the next morning was quiet.
no school. no yelling. just the dull gray of a saturday sky pressing against the windows.
seohyun sat up slowly, still holding the photo frame.
her eyes were puffy, but dry. her chest felt sore, but not as tight.
she placed the photo back on the shelf.
got dressed in silence.
a hoodie. jeans. the cleanest pair of sneakers she could find.
no makeup. no real plan.
she just needed air.
outside, the wind was cool. the streets weren't too busy—just the sound of distant cars and the occasional bark of a dog.
she didn't know where she was going. she didn't care.
she walked past the market. past the bakery with the foggy windows.
past groups of laughing students she didn't recognize.
for the first time in a while, no one was watching her.
she stopped at a bench near the river trail. sat down. watched the water move.
slow. steady. uncaring.
kind of peaceful.
she took out her phone. not to scroll. not to check messages. just to sit with it in her hand.
just breathe, she thought.
just today. no one else. just today.
and for once, that felt like enough.
she sat on the bench near the river trail, watching the water move in slow, steady ripples.
the breeze tugged at her sleeves. the air smelled faintly of leaves and something warm from a nearby bakery.
for once, no one was yelling. no one was laughing at her.
it was just... quiet.
she let herself breathe.
then—something caught her eye.
just beside the bench, nestled in the grass near one of the legs, was a small notebook.
the corner fluttered with the wind.
she blinked. leaned down.
picked it up.
the cover was soft and worn, like it had been carried around for a long time. the spine slightly bent. a black pen clipped to the front.
curious, she flipped it open.
pages and pages of messy handwriting. some words bold and angry, some gentle and barely there. poems. questions. little quotes scribbled sideways.
"you ever feel like you're watching your life from underwater?"
"i want to disappear without dying."
"i think i'm afraid of being forgotten more than i'm afraid of being alone."
her hands stilled on the page.
her throat tightened.
not with sadness—but recognition.
this notebook wasn't hers.
but it felt like hers.
like someone else had been drowning in the same silence.
she looked around. no one nearby. no one looking.
after a long pause, she set the notebook gently on the bench.
not to keep it.
just so whoever lost it might find it again.
but before she stood, she tore a scrap from her own sketchbook in her bag.
she wrote one thing.
"me too."
folded it. tucked it between the pages.
and walked away.
for the first time in a while, she didn't feel like a ghost.
she didn't look back.
didn't wait.
she just walked.
the sound of the river behind her, the notebook left in the sun, that little piece of herself folded inside it.
no one would know it was her.
and maybe no one ever would.
but that was okay.
not everything had to be loud to matter.
some things just existed, like a breath in the middle of chaos.
quiet.
small.
real.
and for now, that was enough.
she walked back home, letting the breeze loose her hair.
she made it home, but was it really home?
the apartment door creaked open.
dim light spilled from the living room. the sharp smell hit her before anything else—bitter, sour, familiar.
her stomach dropped.
bottles clinked on the table. the TV buzzed with static. her mother sat slouched on the couch, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded.
"you're late," she slurred, voice dragging.
seohyun stepped in quietly, shutting the door behind her.
"i went out."
"oh, you went out?" her mother laughed, short and sharp. "wow. miracle."
seohyun didn't respond.
she moved toward her room, trying not to make a sound.
"you think walking around fixes things?" her mother called out. "you think the world's gonna care about your little face and your stupid sulking?"
she froze.
"don't ignore me, seohyun."
her mother stood, stumbled, nearly knocked over a bottle. "you can't even look at me now? think you're better than me?"
seohyun turned, slowly.
"i don't think anything."
"yeah. exactly," her mother snapped. "you don't think."
seohyun's hands were shaking.
"just... go to bed," she said quietly.
her mother scoffed, waving her off. "don't act like you're the adult here."
seohyun didn't say anything else.
she went to her room. shut the door.
locked it.
and leaned against it, breathing slow, like if she didn't move, the words wouldn't follow her inside.
she dropped her bag by the desk.
the silence in her room felt thinner than usual, like it could tear if she breathed too loud.
she sat down. opened her notebook. the homework was barely started.
math problems. a short essay. nothing heavy, but her head already ached.
she worked in silence. no music. no distractions. just the scratching of her pen, the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
by the time she finished, her eyes stung.
she closed the notebook. clicked off the lamp.
changed into a clean shirt. brushed her teeth.
then crawled under the blanket, phone untouched on the nightstand.
she stared at the ceiling for a while.
and then, without meaning to, drifted off.
no dreams.
just sleep.
quiet, and long overdue.