticking of a clock.
She stood up and paced the room, stopping in front of her desk where a small framed photo sat tucked beside her books. It showed two younger girls sitting on a playground swing, arms thrown around each other, laughing at nothing.
Coyln and Milly.
Back then, Coyln hadn't felt like this. Back then, Milly's happiness hadn't felt like something Coyln was losing.
She turned the photo face down.
"I'll try harder," Coyln whispered to the empty room.
The words sounded different out loud. Less like a promise. More like a challenge.
Try harder at school. Try harder to be noticed. Try harder to stop feeling like she was always one step behind, watching life happen just out of reach.
She sat back down at her desk and reopened the game, but instead of jumping into another quest, she opened her stats, staring at the numbers she had worked so hard to build.
Top-tier intelligence. Perfect optimization. Countless hours invested.
Effort rewarded.
The logic made sense here. Clear rules. Clear results.
Real life wasn't like that.
There were no stats for beauty. No meters for timing. No way to calculate how long a childhood friendship lasted before it quietly shifted into something else.
Coyln leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool edge of her desk.
For the first time that night, she allowed herself to admit it—not aloud, not fully, but enough for it to exist.
She didn't just resent the situation.
She resented John.
Not because he was cruel. Not because he had taken something that was hers.
But because he fit so easily into Milly's world, while Coyln stood outside, trying to earn a place she thought she already had.
The grudge sat heavy in her chest, no longer just a quiet thought but something with weight and shape.
Coyln straightened slowly and looked back at the glowing screen.
If life didn't play fair, then she would learn the rules on her own.
If trying harder was the only option left—
Then she wouldn't stop.
Not until the emptiness finally had something to fill it.