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Chapter 1: The Day Everything Fell Softly*
People think life-changing moments arrive loudly—sirens, screams, dramatic music swelling in the background.
Mine didn't.
Mine fell like a soft drop.
I was sixteen, sitting on the cracked steps behind Aurora Cinema, the old one that still smelled like dust, popcorn, and forgotten dreams. My school bag lay open beside me, textbooks spilling out like they wanted to escape too. I should've been inside the hall with everyone else, pretending to care about algebra. Instead, I was counting the seconds between heartbeats and wondering when life decided to feel so heavy.
The sky was grey, not stormy, just tired. Like me.
My phone buzzed.
Mom:Don't forget to come straight home today.
Straight home.
As if home was a straight line and not a maze full of sharp corners and silence.
I stood up, brushing dirt from my jeans, when I heard it—a melody drifting from inside the cinema. Someone was playing the piano. Soft. Slow. Almost shy. The kind of music that didn't demand attention but still held your breath hostage.
Curiosity won.
I slipped inside through the side door. The hall was empty except for a boy sitting near the stage, fingers dancing over the keys like they knew secrets mine didn't. He looked about my age, messy black hair, sleeves rolled up, completely unaware that he was accidentally rearranging my insides.
I should've left. I didn't.
The music stopped.
He turned. Our eyes met. And for a moment, everything froze—like the pause before a movie scene changes forever.
"Sorry," I blurted out. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," he said, smiling softly. "No one comes here anymore."
"I do," I replied, surprising myself.
That made him laugh. Not loud. Just… warm.
His name was Evan. He had transferred last week. Loved old movies. Hated loud crowds. Played piano when his thoughts got too noisy. I didn't tell him much about myself. Just my name—**Lena**—and the fact that I liked sitting where no one could see me break.
We talked like time wasn't real. Like the world outside the cinema didn't exist. And when the bell rang in the distance, calling us back to reality, neither of us moved.
"See you tomorrow?" he asked.
I nodded, even though tomorrow scared me.
That night, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, I realized something terrifying and beautiful.
Some moments don't crash into your life.
They drip in quietly.
Softly.
And before you know it, everything is different.
That was the first drop.