– The Girl Who Believed Too Much—
Zara sat on the edge of her tiny bed, hands wrapped around the chipped mug of tea her mother had given her that morning. The steam swirled up lazily, curling into the air like smoke from some distant, forgotten fire. She watched it drift and dissipate, wishing her own thoughts could vanish as easily.
The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the old ceiling fan. Sunlight leaked through the curtains, casting thin golden stripes across the worn floorboards. Zara liked mornings like this. There was a gentle patience in them, a feeling that if you waited long enough, maybe the world would forgive you for being soft.
She wasn't soft in the wrong way, she told herself. Being gentle wasn't weakness. It was kindness. It was care. It was… human.
Her phone buzzed on the small dresser, dragging her from the quiet. A message from Kai. Her boyfriend.
"Don't forget to pick up the payment slips for me today. You know how stressed work has been."
Zara sighed, biting the inside of her cheek. Of course. He had a way of asking things that made her feel guilty if she didn't obey immediately, as though saying no was a crime. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the faint scent of jasmine from the tiny vase on her windowsill, and reminded herself that love was supposed to feel like warmth, not like pressure.
Still, she stood, pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders, and walked to the little box where she kept her money and papers. Every coin she earned, every hour she worked, seemed to go somewhere else—mostly to people who promised they would protect her, care for her, love her. And yet… she gave it anyway. She always gave it anyway.
Because what else could she do?
Zara's life had always been a series of small sacrifices. She had long ago stopped asking for favors in return, stopped expecting that anyone would notice the tiny victories she achieved each day. Her family had their own burdens, and her friends—well, they were busy with their own lives. Even Kai, whom she loved more than she wanted to admit, seemed to forget sometimes that she existed outside of the things she could give him.
And yet she still loved. She still believed.
It was this belief that made her soft, made her fragile, made her easily overlooked.
She walked down the narrow staircase, careful not to stumble, careful not to wake the neighbors. Her building was quiet, almost too quiet for a city street, and she liked it that way. There was safety in being invisible, in being unnoticed.
Outside, the air smelled faintly of rain and exhaust, a sharp reminder that life wasn't as gentle as mornings. People shouted from the street below, vendors called for attention, and the city pulsed around her in a rhythm she had learned to move through without drawing notice.
She reached the corner store where Kai liked her to pick up the payment slips. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman with a permanent frown and surprisingly warm eyes, greeted her with a nod. "Morning, Zara. You look tired."
Zara managed a small smile. "I didn't sleep well," she admitted. It wasn't a lie, exactly. Her mind had been racing, wondering if she had done enough, if she had given enough, if anyone had noticed her at all.
The shopkeeper handed her the slips without a word. Zara counted them carefully, making sure nothing was missing. She could never be careless; mistakes had a way of sticking to her like shadows, reminders that the world didn't forgive the soft, the fragile, the trusting.
On her way back, she paused at the corner where the little park touched the street. A child laughed, chasing a stray dog that yipped and ducked under the benches. Zara smiled, almost involuntarily. She liked life when it was small like that—uncomplicated, honest, and fleeting. For a moment, she let herself breathe.
She imagined a world where people returned kindness in equal measure, where loyalty wasn't measured in what you could take, but in what you would protect. It was a fleeting thought, but one that warmed her chest like a small fire.
By the time she reached the apartment, she could hear voices coming from Kai's place next door. Laughter. Not the warm kind. Not the kind that invited her in. She frowned, heart tightening slightly, but shook it off. Perhaps he was just enjoying his morning.
She slipped inside quietly, careful not to disturb him. He didn't notice her. Of course he didn't. She was always careful, always soft, always quiet.
And that was the truth she never admitted aloud: being soft had always made her invisible. Invisible to love. Invisible to cruelty. Invisible to danger.
But being invisible wasn't always safe.
And soon, Zara would learn that the world didn't reward kindness—it chewed it up, spat it out, and left nothing but scars.