The walk from the station to my house felt longer than usual. The evening air was cooling, but my mind was stuck in the quiet hum of the campus. As I pushed open the heavy front door of our home, the house greeted me with the same oppressive silence it had held for months.
I set my bag down and listened. No sound of laughter, no familiar clatter of dinner preparations. Just the hollow echo of my own footsteps.
I caught sight of my father in the hallway. He was dressed for an evening out, his hair neatly combed, a faint, youthful spark in his eyes that I hadn't seen in years. He was smiling—a genuine, radiant smile—as he checked his watch, likely waiting for his partner. Seeing him this way should have made me happy; I told myself it did make me happy.
It is his life, I reminded myself, smoothing down my skirt. He deserves to be happy. If this is what brings him peace, then who am I to stand in the way?
I gave him a polite nod, and he barely noticed me, already lost in his own world of new beginnings. I retreated to my room, closing the door softly. I understood the logic perfectly: I was eighteen, and he was an adult with his own path to walk. But logic is a cold companion when the sun goes down.
I sat on the edge of my bed, the vastness of the house pressing against my walls. It was a big, beautiful house, but it felt more like a tomb than a home. There was no one here to meet me at the door with open arms. No one to ask, "Iris, how was your day? Are you holding up?"
My heart, stubborn and disobedient, refused to listen to my rational mind. It ached with a sudden, sharp clarity for my mother. I closed my eyes, trying to conjure the scent of her, the warmth of her embrace, the way she could quiet the storm inside me just by being there. She had been the bridge between me and the world, and now that bridge was gone.
I was eighteen, surrounded by people—a father living his new life, others busy with their own ambitions—yet I was fundamentally invisible. Whatever happened to me, whatever I was fighting for, it didn't seem to concern anyone.
I am just a passenger in this house, I thought, a tear tracing a path down my cheek.
I didn't let myself cry for long. I stood up, walked to my desk, and opened my books. The familiarity of the words was a balm. I would study. I would fulfill my promises. I would keep my head down and move forward, regardless of the silence. I had no regrets about the path I had chosen, because I knew that if I didn't save myself, no one else was going to reach out a hand to pull me out of the dark.
A full week had passed after that day. The initial shock of Luca's absence had settled into a dull, throbbing routine. He hadn't set foot in a lecture hall since that day on the balcony, and though his name still floated through the campus grapevine—thanks to his popularity—he remained a ghost in my daily life.
Once, I caught a glimpse of him near the campus gates. He looked different—distant, unreachable. I had stalled, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, thinking that perhaps I could finally ask him how he was. But the moment passed, and he disappeared into the crowd before I could find the courage to bridge the distance. It was clear: he was avoiding me. And if that was what he needed to heal, I told myself I had to honor it.
So, I did what I did best. I buried myself in the present.
I became a creature of habit. My days were a blur of library study sessions, frantic note-taking, and navigating the new friendships I'd forged. These friends were a lifeline; they were the noise that drowned out the quiet, the chaos that made the world feel alive and moving. I leaned into their laughter and their mundane dramas, clinging to those college moments as if they were the only pieces of reality I had.
But every evening, the transition was the hardest part. Leaving the warmth of the campus felt like walking into a cold prison. When I crossed the threshold of my house, the silence didn't just meet me—it attacked me.
My home was a beautiful, expansive prison. My father was a stranger who passed through the halls with a glow I no longer recognized, forever busy with a life that no longer had room for me. There was never a warm hand to hold, no one to demand, "Iris, tell me about your day." Just the sound of my own breath in the dark.
I started to view the college gates as the border between two worlds: one where I existed, and one where I was merely waiting. In the chaotic, vibrant bustle of the lecture halls, I felt human. I felt like an eighteen-year-old girl with a future. At home, I was just a ghost in the hallways of a house that had forgotten how to be a home.
"Don't think about it", I told myself, clutching my textbooks to my chest as I climbed the stairs to my room. Just survive the night. Tomorrow, there's noise. Tomorrow, there's life.
"Iris has achieved the 'simple' life she wanted, but she has discovered that simplicity can often feel like total isolation. She is building her future on a foundation of solitude, but the ghost of her mother's love is the only thing keeping her from feeling completely adrift.
She is living a double life—a vibrant, connected student by day, and an isolated, invisible daughter by night. She has built a wall between her survival and her heart, but the border is becoming harder to maintain.
Can Iris continue to bury her need for connection under the weight of her studies?
What happens when the 'simple' routine she has crafted is no longer enough to silence the loneliness?
She is surviving the days, but the nights are getting longer. How much more can she hide from herself before the silence demands an answer?"
Stay with us to know how the story unfolds."