I'm so tired.
But I can't sleep.
It's not because I'm busy. It's not because I have homework or tests or club duties. I'm tired in a way that sleep can't fix.
Every night, I lie on my side, pretending the wall will absorb my tears. I hug the pillow, press it into my stomach to stop myself from shaking. It doesn't work. It never does.
This room is too quiet.
But if I leave it, I'll hear yelling. Or worse — silence from another room that makes me just as scared.
He doesn't hit me often. Only when I'm "disrespectful." Like when I speak too softly. Or when I look at my mom after he scolds her. Or when I don't say anything at all.
I stopped counting the bruises.
I started memorizing how to lie.
And I'm good at it. I smile, I laugh when I'm supposed to. Even the teachers say I'm a quiet, well-behaved girl. My classmates say I'm "chill," and I nod like it's a compliment.
But every morning, I check my sleeves twice before leaving the house.
Not because it's cold.
But because I'm scared someone will see.
•
A half-empty rice box sat untouched in front of her. She didn't feel like eating. Her stomach was always tight lately — like it didn't trust her anymore.
Sari sat alone at the edge of the schoolyard, in that weird spot behind the maintenance shed where the wind always felt a bit colder. It was a place no one cared about. No gossip, no teachers, no boys shouting.
She liked that.
She pulled her sleeves down again, tighter this time, even though no one was watching.
The world was so loud, and yet, her life had become nothing but whispers.
Suddenly—
"…you're sitting in my spot."
Sari looked up.
A girl stood nearby, slightly slouched, a lollipop tucked into her cheek. Messy shoulder-length hair, expression unreadable. Her skirt wasn't the right length. Her shirt was half-untucked, and her shoes looked like they hadn't been cleaned in weeks.
"Oh. S-sorry, I didn't know," Sari said quickly, standing up.
The girl didn't seem annoyed. She just took the lollipop out and gestured toward the bench. "It's okay. Stay. You look like you need it more."
Sari sat back down slowly. The girl joined her, not too close.
"Why here?" the girl asked after a pause.
Sari looked down at her shoes. "I like it. It's quiet."
The girl smirked. "Yeah. You can cry here without anyone noticing."
Sari tensed.
"I'm not crying."
"I didn't say you were."
Silence again. The kind that stretches, not uncomfortably, but like a blanket thrown over two strangers.
After a few minutes, the girl tilted her head. "Does it still hurt?"
Sari's hands instinctively touched her left arm. "…I'm fine."
"I didn't ask that."
Sari hesitated. Her eyes darted sideways, but the girl wasn't even looking at her anymore.
"Sometimes," Sari said at last.
"Thought so." The girl popped the lollipop back in.
"…Who are you?"
The girl shrugged. "Just someone who likes quiet places. You?"
"…Sari."
The girl nodded slowly. "Nice name."
It felt strange. The way she said it — like she already knew it, but wanted to hear Sari say it out loud for her own sake.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" the girl asked.
"Huh?"
"Not the scary kind. The quiet kind. The ones who keep repeating their pain over and over."
Sari stayed silent.
"I used to think I was one," the girl added.
"…You don't anymore?"
"I don't know," the girl said. "But sometimes I talk to other ghosts. Like you."
Sari looked away.
"I'm not a ghost."
"Didn't say you were. But if you were, I'd say… you still have time to come back."
The words sank in slowly, like light leaking into a dark room. Sari felt something tighten in her throat.
She didn't cry.
But her eyes blurred just enough to remind her that she was still here.
•
That night, Sari walked home slower than usual.
Her house was still waiting, stiff and full of tension. But for some reason, she didn't walk in right away. She stayed outside for a while, looking at the sky.
She didn't pray. She didn't hope. Not yet.
But for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like the quietest room in the house.
Just a room that could maybe open a window someday.