The streets were quiet when Elysia reached the edge of the neighborhood she never called home. The house loomed ahead like a memory that never faded—cracked walls, paint peeling off like neglected skin. She stood before the door, hesitation in her breath.
But hesitation didn't stop fists. So she stepped inside.
Her father was already there. Slouched on the couch, bottle half-empty in one hand, remote in the other.
"You think you can walk in late and act like nothing happened?" His voice was thick with alcohol and venom. "You've got a good-for-nothing brain just like your mother."
"I wasn't late. I just—"
The slap was swift. Her cheek stung, her body reeled back, but she caught herself against the doorframe. She didn't cry out. She never did. He didn't like when she made noise.
Her mother sat in the far corner of the room, folding laundry, eyes blank. She didn't even flinch.
Elysia's throat tightened. "Mama…"
Still, no reply. Just the soft folding of a shirt.
The silence wasn't new. Her mother had long since learned that words made her a target. But what Elysia couldn't understand, even after all these years, was why the violence never touched her.
Her father only beat Elysia. Always her. Never the woman who stood by him, never the woman who should've protected her.
Maybe because her mother agreed to be invisible. Maybe because Elysia still had the audacity to dream.
Her father often raged, "You have her face. That same look in your eyes. As if you're better than this place. You're not. You're nothing."
Maybe that's why she was the target—because she looked like someone who once rejected him. Because she reminded him of a life he could never control.
That night, when he stormed out of the house to refill his bottle, Elysia collapsed onto her bed. The mattress was thin and cold, the sheets older than most of her memories.
She curled up, bruises stinging beneath her clothes. Her tears soaked the pillow, but her sobs were silent.
Is this all life is?
A part of her—small and foolish—still wished for someone to rescue her. Not a knight. Not a hero. Just someone who would care. Who'd notice she was breaking. Someone who could see the quiet scream behind her smile.
But dreams like that weren't for girls like her.
She remembered her first crush back in high school—a boy who smiled kindly, who shared his notes when she forgot hers. He asked her out once, and she had said yes with trembling hope. For three days, she believed in a future where someone might choose her.
Then she saw him walking hand-in-hand with someone else. Laughing, as if Elysia never existed.
He didn't even deny it. Just scoffed and walked away.
That was the first time she told herself: Never again.
If the person destined to love me is someone like that… may love never find me at all.
---
Morning came, cold and gray. Elysia dressed carefully, choosing a high-collar sweater that would cover the bruise on her neck. Her Psychology textbook felt heavy in her bag as she stepped through the university gates.
As she walked through the hallway, she saw him—her old crush.
Again, with someone new.
Different girl. Same pattern.
Elysia turned her head, heart hardening. I was so stupid to feel anything for you.
This time, there was no pain. Just quiet, simmering disgust at herself—for being so easy to hurt.
With a whispered curse under her breath, she walked to her classroom and slipped into the back seat near the window, her usual safe corner.
The chatter in the room buzzed around her until the door opened, and silence fell like a curtain.
Footsteps—calm, measured—echoed across the floor.
A young man stepped inside.
Late twenties. Tall, confident, yet not in an overbearing way. His dark hair was neatly styled, his features composed but not cold. Dressed in a simple blazer and a navy shirt tucked into fitted trousers, he looked effortlessly professional—too young to be a typical professor, but far too commanding to be mistaken for a student.
"I'm Professor Helton Vale," he began, his tone even and direct. "I'll be taking over Behavioral Psychology for the semester. For those who don't know, I also teach Emotional Cognition and Trauma Processing at the advanced level. You'll need to pay attention. I don't teach to pass time."
A few students exchanged wide-eyed looks.
Elysia sat still, fingers curled under the desk.
Behavioral Psychology.
Her major. Her pain.
Something about him felt different. Not just because of his looks or youth—but because of how he scanned the room, pausing on each face as if he was reading more than expressions.
When his eyes reached her, they stayed longer than they should have.
But not in the way other men looked at her.
There was no hunger. No smirk.
Just… awareness.
As if he saw something—beneath the silence, beneath the hoodie and the tucked-away scars.
She quickly dropped her gaze, heat creeping up her neck.
He moved on without a word.
But the moment lingered.
---
The class passed in a blur of terms, theories, and clinical studies. Professor Vale spoke clearly, efficiently, but his voice had a certain softness when he explained difficult topics—like trauma responses, anxiety loops, or emotional suppression.
Elysia found herself listening. Not to the words, but to the way he said them.
Like someone who understood.
When the bell rang, students packed their bags, buzzing with excitement about the new teacher.
But Elysia stayed still, reluctant to move. Her hands gripped her book as if letting go meant breaking something fragile.
She didn't glance at him as she passed. She couldn't.
But she could feel his gaze follow her. Quiet. Questioning.
And for the first time in a long time, she wondered:
Does someone see me?
Not the bruises.
Not the broken pieces.
Me.