The alarm hadn't even gone off yet when Hena's eyes opened.
The room was still cloaked in half-darkness. She stared at the ceiling, unmoving, a strange tightness already pressing against her chest. Something felt wrong. She turned her head to the side — the space beside her in bed was empty.
She sat up slowly.
The apartment was silent. No scent of coffee, no sound of cutlery, no voice murmuring in the kitchen. Her mother was gone. Again.
Hena stepped out of bed and walked barefoot into the living room. A half-finished cup of tea stood on the table, a cigarette butt crushed in the ashtray. The front door was locked, but the old jacket Elene always wore on rainy days was missing from the coat rack.
She hadn't said goodbye. No note. Nothing.
Hena clenched her jaw. She wanted to scream, to punch something — but what would that change? The two peaceful days they'd shared had vanished like smoke. The mother she'd seen glimpses of — gentle, present, fragile even — had once again disappeared behind the mask of survival, behind fear, behind shame.
She took a deep breath, then another.
Then she got ready for school.
The classroom was bathed in a dull light, the kind that slipped through dusty blinds in the early morning. Students arrived in waves, dragging their bags, their voices, their forced laughter.
Hena had settled, as usual, in her seat at the back of the room, by the window. To her right, the seat of her deskmate still empty. She unpacked her things with calm, almost mechanical gestures. A notebook, a pen, her phone on silent. She hadn't slept much. Too little.
Once again this morning, her mother had already left. Gone before dawn. Cold coffee, an abandoned mug, and that persistent smell of stale ashtray in the air. Hena hadn't said anything. She didn't say much anymore.
A few minutes later, Daniel Nim walked in.
He moved with that particular nonchalance — half-detached, half-controlled. The kind of gait that makes you feel like he owns the space. Some students sat up straighter when they saw him, Clara first among them. She offered him a shy smile, heavy with hope, which he brushed aside with a vague glance.
He reached his seat next to Hena without a word, pulled out the chair, sat down, unpacked his supplies. A scribbled pencil case, a thin notebook, an empty stare. They were just centimeters apart — two different worlds sharing a piece of wood.
The teacher entered and started the lesson in a monotone voice.
For long minutes, nothing happened. Not a word. Daniel scribbled absentmindedly on a blank page. Hena stared at her notebook but didn't write. The distance between them was almost tangible, heavy.
And yet, sometimes, Daniel turned his head slightly — a quick glance in her direction, fleeting, almost stolen. He didn't know why. She wasn't doing anything in particular. She didn't even seem aware of him.
But she was.
Hena felt every one of those glances. She didn't move. Her eyes stayed fixed on her notebook, fingers clenched around her pen.
They had never spoken. Not once. No hello, no exchanged smile. And that morning would be no exception. There was no connection. Not yet. Just that silent presence — a neighbor at her side — who sometimes looked at her as if she were a strange detail he couldn't quite understand.
The lesson went on, without a single word between them.
Two teenagers, side by side, separated by an invisible barrier of silence, fear, and feigned indifference.
During the break Clara invited Daniel spoke.
His eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, earphones in. He didn't look at anyone — but everyone looked at him. There was something magnetic in the way he carried himself, something untouchable. Like a storm cloud floating over a calm sea.
Clara spotted him immediately. She stood near the entrance bench, smoothing her pale pink sweater and tucking back a rebellious strand of hair. She walked toward him quickly, smiling with forced cheer.
— Daniel! she called out, waving.
He saw her. Barely slowed down. Raised one brow in response.
— Hey… I texted you last night, she said, matching his pace. You didn't answer.
He pulled out one earbud.
— I saw it, he said flatly. Didn't feel like replying.
Clara laughed nervously, unsure if he was joking.
— Are you serious?
He shrugged, face blank.
— Clara... let's be clear. I never made you think you were special.
Her smile vanished.
— Wait, what? What are you trying to say?
He crossed his arms, eyes distant, almost bored.
— I'm saying it was nice. Fun. But it was just that — fun. You made it into something else. That's not on me.
Her throat tightened.
— So… what we did meant nothing to you? Just a way to kill time?
He looked away.
— Clara. Did I ever say I was your boyfriend? Did I promise anything? No. So stop acting like the victim.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry in front of him.
— You're such an asshole, she whispered.
He smiled, a cold, amused curve on his lips.
— People say that all the time. Surprised you're just figuring it out.
He popped his earbud back in and walked away, leaving Clara frozen in place, trembling with humiliation, the morning wind biting into her skin like a second punishment.
The bell rang, cutting through the tense silence of the classroom. Hena packed her things slowly, as usual. She didn't want to get caught in the crowd already spilling into the hallway. She preferred to be the last to leave, to slip out unnoticed, like a shadow.
When she finally stood up, Bérénice was already waiting by the door. She gave her a slight nod and a discreet smile.
"Are you okay?" she asked gently.
Hena shrugged. It was her way of answering when she didn't want to lie.
They walked in silence for a while through the still-crowded hallway. Bérénice looked pale that day. More than usual. Her eyes were heavy, almost shadowed. She dragged her feet slightly.
"You're not sleeping much either, huh?" Hena finally murmured.
Bérénice nodded, her gaze drifting.
"A bit hard lately… stuff at home."
She never said much either. Maybe that's why they got along. They understood the weight of silence.
Once outside, the cold air bit at their cheeks. The sky was gray, threatening a light but persistent rain. Hena pulled up her hood, her hands buried deep in her jacket pockets.
"I was going to grab a coffee nearby," she said. "Want to come? Just ten minutes."
Bérénice paused for a moment, hesitating. She looked at Hena, and in her eyes was a quiet warmth. A silent thank-you for the invitation she wasn't used to receiving.
"That's kind… but I think I'll head home. I'm exhausted. Really"
Hena simply nodded. She didn't show her disappointment. She'd learned not to expect too much from people.
But just as she was about to turn away, Bérénice gently touched her arm.
"You know… if you ever need to talk. I'm here. Really."
Her tone wasn't forced or dramatic. Just sincere. Brutally honest.
Hena stared at her for a moment, surprised. Words failed her. Her instinct was to close off. But something deep inside her — a tiny fragment — wanted to accept that outstretched hand.
She merely nodded. No thank you, no more words. But something in her eyes had shifted. A crack. A quiet acknowledgment.
Bérénice smiled, then walked away in silence. Hena watched her disappear into the crowd.
She stood there for a moment, alone on the sidewalk. The wind stirred fallen leaves around her. A part of her wanted to run after Bérénice. Another just wanted to go home and crawl under a blanket.
But for a few seconds, she didn't feel so alone.