Yellow Isn't Always HappyHlomla's POV
The room is full, but I feel thin.Like if someone brushed past me too hard, I'd disappear.
Yellow balloons everywhere.Black and white ones too—like someone tried to balance joy with grief and called it décor.
People laugh. Plates clatter. Someone turns the music up.
I stand near the wall, hands in my pockets, pretending I'm just tired—not broken.
Inside, though, it's loud.
They voted.They chose.They looked right past you.
I replay it over and over: the names being read, the claps, the cheers that didn't belong to me. I try to tell myself it's fine. I even said it out loud earlier—it's fine—but my chest didn't believe me.
I didn't come to eat with her.
I knew she'd notice.I also hoped she wouldn't.
Footsteps. Close.
Then warmth.
Her arm slips over my shoulder like it's always been there. Not dramatic. Not careful. Just… natural.
I don't move away.
I don't lean in either.
I'm afraid if I lean in, something inside me will crack open.
She tilts her head, studying my face.
Her: "You didn't come eat."
I swallow.
Me: "I wasn't hungry."
A lie.I'm always hungry—just not for food.
She doesn't call me out. She never does.
Her: "You always say that when you're hurting."
That one lands.
I shrug, staring straight ahead.
Me: "It's nothing."
I hate how practiced I sound.
She sighs softly, the kind of sigh that says I see you lying, but I won't force the truth out of you.
Her: "Hlomla… look at me."
I don't.
If I do, I might cry.And I'm tired of crying in places where people celebrate.
She squeezes my shoulder instead.
Her: "So what?"
I finally turn.
Me: "What?"
Her: "So what if they were voted? So what if they were chosen?"
I let out a short laugh, bitter before I can stop it.
Me: "It's not 'so what.' I showed up. I stayed late. I committed. I believed—"
My voice cracks.
I look down quickly, embarrassed.
Me (quiet): "They didn't even see my heart."
The words hurt coming out. They hurt more staying in.
She's quiet for a second.
Then—
Her: "I see it."
I look at her now.
Really look.
Her face isn't trying to fix me. She's not giving a motivational speech. Her eyes are steady. Certain.
Her: "I see how much you care. I see how deeply you feel things. And I see how unfair it was."
My throat tightens.
Me: "Then why does it feel like I'm always the one people overlook?"
She doesn't answer right away.
Instead, she leans her head lightly against mine.
Her: "Because the world is loud, and you're not built to shout."
Something in me breaks—but softly this time.
Her POV
When I didn't see him at the table, I knew.
Hlomla doesn't disappear when he's fine.He disappears when he's trying not to fall apart in public.
I spot him near the wall—still, distant, carrying something heavy behind his eyes. The room feels too bright around him, like happiness turned up too high.
I walk over without thinking.
I don't ask permission to be close. I just am.
When he lies about not being hungry, it hurts—but not because I'm angry. Because it tells me how alone he feels.
When he finally says it—they didn't see my heart—I want to grab the room and shake it.
How could they not?
This boy feels everything. Too much sometimes. He gives too much. He hopes too honestly in places that reward popularity over depth.
I wish I could take the pain from him and carry it myself.
But I know better.
So I do the only thing I can.
I stay.
Hlomla's POV
We take a photo. Someone insists.
I try to smile. I really do.
But my face doesn't know how to fake it tonight.
She smiles anyway. For both of us.
After, the noise swells again. People move around us. Life keeps happening.
I feel tired in my bones.
Me: "You should go back to them."
She looks offended.
Her: "Why?"
Me: "Because I'm not good company right now."
She pulls back just enough to look me dead in the eyes.
Her: "Don't do that."
Me: "Do what?"
Her: "Decide you're a burden because you're hurting."
Silence.
That hits too close.
Me (soft): "People already think I'm too much. Too loud. Too weird. Too emotional."
She shakes her head.
Her: "Then they don't know you."
Me: "Even my friends—"
I stop.
The word friends feels fragile tonight.
She notices.
Her: "Even them?"
I nod once.
Me: "Sometimes it feels like I'm only convenient. Never chosen."
She exhales slowly.
Her: "Hlomla… listen to me."
I listen.
I always do when she says my name like that.
Her: "You don't need to be chosen by everyone. You need to be known by a few."
My eyes sting.
Me: "What if I end up alone anyway?"
She doesn't answer with certainty.
She answers with honesty.
Her: "Then I'll sit with you until that fear passes."
The Space Between Them
They don't label anything.They don't promise futures.They don't compete with names or rumors or what-ifs.
They just stand there—two people sharing weight.
The balloons float above them, bright and hollow.
But between them, something real exists.
Pain acknowledged.Presence offered.Silence that doesn't judge.
And for Hlomla, that night doesn't erase the rejection.
But it changes one thing:
He doesn't carry it alone.
The story will come back as a novel