The screen was the only source of light in the room, casting long, distorted shadows against the walls as the show played on. I didn't truly follow the dialogue, but the rhythmic sound of voices—people arguing, laughing, and living lives that weren't my own—acted like a slow, steady pulse, gradually bringing me back to reality.
I sat there for an hour, huddled against my pillows. I forced myself to track the plot, to focus on the colors, and to breathe. I ignored the sting in my eyes and the raw, burning feeling in my throat. I had made a pact with myself: No more tears. Every time a memory of Mother or a pang of guilt tried to rise, I pushed it back with a sharp, mental command.
Slowly, the frantic, hammer-like throbbing in my skull began to recede. The nausea that had been clawing at my stomach ebbed away, leaving behind a hollow, weary stillness. My mind, which had felt like a tangled mess of thorns, finally began to smooth out. It wasn't peace—it was simply the absence of chaos.
I stood up, my legs feeling stiff and heavy. I walked over to the mirror. The girl staring back at me looked like a wreck—eyes red-rimmed, face pale, hair a mess—but she didn't look like a victim anymore. She looked like a survivor who had just crawled out of a storm.
I splashed cold water on my face, letting the chill shock me into clarity. I brushed my hair, pulling it back into a neat, firm ponytail. I checked my reflection again. The vulnerability was still there in the depths of my eyes, but I masked it with a practiced, neutral expression. I needed to be representable. If Father came back, or if I had to face the world tomorrow, no one would see the girl who had been weeping in the dark.
I moved to my desk, where my books were neatly stacked—my shield against the world. I opened my notes. I needed to study. I needed to focus on the future, on the path to that job that would grant me my independence. I sat down and picked up my pen.
I was no longer the girl hiding in the shadows, waiting for the next blow. I was Iris, and I was going to do what I had always done: I was going to fight for my own survival, one page at a time.
Hours bled into one another as I buried myself in my books. The rhythmic scratching of my pen and the focused density of the syllabus were the only things keeping the world at bay. I didn't notice the sun dipping below the horizon or the shadows lengthening across my floor. I was in a state of flow, a place where memories couldn't reach me.
I only looked up when I heard a familiar, upbeat tune drifting through the house. It was my father. He was humming—a melody so light and carefree that it felt entirely out of place in this house, which had been vibrating with tension only hours ago.
A soft knock at my door pulled me from my trance.
"Iris?" He stepped in, his face holding none of the desperation from earlier. "You were right. You were absolutely correct."
I blinked, shifting my focus from my notes to his face. "I was?"
"Your advice," he said, his voice brimming with a newfound confidence. "I went to see her, and we talked everything through. If you hadn't told me to meet her face-to-face, I think the situation would have spiraled into something we couldn't fix. Thank you, Iris. You really helped me keep a clear head."
"So... everything is solved?" I asked, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
"Completely," he beamed.
I hesitated, the memory of her ultimatum still stinging. "And what about the issue with the household chores? What did she say when you brought that up? How did you reach a conclusion?"
He waved a hand dismissively, his smile widening. "Oh, that? It was all just a misunderstanding. She told me it was just a joke—a test to see how I would react. She said she was only teasing, and that she never actually meant any of it. Everything she said before... it was all a lie, just for fun."
I stared at him, my pulse skipping a beat. A joke? The coldness, the demands, the threat to call off the marriage—none of that had felt like a joke. My gut twisted with a sharp, intuitive warning, but as I looked at his radiant, hopeful face, I swallowed the words back.
"I see," I murmured, though my skepticism remained like a weight in my stomach.
"I was the foolish one, getting so worked up and involving you in the mess," he chuckled, patting my shoulder. "Forget it, Iris. Everything is fine. Everything is perfect."
Before I could press him further, the sound of movement in the kitchen drew our attention. Our cook, the aunt who had been with us for a while, had arrived to prepare dinner. My father excused himself to attend to something else, and as I walked past the kitchen to get a glass of water, I caught a brief, polite greeting from her. We exchanged a nod, but the presence of my father in the other room made it impossible to speak freely. She went about her tasks, and I retreated back to my room.
When I sat back down at my desk, the silence of the house felt different now. It was no longer a heavy, suffocating weight; it was a bizarre, jarring contrast. Just hours ago, I had heard him shouting, heard the strain in his voice as he argued with her. Now, he was in the next room, his voice soft and teasing as he spoke to her on the phone, the laughter floating through the walls.
It was almost funny, in a dark, twisted way. How quickly the storm had been labeled a "joke."
I turned my back to the wall that separated us, picked up my pen, and forced myself to focus on the text before me. Let him have his happiness, I told myself. If he chooses to believe the lie, I cannot be the one to shatter it.
The "storm" has been dismissed as a misunderstanding, and the house is once again filled with the hum of content—but Iris isn't convinced. Her father is choosing to believe his partner's explanation, even if it feels like a transparent lie.
Iris is back at her studies, trying to build her future while the foundation of her home feels increasingly unstable. How long can she study in the room next to a facade?
The countdown continues. The peace is fragile, and the truth is hidden behind a "joke."